I AM CALLED BLACK
WhentheHeadTreasurerandthechiefofficersopeheportalwithgreatceremonymyeyesweresoacedtothevelvetyredauraoftheTreasuryroomsthattheearlymwintersunlightfilteringinfromthecourtyardoftheRoyalPrivateQuartersoftheEnderuerrifying.Istooddeadstill,asdidMasterOsmanhimself:IfImoved,itseemed,theclueswesoughtinthemoldy,dustyandtangibleairoftheTreasurymightescape.
Withazement,asifseeingsomemagnifitobjectforthefirsttime,MasterOsmanstaredatthelightcasgtowardusbetweentheheadsoftheTreasurychiefslinedupinrowsohersideoftheopenportal.
Thenightbefore,IwatchedhimasheturhepagesoftheBookofKings.Inoticedthissameexpressionofastonishmentpassoverhisfaceashisshadoonthewall,trembledfaintly,hisheadcarefullysankdowntowardhismagnifyinglens,andhislipsfirsttorteddelicately,asifpreparingtorevealapleasa,thentwitchedashegazedianillustration.
Aftertheportalwasshutagain,Iwanderedimpatientlybetweenroomsevermorerestless;Ithoughtnervouslythatwewouldn’thavetimetocullenoughinformationfromthebooksireasury.IsehatMasterOsmancouldn’tfocusadequatelyonhistask,andIfessedmymisgivingstohim.
Likeageergrownacedtocaressinghisapprentices,heheldmyhandinapleasingway.“MenlikeushavenochoicebuttotrytoseetheworldthewayGoddoesandtnourselvestoHisjustice,”hesaid.“Andhere,amongthesepicturesandpossessions,Ihavethestroionthatthesetwothingsarebeginningtoverge:AsroachGod’svisionoftheworld,Hisjusticeapproachesus.Seehere,theneedleMasterBihzadblindedhimselfwith…”
MasterOsmancallouslytoldthestoryoftheneedle,andIscrutiheextremelysharppointofthisdisagreeableobjeeaththemagnifyingglasswhichheloweredsoImightbettersee;apinkishfilmcovereditstip.
“Theoldmasters,”MasterOsmansaid,“wouldsufferpangsofsceaboutgialent,colorsahods.They’dsideritdishonorabletoseetheworldonedayasaernshahahe,asaWesternrulerdid—whichiswhattheartistsofourdaydo.”
Hiseyeswerehertrainedonminenoruponthepagesinfrontofhim.Itseemedasthoughheweregazingatadistantunattaieness.InapageoftheBookofKingslyingopenbeforehim,PersianandTuranianarmiesclashedwithalltheirforce.Ashorsesfoughtshouldertoshoulder,enragedheroicwarriorsdrewtheirswordsandslaughteredoherwiththecolorandjoyofafestival,theirarmorpiercedbythelahecavalry,theirheadsandarmssevered,theirbodieshackedapartorclovenintwo,strewnalloverthefield.
“Whenthegreatmastersofoldwereforcedtoadoptthestylesofvictorsandimitatetheirminiaturists,theypreservedtheirhonorbyusingaoheroicallybringontheblihatthelaborsofpaintingwould’vecausedintime.Yes,beforethepurenessofGod’sdarknessfellovertheireyeslikeadivinereward,they’dstareatamasterpiececeaselesslyforhoursorevendays,andbecausetheystubbornlystaredoutofbowedheads,themeaningandworldofthosepictures—spottedwithblooddrippingfromtheireyes—wouldtaketheplaceofalltheeviltheysuffered,andastheireyeseversoslowlycloudedoverthey’dapproachblindnessinpeace.DoyouhaveanyideawhichillustrationI’dwanttostareattillI’dattaihedivineblaessoftheblind?”
Likeamantryingtorecallachildhoodmemory,hefixedhiseyes,whosepupilsseemedtoshrinkastheirwhitesexpanded,onadistantplacebeyondthewallsoftheTreasury.
“These,rehestyleoftheoldmastersofHerat,whereinHüsrev,burningmadlywithlove,rideshishorsetothefootofShirin’ssummerpaladwaits!”
Perhapshe’dnowgoontodescribethatpictureasifregamelancholypoemeulogizingtheblindnessoftheoldmasters.“Mygreatmaster,mydearsire,”onastrangeimpulse,Iinterruptedhim,“whatIwanttostareatforalleternityismybeloved’sdelicateface.It’sbeenthreedayssincewewed.I’vethoughtinglyfortwelveyears.ThesewhereinShirinfallsihHüsrevafterseeinghispictureremindsmeofherthanher.”
TherewasawealthofexpressiononMasterOsman’sface,curiosityperhaps,butithadtodoherwithmystorynorwiththebloodybattlesebeforehim.Heseemedtobeexpeggoodnewsinwhichhecouldgraduallytakefort.WhenIwassurehewasn’tlookingatme,Iabruptlygrabbedtheplumeneedleandwalkedaway.
InadarkpartofthethirdoftheTreasuryrooms,theotihs,therewasaerclutteredwithhundredseclockssentaspresentsfromFrankishkingsandsns;wheoppedw,astheyusuallydidwithinashorttime,theyweresetasidehere.Withdrawingtothisroom,IcarefullyscrutihehatMasterOsmanclaimedBihzadhadusedtoblindhimself.
Bythereddaylightfilteringinside,reflegoffthegs,crystalfaddiamondsofthedustyandbrokenclocks,thegoldentipoftheneedle,coatedinkishliquid,occasionallyshimmered.HadthelegendaryMasterBihzadactuallyblindedhimselfwiththisimplement?HadMasterOsmahesameterriblethingtohimself?TheexpressionofanimpishMoro,thesizeofafingerandcolorfullypaitachedtothemeismofohelargeclocksseemedtosay“Yes!”Evidently,whentheclockwasw,thismaniomanturbanwouldmerrilynodhisheadasthehourtolled—asmalljokeooftheHapsburgkingwhosentit,andhisskillfulaker,fortheamusementofOurSultanandthewomenofHisharem.
Ilookedthroughquiteafewverymediocrebooks:Asthedwarffirmed,thesewereamongtheeffectsofpashaswhosepropertiesandbelongingswerefiscatedaftertheywerebeheaded.Somanypashashadbeeedthatthesevolumeswerewithoutnumber.itilessjoy,thedwarfdeclaredthatanypashasointoxicatedbyhisowhandpowerastethewasasubjectoftheSultanandtohaveabookmadeinhisownhonor,illumihgoldleafasifhewereamonarchorashah,welldeservedtobeexecutedandhavehispossessionsexpropriated.Eveninthesevolumes,someofwhichwerealbums,illuminatedmanuscriptsorillustratedcollesofpoetry,wheneverIcameacrossaversionofShirinfallingihHüsrev’spicture,Istoppedandstared.
Thepicturewithinapicture,thatis,thepictureofHüsrevwhichShirinenteredduringhertrysideouting,wasneverrenderediail,notbecauseminiaturistscouldn’tadequatelydepiethingsosmall—manyhadthedexterityandfiopaintuponfingernails,grainsofriceorevenstrandsofhair.Whythenhadn’ttheydrawnthefadfeaturesofHüsrev—theobjectofShirin’slove—inenoughdetailsothathemightbereized?Sometimeiernoon,perhapstetmyhopelessness,andthinking,asIleafedthroughadisorderlyalbumI’dcedupon,thatI’dbroachsuchquestionstoMasterOsman,Iwasstruckbytheimageofahorseinapictureofabridalprocessionpaintedonyheartskippedabeat.
Therebeforemewasahorsewithpeculiarnostrilscarryingacoquettishbride.Thebeastwaslookingatmeoutofthepicture.Itwasasthoughthemagicalhorsewereonthevergeofwhisperitome.Asifinadream,Iwaoshout,butmyvoicewassilent.
Iinuousmovement,IcollectedupthevolumeandranamongtheobjedcheststoMasterOsman,layingthepageopenbeforehim.
Helookeddownatthepicture.
Whennosparknitionappearedonhisface,Igrewimpatient.“ThenostrilsofthehorseareexactlylikethosemadeformyEnishte’sbook,”Iexclaimed.
Heloweredhismagnifyinglehehorse.Hebentdownsofar,bringinghiseyetothelensandpicture,thathisnosenearlytouchedthepage.
Icouldn’tstandthesilence.“Asyousee,thisisn’tahorsemadeiyleahodofthehorsedrawnformyEnishte’sbook,”Isaid,“butthehesame.Theartistattemptedtoseetheworldthewaytheesedo.”Ifellquiet.“It’saweddingprocession.Itresemblesaesepicture,butthefiguresaren’tese,they’reourpeople.”
Themaster’sleobeflatagainstthepage,andhisnosewasflatagainstthelens.Iosee,hemadeuseofnotonlyhiseyes,buthishead,themusclesofhisneck,hisagedbadhisshoulderswithallhismight.Silence.
“Thenostrilsofthehorsearecutopen,”hesaidlater,breathless.
Ileanedmyheadagainsthis.Cheektocheekwestaredatthenostrilsforalonglongtime.Isadlyrealizedthatnotohehorse’snostrilscut,butMasterOsmanwashavingdifficultyseeingthem.
“Youdoseeit,don’tyou?”
“Onlyverylittle,”hesaid.“Describethepicture.”
“Ifyouaskme,thisisamelancholybride,”Isaidmournfully.“She’smountedonagrayhorsewithitsnostrilscutopen,she’sonherwaytobewed,withherpanionsandanescuardswhoarestraoher.Thefacesoftheguards,theirharshexpressions,intimidatingblackbeards,furrowedeyebrows,longthickmustaches,heavyframes,robesofsimplethincloth,thinshoes,headdressesofbearfur,theirbattle-axesandscimitarsindicatethattheybelongtotheWhitesheepTurkmenofTransoxiana.Perhapstheprettybride—earstobeonalongjourojudgebythefactshe’stravelingwithherbridesmaidatnightbythelightofoillampsandtorches—isamelancholyeseprincess.”
“Orperhapsweonlythinkthebrideisesenow,becausetheminiaturist,toemphasizeherflawlessbeauty,whitenedherfaceastheesedoandpaintedherwithslantedeyes,”saidMasterOsman.
“Whoevershemightbe,myheartachesforthissadbeauty,travelieppeinthemiddleofthenightapaniedbygrim-facedfnguards,headingtelandandahusbandshe’sneverseen,”Isaid.ThenIimmediatelyadded,“Howshallwedeterminewhoourminiaturistisfromtheclippednostrilsofthehorsesherides?”
“Turnthepagesofthealbumandtellmewhatyousee,”saidMasterOsman.
Justthen,wewerejoihedwarfwhomI’dseensittingonthechamberpotasIwasrunningtthevolumetoMasterOsmahreeofuslookedatthepagestogether.
Wesawstrikinglybeautifulesemaideediyleofourmelanchatheredtogetherinagardenplayingapeculiar-lookinglute.Wesawesehouses,morose-lookingcaravans
headingoutonlongjourneys,vistasofthesteppesasbeautifulasoldmemories.Wesawgreesreheesestyle,theirspringblossomsinfullbloom,andnightiipsywithelationperchedontheirbranches.riheKhorasanstyleseatedientsholdingforthory,wineandlove;spectaculargardens;andhandsomenobles,withmagnifitfalsclutgtheirforearms,huntingboltuprightastridetheirexquisitehorses.Then,itwasasiftheDevilhadpassedintothepages;wecouldsetheevilintheillustrationswasmostoftenreasonitself.Hadtheminiaturistaddedanironictouchtotheasoftheheroicewhoslewthedragonwithhisgigantice?Hadhegloatedatthepovertyoftheunfortunatepeasantsexpegfortfromthesheikhintheirmidst?Wasitmorepleasurableforhimtodrawthesad,emptyeyesofdogslockedincoitusortoapplyadevilishredtotheopenmouthsofthewomenlaughingsfullyatthepoorbeasts?Theheminiaturist’sdevilsthemselves:TheseweirdcreaturesresembledthejinnsandgiantstheoldmastersofHerataistsoftheBookofKingsdrewfrequently;yetthesardonictalentoftheminiaturistmadethemmoresinister,aggressiveandhumaninform.Welaughedwatgtheseterrifyingdevils,thesizeofamahmisshapenbodies,branghornsandfeliails.AsIturhepages,thesenakeddevilswithbushybrows,roundfaces,bulgingeyes,poieeth,sharpnailsandthedarkwrinkledskinofoldmeobeateachotherale,tostealagreathorseandsacrificeittotheirgods,toleapandplay,tocutdowospiritawaybeautifulprincessesintheirpalanquinsandtocapturedragonsandsacktreasuries.Imentiohatinthisvolume,whichhadseeouanydifferentbrushes,theminiaturistknownasBla,who’dmadethedevils,alsodrewKalenderidervisheswithshavedheads,raggedclothes,ironsandstaffs,andMasterOsmanhadmeonebyotheirsimilarities,listeningcloselytowhatIsaid.
“Cuttihenostrilsofhorsessotheymightbreatheeasierandtravelfartherisaturies-oldMongol,”hesaidlater.“HulaguKhan’sarmiesqueredallofArabia,Persiaandawiththeirhorses.WheeredBaghdad,putitsinhabitantstothesword,pluandtossedallitsbooksintotheTigris,asweknow,thefamouscalligrapher,andlater,illuminatorIbnShakirfledthecityandtheslaughter,headingnorthontheroadbywhichtheMongolhorsemenhade,insteadofsouthalongwitheveryoneelse.Atthattime,noonemadeillustrationsbecausetheKoranforbadethem,andpaintersweren’ttakenseriously.WeowethegreatestsecretsofournobleoccupationtoIbnShakir,thepatronsaintandmasterofallminiaturists:thevisionoftheworldfromamihepersistenceofahorizonlinevisibleorinvisible,andthedepiofallthingsfromcloudstoihewaytheeseenvisagedthem,incurling,livelyandoptimisticcolors.I’veheardthathestudiedthenostrilsofhorsesiokeephimselfmovingnorthwardduringthatlegendaryjourotheheartlandoftheMongolhordes.However,asfarasI’veseenandheard,hehorseshedrewinSamarkand,whichhereachedafterayear’stravelonfootundauntedbysnowandsevereweather,hadclippednostrils.Forhim,perfectdreamhorseswerenotthesturdy,powerful,victorioushorsesoftheMongolsthathecametoknowinhisadulthood;theyweretheelegantArabhorsesthathe’dsorrowfullyleftbehindinhishappyyouth.ThisiswhyformethestrangehehorsemadeforEnishte’sbhttomiherMongolhorsesnorthistheMongolsspreadtoKhorasanandSamarkand.”
Ashespoke,MasterOsmanlookednowatthebookandnowatus,asifhecouldseeonlythosethingshejuredinhismind’seye.
“Besideshorseswithclippednosesandesepainting,thedevilsinthisbookareahingbroughtwiththeMongolhordestoPersiaandthehewayheretoIstanbul.You’veprobablyheardhowthesedemonsareambassadorsofevildispatchedbydarkforcesfromdeepbehegroundtosnatchawayhumanlivesandwhateverwedeemvaluableandhowthey’rebentoncarryingusofftotheirunderworldofblaessah.Inthisundergroundrealmeverything,whethercloud,tree,object,dogorbook,hasasoulandspeaks.”
“Quiteso,”saidtheelderlydwarf.“AsAllahismywitness,somenightswhenI’mlockedionlythespiritsoftheclocks,theeseplatesandthecrystalbowlsthatchimestantlyanyway,butthespiritsofalltherifles,swords,shieldsandbloodyhelmetsgrowrestlessaoverseinsucharuckusthattheTreasurybeestheswarmingfieldofanapocalypticbattle.”
“TheKalenderidervishes,whosepictureswe’veseen,broughtthisbelieffromKhorasantoPersia,andlaterallthewaytoIstanbul,”saidMasterOsman.“AsSultaheGrimlunderingtheSevenHeavensPalaceafterdefeatingShahIsmail,BediüzzamanMirza—adesdantofTamerlarayedShahIsmailandtogetherwiththeKalehatstitutedhisfollowers,joiheOttomans.IrainoftheDenizenofParadise,SultanSelim,ashereturhroughwintercoldandsnowtoIstanbul,weretwowivesofShahIsmail,whomhe’droutedatChaldiran.Theywerelovelywomenwithwhiteskinandslantingalmondeyes,andwiththemcameallthebookspreservedintheSevenHeavensPalacelibrary,booksleftbytheformermastersofTabriz,theMongols,theInkhanids,theJelayiridsandtheBlacksheep,andtakenaspluhedefeatedshahfromtheUzbeks,thePersiansaimurids.IshallstareatthesebooksuntilOurSultanandtheHeadTreasurerremovemefromhere.”
Yetbynowhiseyesshowedthesamelackofdirethatoheblind.Heheldhismother-of-pearl-handledmagnifyingglassmoreoutofhabitthantosee.Wefellsilent.MasterOsmanrequestedthatthedwarf,wholisteohisentireatasthoughtosomebittertale,onceagainlocateandbringhimavolumewhosebindinghedescribediail.Ohedwarfhadgoneaway,Inaivelyaskedmymaster:“Sothen,who’sresponsibleforthehorseillustrationinmyEnishte’sbook?”
“Boththehorsesiionhaveclippednostrils,”hesaid,“regardlessofwhetheritwasdoneinSamarkandor,asIsaid,inTransoxiana,theoneyou’vefoundinthisalbumisreheesestyle.AsforthebeautifulhorseofEnishte’sbook,thatwasmadeinthePersianstylelikethewondroushorsesdrawnbythemastersofHerat.Iisaillustrationwhoseequalwouldbedifficulttofindanywhere!It’sahorseofartistry,notaMongolhorse.”
“ButitsnostrilsarecutopenlikeagenuineMongolhorse,”Iwhispered.
“It’sapparentthattwohundredyearsagowhentheMongolsretreatedandthereignofTamerlaneand
hisdesdantsbegaheoldmastersidrewanexquisitehorsewhosenostrilswereiopen—influeherbyaMongolhorsethathe’dseenorbyanotherminiaturistwho’dmadeaMongolhorsewithclippednostrils.Nooneknowsforcertainonwhichpageinwhichbookandforwhichshahitwasmade.ButI’msurethatthebookandpictureweregreatlyadmiredandpraised—whoknows,maybebythesultan’sfavoriteintheharem—andthattheywerelegendaryforatime!I’malsovihatforthisveryreasonallthemediocreminiaturists,mutteringenviouslytothemselves,imitatedthishorseandmultiplieditsimage.Inthisfashion,thewonderfulhorsewithitsnraduallybecameamodelraihemindsoftheartistsinthatworkshop.Yearslater,aftertheirrulersweredefeatedinbattle,thesepainters,likesomberwomenheadedtootherharems,foundnewshahsandprioworkforinnewtries,andcarriedwiththem,stowedintheirmemories,theimageofhorseswhosenostrilswereelegantlycutopen.Perhapsuheinfluenceofdifferentstylesanddifferentmastersindifferentworkshops,manyoftheartistsnevermadeuseofauallyfotthisunusualimagewhiethelessremainedpreservedinaeroftheirminds.Others,however,inthenewworkshopstheyjoined,notonlydrewelegantclipped-nosedhorses,theyalsotaughttheirprettyappreodothesamewiththeencementthat”thisishowtheoldmastersusedtodoit.“Sothen,inthismanner,eveheMongolsandtheirhardyhorsesretreatedfromthelandsofthePersiansandArabs,eveuriesafternewliveshadbeguninravagedandburies,somepainterstinueddrawinghorsesthisway,believingitwasastandardform.I’malsosurethatothersstill,pletelyunawareofthequeringMongolcavalryandtheclippedheirsteeds,drawhorsesthewaywedoinourworkshop,insistingthatthistoois”astandardform.““
“Mydearmaster,”Isaid,overwhelmedwithawe,“aswehoped,your”courtesahod“trulydidproduaseemsthateachartistalsobearshisownhiddensignature.”
“Noteachartist,buteachworkshop,”hesaidwithpride.“Andnoteveneachworkshop.Iainmiserableworkshops,asiainmiserablefamilies,everyonespeaksinadifferentvoiceforyearswithoutaowledgingthathappinessisbornofharmony,andthatasamatterofcourse,harmonybeeshappiness.Somepairytoillustrateliketheese,someliketheTurkmenandsomeliketheydoinShiraz,fightingforyearsonend,ainingahappyunion—likeadistentedhusbandandwife.”
Isaridequitedefinitelyruledhisface;thecrossexpressionofamanwhowaobeallpowerfulhadnowreplacedthelookofthemorose,pitiableoldmanthatI’dseenhimwearforsolong.
“Mydearmaster,”Isaid,“overaperiodoftwentyyearshereinIstanbul,you’veunitedvariousartistsfromthefourersoftheworld,menofallnaturesandtemperaments,insuchharmonythatyou’veendedupcreatinganddefiniomanstyle.”
WhydidtheawethatI’dfeltwholeheartedlyonlyashorttimeagogivewaytohypocrisyasIvoicedmyfeelings?Forourpraiseofaman,whosetalentandmasterygenuinelyastoundsus,tobesincere,musthelosemostofhisauthorityandinfluendbeeslightlypathetic?
“Nowthen,where’sthatdwarfhiding?”hesaid.
Hesaidthistheowerfulmenleasedbyflatteryandpraisebutrecollectvaguelythattheyoughtnotbewould—asthoughhewishedtogethesubject.
“DespitebeingagreatmasterofPersianlegendsandstyles,you’vecreatedadistinctworldofillustrationworthyofOttomangloryandstrength,”Iwhispered.“You’retheonewhhttoartthepoweroftheOttomansword,theoptimisticcolorsofOttomanvictory,theiinandattentiontoobjedimplements,andthefreedomofafortablelifestyle.Mydearmaster,it’sbeenthegreatesthonorofmylifetolookatthesemasterpiecesbytheoldlegendarymasterswithyou…”
ForalongtimeIwhisperedoninthismanner.WithintheicydarknessandcluttereddisarrayoftheTreasury,whichresembledaretlyabatlefield,ourbodiesweresoclosethatmywhisperingbecameanexpressionofintimacy.
Later,aswithcertainblindmenwho’ttroltheirfacialexpressions,MasterOsman’seyesassumedthelookofanoldmanlostinpleasure.Ipraisedtheoldmasteratlength,nowwithheartfeltemotion,nowshudderingwiththeinnerrevulsioowardtheblind.
Heheldmyhandwithhiscoldfingers,caressedmyforearmandtouchedmyface.Hisstrengthandageseemedtopassthroughhisfingersintome.I,again,thoughtofShekurewhoawaitedmeathome.
Standingstillthatwayforatime,pagesopenedbeforeus,itwasasifmylavishpraiseandhisself-admirationandself-pityhadsofatiguedusthatwewereresting.We’dbebarrassedofeachother.
“Where’sthatdwarfgoo?”heaskedagain.
Iwascertainthatthewilydwarfwashidinginsomegus.AsifIweresearghimout,Iturnedmyshouldersrighta,butkeptmyeyestraientivelyonMasterOsman.Washetrulyblindorwashetryingtoviheworld,includinghimself,thathewasblind?I’dheardthatsomeuedandinpetentoldmastersfromShirazfeignedblindnessintheiroldagetocurryrespedtopreventothersfrommentioningtheirfailures.
“Iwouldliketodiehere,”hesaid.
“Mygreatmaster,mydearsir,”Ifawned,“inthisagewhenvalueisplaotonpaintingbutonthemoneyoneearnfromit,notontheoldmastersbutonimitatorsoftheFranks,Isowelluandwhatyou’resayingthatitbriomyeyes.Yetitisalsoyourdutytoproteasterillustratorsfromtheirenemies.Pleasetellme,whatclusionshaveyoudrawnfromthe”courtesahod“?Whoistheminiaturistwhopaihathorse?”
“Olive.”
He’dsaidthiswithsucheasethatIhadnocetobesurprised.
Hefellsilent.
“ButI’malsocertainthatOlivewasn’ttheonewhomurderedyourEnishteorunfortunateElegantEffendi,”hesaidcalmly.“IbelievethatOlivedrewthehorsebecausehe’stheonewho’smostboundtotheoldmasters,whoknowsmostintimatelythelegendsandstylesofHeratandwhosemaster-apprentiealogystretchesbaarkand.NowIknowyouwon’taskme,”Whyhaven’tweenteredthesenostrilsiherhorsesthatOlivedrewovertheyears?“sinceI’vealreadymentionedhowattimesadetail—thewingofabird,thewayaleafisattachedtoatree—bepreservedinmemoryfeions,passingfrommastertoapprentidyetmightnotmaonthepageduetotheinfluenoidmasteroronatoftheparticulartastesandwhimsofaparticularworkshoporsultan.Sothen,thisisthehorsethatdearOlive,inhischildhood,learneddirectlyfromthePersianmasterswithouteverbeingabletetit.ThefactthatthehorsesuddenlyappearedforthesakeofEnishte’sbookisacrueltrickofAllah’s.Hadn’tallofustakentheoldmastersofHeratasourmodels?JustliketheTurkmenillustratorsforwhomthefaceofabeautifulwomaohesefeatures,didhinkexclusivelyofthemasterpiecesofHeratwhehoughtofwell-executedpictures?Wearealltheirdevotedadmirers.NourishingallgreatartistheHeratofBihzad,andsuppthisHerataretheMongolhorsemenandtheese.WhyshouldOlive,thhlyboundtothelegendsofHerat,murderpantEffendi,whowasevenmorebound—evenblindlydevoted—tothesameoldmethods?”
“Whothen?”Isaid.“Butterfly?”
“Stork!”hesaid.“ThisiswhatIknowiofhearts,forIamwellacquaihhisgreedandfury.Listen,inallprobabilitywhilegildingforyourEnishte,whofoolishlyandclumsilyimitatedFrankishmethods,pantEffendicametobelievethatthisventuremightsomehowbedangerous.SincehewasenoughofadolttolistenearlytothedrivelofthatfoolishpreacherfromErzurum—unfortunately,mastersofgilding,thoughclodthanpainters,arealsandstupid—andmoreover,becauseheknewyoursillyEnishte’sbookortantprojectoftheSultan,hisfearsanddoubtsclashed:ShouldhebelieveinhisSultanorinthepreacherfromErzurum?Anyothertimethisunfortunatechild,whomIknewlikethebayhand,would’veetomeaboutadilemmathatwaseatingawayathim.Butevehhisbirdbrain,knewverywellthattheactofgildingforyourEnishte,thatmimicoftheFranks,amouoabetrayalofmeanduild;andsohesoughtanotherfidant.HefidedinthewilyandambitiousStorkandmadethemistakeoflettinghimselfbeawedbytheintelledmoralityofamanwhosetalentimpressedhim.I’veseeyoftimeshowStorkmanipulatedElegantEffendibytakingadvahepilder’sadmiration.WhateverargumenttookplacebetweeresultediEffendi’smurderatStork’shands.AndsihedeceasedlongagofidedhisworriestotheErzurumis,they,inafitofvengeaodemonstratetheirpower,wentontokillyourFrankophileEnishte,whomtheyheldresponsibleforthe
deathoftheirpanion.I’tsaythatI’mallthatsorryaboutthewholematter.Yearsago,yourEnishtedupedOurSultanintohaviianpainter—hisnamewasSebastiano—makeaportraitofHisExcellentheFrankishstyleasifHewereaninfidelking.Notsatisfiedwiththat,inadisgracefulaffronttomydignity,hehadthisshamefulwiventomeasamodeltobecopied;andoutofdirefearofOurSultan,Idishonorablycopiedthatpicturewhichwasmadeusingihods.HadInotbeenforcedtodothat,perhapsIcouldgrieveforyourEnishte,andtodayhelpfindthesdrelwhokilledhim.Butmyisnot松语文学www.16sy.coM免费小说阅读
Withazement,asifseeingsomemagnifitobjectforthefirsttime,MasterOsmanstaredatthelightcasgtowardusbetweentheheadsoftheTreasurychiefslinedupinrowsohersideoftheopenportal.
Thenightbefore,IwatchedhimasheturhepagesoftheBookofKings.Inoticedthissameexpressionofastonishmentpassoverhisfaceashisshadoonthewall,trembledfaintly,hisheadcarefullysankdowntowardhismagnifyinglens,andhislipsfirsttorteddelicately,asifpreparingtorevealapleasa,thentwitchedashegazedianillustration.
Aftertheportalwasshutagain,Iwanderedimpatientlybetweenroomsevermorerestless;Ithoughtnervouslythatwewouldn’thavetimetocullenoughinformationfromthebooksireasury.IsehatMasterOsmancouldn’tfocusadequatelyonhistask,andIfessedmymisgivingstohim.
Likeageergrownacedtocaressinghisapprentices,heheldmyhandinapleasingway.“MenlikeushavenochoicebuttotrytoseetheworldthewayGoddoesandtnourselvestoHisjustice,”hesaid.“Andhere,amongthesepicturesandpossessions,Ihavethestroionthatthesetwothingsarebeginningtoverge:AsroachGod’svisionoftheworld,Hisjusticeapproachesus.Seehere,theneedleMasterBihzadblindedhimselfwith…”
MasterOsmancallouslytoldthestoryoftheneedle,andIscrutiheextremelysharppointofthisdisagreeableobjeeaththemagnifyingglasswhichheloweredsoImightbettersee;apinkishfilmcovereditstip.
“Theoldmasters,”MasterOsmansaid,“wouldsufferpangsofsceaboutgialent,colorsahods.They’dsideritdishonorabletoseetheworldonedayasaernshahahe,asaWesternrulerdid—whichiswhattheartistsofourdaydo.”
Hiseyeswerehertrainedonminenoruponthepagesinfrontofhim.Itseemedasthoughheweregazingatadistantunattaieness.InapageoftheBookofKingslyingopenbeforehim,PersianandTuranianarmiesclashedwithalltheirforce.Ashorsesfoughtshouldertoshoulder,enragedheroicwarriorsdrewtheirswordsandslaughteredoherwiththecolorandjoyofafestival,theirarmorpiercedbythelahecavalry,theirheadsandarmssevered,theirbodieshackedapartorclovenintwo,strewnalloverthefield.
“Whenthegreatmastersofoldwereforcedtoadoptthestylesofvictorsandimitatetheirminiaturists,theypreservedtheirhonorbyusingaoheroicallybringontheblihatthelaborsofpaintingwould’vecausedintime.Yes,beforethepurenessofGod’sdarknessfellovertheireyeslikeadivinereward,they’dstareatamasterpiececeaselesslyforhoursorevendays,andbecausetheystubbornlystaredoutofbowedheads,themeaningandworldofthosepictures—spottedwithblooddrippingfromtheireyes—wouldtaketheplaceofalltheeviltheysuffered,andastheireyeseversoslowlycloudedoverthey’dapproachblindnessinpeace.DoyouhaveanyideawhichillustrationI’dwanttostareattillI’dattaihedivineblaessoftheblind?”
Likeamantryingtorecallachildhoodmemory,hefixedhiseyes,whosepupilsseemedtoshrinkastheirwhitesexpanded,onadistantplacebeyondthewallsoftheTreasury.
“These,rehestyleoftheoldmastersofHerat,whereinHüsrev,burningmadlywithlove,rideshishorsetothefootofShirin’ssummerpaladwaits!”
Perhapshe’dnowgoontodescribethatpictureasifregamelancholypoemeulogizingtheblindnessoftheoldmasters.“Mygreatmaster,mydearsire,”onastrangeimpulse,Iinterruptedhim,“whatIwanttostareatforalleternityismybeloved’sdelicateface.It’sbeenthreedayssincewewed.I’vethoughtinglyfortwelveyears.ThesewhereinShirinfallsihHüsrevafterseeinghispictureremindsmeofherthanher.”
TherewasawealthofexpressiononMasterOsman’sface,curiosityperhaps,butithadtodoherwithmystorynorwiththebloodybattlesebeforehim.Heseemedtobeexpeggoodnewsinwhichhecouldgraduallytakefort.WhenIwassurehewasn’tlookingatme,Iabruptlygrabbedtheplumeneedleandwalkedaway.
InadarkpartofthethirdoftheTreasuryrooms,theotihs,therewasaerclutteredwithhundredseclockssentaspresentsfromFrankishkingsandsns;wheoppedw,astheyusuallydidwithinashorttime,theyweresetasidehere.Withdrawingtothisroom,IcarefullyscrutihehatMasterOsmanclaimedBihzadhadusedtoblindhimself.
Bythereddaylightfilteringinside,reflegoffthegs,crystalfaddiamondsofthedustyandbrokenclocks,thegoldentipoftheneedle,coatedinkishliquid,occasionallyshimmered.HadthelegendaryMasterBihzadactuallyblindedhimselfwiththisimplement?HadMasterOsmahesameterriblethingtohimself?TheexpressionofanimpishMoro,thesizeofafingerandcolorfullypaitachedtothemeismofohelargeclocksseemedtosay“Yes!”Evidently,whentheclockwasw,thismaniomanturbanwouldmerrilynodhisheadasthehourtolled—asmalljokeooftheHapsburgkingwhosentit,andhisskillfulaker,fortheamusementofOurSultanandthewomenofHisharem.
Ilookedthroughquiteafewverymediocrebooks:Asthedwarffirmed,thesewereamongtheeffectsofpashaswhosepropertiesandbelongingswerefiscatedaftertheywerebeheaded.Somanypashashadbeeedthatthesevolumeswerewithoutnumber.itilessjoy,thedwarfdeclaredthatanypashasointoxicatedbyhisowhandpowerastethewasasubjectoftheSultanandtohaveabookmadeinhisownhonor,illumihgoldleafasifhewereamonarchorashah,welldeservedtobeexecutedandhavehispossessionsexpropriated.Eveninthesevolumes,someofwhichwerealbums,illuminatedmanuscriptsorillustratedcollesofpoetry,wheneverIcameacrossaversionofShirinfallingihHüsrev’spicture,Istoppedandstared.
Thepicturewithinapicture,thatis,thepictureofHüsrevwhichShirinenteredduringhertrysideouting,wasneverrenderediail,notbecauseminiaturistscouldn’tadequatelydepiethingsosmall—manyhadthedexterityandfiopaintuponfingernails,grainsofriceorevenstrandsofhair.Whythenhadn’ttheydrawnthefadfeaturesofHüsrev—theobjectofShirin’slove—inenoughdetailsothathemightbereized?Sometimeiernoon,perhapstetmyhopelessness,andthinking,asIleafedthroughadisorderlyalbumI’dcedupon,thatI’dbroachsuchquestionstoMasterOsman,Iwasstruckbytheimageofahorseinapictureofabridalprocessionpaintedonyheartskippedabeat.
Therebeforemewasahorsewithpeculiarnostrilscarryingacoquettishbride.Thebeastwaslookingatmeoutofthepicture.Itwasasthoughthemagicalhorsewereonthevergeofwhisperitome.Asifinadream,Iwaoshout,butmyvoicewassilent.
Iinuousmovement,IcollectedupthevolumeandranamongtheobjedcheststoMasterOsman,layingthepageopenbeforehim.
Helookeddownatthepicture.
Whennosparknitionappearedonhisface,Igrewimpatient.“ThenostrilsofthehorseareexactlylikethosemadeformyEnishte’sbook,”Iexclaimed.
Heloweredhismagnifyinglehehorse.Hebentdownsofar,bringinghiseyetothelensandpicture,thathisnosenearlytouchedthepage.
Icouldn’tstandthesilence.“Asyousee,thisisn’tahorsemadeiyleahodofthehorsedrawnformyEnishte’sbook,”Isaid,“butthehesame.Theartistattemptedtoseetheworldthewaytheesedo.”Ifellquiet.“It’saweddingprocession.Itresemblesaesepicture,butthefiguresaren’tese,they’reourpeople.”
Themaster’sleobeflatagainstthepage,andhisnosewasflatagainstthelens.Iosee,hemadeuseofnotonlyhiseyes,buthishead,themusclesofhisneck,hisagedbadhisshoulderswithallhismight.Silence.
“Thenostrilsofthehorsearecutopen,”hesaidlater,breathless.
Ileanedmyheadagainsthis.Cheektocheekwestaredatthenostrilsforalonglongtime.Isadlyrealizedthatnotohehorse’snostrilscut,butMasterOsmanwashavingdifficultyseeingthem.
“Youdoseeit,don’tyou?”
“Onlyverylittle,”hesaid.“Describethepicture.”
“Ifyouaskme,thisisamelancholybride,”Isaidmournfully.“She’smountedonagrayhorsewithitsnostrilscutopen,she’sonherwaytobewed,withherpanionsandanescuardswhoarestraoher.Thefacesoftheguards,theirharshexpressions,intimidatingblackbeards,furrowedeyebrows,longthickmustaches,heavyframes,robesofsimplethincloth,thinshoes,headdressesofbearfur,theirbattle-axesandscimitarsindicatethattheybelongtotheWhitesheepTurkmenofTransoxiana.Perhapstheprettybride—earstobeonalongjourojudgebythefactshe’stravelingwithherbridesmaidatnightbythelightofoillampsandtorches—isamelancholyeseprincess.”
“Orperhapsweonlythinkthebrideisesenow,becausetheminiaturist,toemphasizeherflawlessbeauty,whitenedherfaceastheesedoandpaintedherwithslantedeyes,”saidMasterOsman.
“Whoevershemightbe,myheartachesforthissadbeauty,travelieppeinthemiddleofthenightapaniedbygrim-facedfnguards,headingtelandandahusbandshe’sneverseen,”Isaid.ThenIimmediatelyadded,“Howshallwedeterminewhoourminiaturistisfromtheclippednostrilsofthehorsesherides?”
“Turnthepagesofthealbumandtellmewhatyousee,”saidMasterOsman.
Justthen,wewerejoihedwarfwhomI’dseensittingonthechamberpotasIwasrunningtthevolumetoMasterOsmahreeofuslookedatthepagestogether.
Wesawstrikinglybeautifulesemaideediyleofourmelanchatheredtogetherinagardenplayingapeculiar-lookinglute.Wesawesehouses,morose-lookingcaravans
headingoutonlongjourneys,vistasofthesteppesasbeautifulasoldmemories.Wesawgreesreheesestyle,theirspringblossomsinfullbloom,andnightiipsywithelationperchedontheirbranches.riheKhorasanstyleseatedientsholdingforthory,wineandlove;spectaculargardens;andhandsomenobles,withmagnifitfalsclutgtheirforearms,huntingboltuprightastridetheirexquisitehorses.Then,itwasasiftheDevilhadpassedintothepages;wecouldsetheevilintheillustrationswasmostoftenreasonitself.Hadtheminiaturistaddedanironictouchtotheasoftheheroicewhoslewthedragonwithhisgigantice?Hadhegloatedatthepovertyoftheunfortunatepeasantsexpegfortfromthesheikhintheirmidst?Wasitmorepleasurableforhimtodrawthesad,emptyeyesofdogslockedincoitusortoapplyadevilishredtotheopenmouthsofthewomenlaughingsfullyatthepoorbeasts?Theheminiaturist’sdevilsthemselves:TheseweirdcreaturesresembledthejinnsandgiantstheoldmastersofHerataistsoftheBookofKingsdrewfrequently;yetthesardonictalentoftheminiaturistmadethemmoresinister,aggressiveandhumaninform.Welaughedwatgtheseterrifyingdevils,thesizeofamahmisshapenbodies,branghornsandfeliails.AsIturhepages,thesenakeddevilswithbushybrows,roundfaces,bulgingeyes,poieeth,sharpnailsandthedarkwrinkledskinofoldmeobeateachotherale,tostealagreathorseandsacrificeittotheirgods,toleapandplay,tocutdowospiritawaybeautifulprincessesintheirpalanquinsandtocapturedragonsandsacktreasuries.Imentiohatinthisvolume,whichhadseeouanydifferentbrushes,theminiaturistknownasBla,who’dmadethedevils,alsodrewKalenderidervisheswithshavedheads,raggedclothes,ironsandstaffs,andMasterOsmanhadmeonebyotheirsimilarities,listeningcloselytowhatIsaid.
“Cuttihenostrilsofhorsessotheymightbreatheeasierandtravelfartherisaturies-oldMongol,”hesaidlater.“HulaguKhan’sarmiesqueredallofArabia,Persiaandawiththeirhorses.WheeredBaghdad,putitsinhabitantstothesword,pluandtossedallitsbooksintotheTigris,asweknow,thefamouscalligrapher,andlater,illuminatorIbnShakirfledthecityandtheslaughter,headingnorthontheroadbywhichtheMongolhorsemenhade,insteadofsouthalongwitheveryoneelse.Atthattime,noonemadeillustrationsbecausetheKoranforbadethem,andpaintersweren’ttakenseriously.WeowethegreatestsecretsofournobleoccupationtoIbnShakir,thepatronsaintandmasterofallminiaturists:thevisionoftheworldfromamihepersistenceofahorizonlinevisibleorinvisible,andthedepiofallthingsfromcloudstoihewaytheeseenvisagedthem,incurling,livelyandoptimisticcolors.I’veheardthathestudiedthenostrilsofhorsesiokeephimselfmovingnorthwardduringthatlegendaryjourotheheartlandoftheMongolhordes.However,asfarasI’veseenandheard,hehorseshedrewinSamarkand,whichhereachedafterayear’stravelonfootundauntedbysnowandsevereweather,hadclippednostrils.Forhim,perfectdreamhorseswerenotthesturdy,powerful,victorioushorsesoftheMongolsthathecametoknowinhisadulthood;theyweretheelegantArabhorsesthathe’dsorrowfullyleftbehindinhishappyyouth.ThisiswhyformethestrangehehorsemadeforEnishte’sbhttomiherMongolhorsesnorthistheMongolsspreadtoKhorasanandSamarkand.”
Ashespoke,MasterOsmanlookednowatthebookandnowatus,asifhecouldseeonlythosethingshejuredinhismind’seye.
“Besideshorseswithclippednosesandesepainting,thedevilsinthisbookareahingbroughtwiththeMongolhordestoPersiaandthehewayheretoIstanbul.You’veprobablyheardhowthesedemonsareambassadorsofevildispatchedbydarkforcesfromdeepbehegroundtosnatchawayhumanlivesandwhateverwedeemvaluableandhowthey’rebentoncarryingusofftotheirunderworldofblaessah.Inthisundergroundrealmeverything,whethercloud,tree,object,dogorbook,hasasoulandspeaks.”
“Quiteso,”saidtheelderlydwarf.“AsAllahismywitness,somenightswhenI’mlockedionlythespiritsoftheclocks,theeseplatesandthecrystalbowlsthatchimestantlyanyway,butthespiritsofalltherifles,swords,shieldsandbloodyhelmetsgrowrestlessaoverseinsucharuckusthattheTreasurybeestheswarmingfieldofanapocalypticbattle.”
“TheKalenderidervishes,whosepictureswe’veseen,broughtthisbelieffromKhorasantoPersia,andlaterallthewaytoIstanbul,”saidMasterOsman.“AsSultaheGrimlunderingtheSevenHeavensPalaceafterdefeatingShahIsmail,BediüzzamanMirza—adesdantofTamerlarayedShahIsmailandtogetherwiththeKalehatstitutedhisfollowers,joiheOttomans.IrainoftheDenizenofParadise,SultanSelim,ashereturhroughwintercoldandsnowtoIstanbul,weretwowivesofShahIsmail,whomhe’droutedatChaldiran.Theywerelovelywomenwithwhiteskinandslantingalmondeyes,andwiththemcameallthebookspreservedintheSevenHeavensPalacelibrary,booksleftbytheformermastersofTabriz,theMongols,theInkhanids,theJelayiridsandtheBlacksheep,andtakenaspluhedefeatedshahfromtheUzbeks,thePersiansaimurids.IshallstareatthesebooksuntilOurSultanandtheHeadTreasurerremovemefromhere.”
Yetbynowhiseyesshowedthesamelackofdirethatoheblind.Heheldhismother-of-pearl-handledmagnifyingglassmoreoutofhabitthantosee.Wefellsilent.MasterOsmanrequestedthatthedwarf,wholisteohisentireatasthoughtosomebittertale,onceagainlocateandbringhimavolumewhosebindinghedescribediail.Ohedwarfhadgoneaway,Inaivelyaskedmymaster:“Sothen,who’sresponsibleforthehorseillustrationinmyEnishte’sbook?”
“Boththehorsesiionhaveclippednostrils,”hesaid,“regardlessofwhetheritwasdoneinSamarkandor,asIsaid,inTransoxiana,theoneyou’vefoundinthisalbumisreheesestyle.AsforthebeautifulhorseofEnishte’sbook,thatwasmadeinthePersianstylelikethewondroushorsesdrawnbythemastersofHerat.Iisaillustrationwhoseequalwouldbedifficulttofindanywhere!It’sahorseofartistry,notaMongolhorse.”
“ButitsnostrilsarecutopenlikeagenuineMongolhorse,”Iwhispered.
“It’sapparentthattwohundredyearsagowhentheMongolsretreatedandthereignofTamerlaneand
hisdesdantsbegaheoldmastersidrewanexquisitehorsewhosenostrilswereiopen—influeherbyaMongolhorsethathe’dseenorbyanotherminiaturistwho’dmadeaMongolhorsewithclippednostrils.Nooneknowsforcertainonwhichpageinwhichbookandforwhichshahitwasmade.ButI’msurethatthebookandpictureweregreatlyadmiredandpraised—whoknows,maybebythesultan’sfavoriteintheharem—andthattheywerelegendaryforatime!I’malsovihatforthisveryreasonallthemediocreminiaturists,mutteringenviouslytothemselves,imitatedthishorseandmultiplieditsimage.Inthisfashion,thewonderfulhorsewithitsnraduallybecameamodelraihemindsoftheartistsinthatworkshop.Yearslater,aftertheirrulersweredefeatedinbattle,thesepainters,likesomberwomenheadedtootherharems,foundnewshahsandprioworkforinnewtries,andcarriedwiththem,stowedintheirmemories,theimageofhorseswhosenostrilswereelegantlycutopen.Perhapsuheinfluenceofdifferentstylesanddifferentmastersindifferentworkshops,manyoftheartistsnevermadeuseofauallyfotthisunusualimagewhiethelessremainedpreservedinaeroftheirminds.Others,however,inthenewworkshopstheyjoined,notonlydrewelegantclipped-nosedhorses,theyalsotaughttheirprettyappreodothesamewiththeencementthat”thisishowtheoldmastersusedtodoit.“Sothen,inthismanner,eveheMongolsandtheirhardyhorsesretreatedfromthelandsofthePersiansandArabs,eveuriesafternewliveshadbeguninravagedandburies,somepainterstinueddrawinghorsesthisway,believingitwasastandardform.I’malsosurethatothersstill,pletelyunawareofthequeringMongolcavalryandtheclippedheirsteeds,drawhorsesthewaywedoinourworkshop,insistingthatthistoois”astandardform.““
“Mydearmaster,”Isaid,overwhelmedwithawe,“aswehoped,your”courtesahod“trulydidproduaseemsthateachartistalsobearshisownhiddensignature.”
“Noteachartist,buteachworkshop,”hesaidwithpride.“Andnoteveneachworkshop.Iainmiserableworkshops,asiainmiserablefamilies,everyonespeaksinadifferentvoiceforyearswithoutaowledgingthathappinessisbornofharmony,andthatasamatterofcourse,harmonybeeshappiness.Somepairytoillustrateliketheese,someliketheTurkmenandsomeliketheydoinShiraz,fightingforyearsonend,ainingahappyunion—likeadistentedhusbandandwife.”
Isaridequitedefinitelyruledhisface;thecrossexpressionofamanwhowaobeallpowerfulhadnowreplacedthelookofthemorose,pitiableoldmanthatI’dseenhimwearforsolong.
“Mydearmaster,”Isaid,“overaperiodoftwentyyearshereinIstanbul,you’veunitedvariousartistsfromthefourersoftheworld,menofallnaturesandtemperaments,insuchharmonythatyou’veendedupcreatinganddefiniomanstyle.”
WhydidtheawethatI’dfeltwholeheartedlyonlyashorttimeagogivewaytohypocrisyasIvoicedmyfeelings?Forourpraiseofaman,whosetalentandmasterygenuinelyastoundsus,tobesincere,musthelosemostofhisauthorityandinfluendbeeslightlypathetic?
“Nowthen,where’sthatdwarfhiding?”hesaid.
Hesaidthistheowerfulmenleasedbyflatteryandpraisebutrecollectvaguelythattheyoughtnotbewould—asthoughhewishedtogethesubject.
“DespitebeingagreatmasterofPersianlegendsandstyles,you’vecreatedadistinctworldofillustrationworthyofOttomangloryandstrength,”Iwhispered.“You’retheonewhhttoartthepoweroftheOttomansword,theoptimisticcolorsofOttomanvictory,theiinandattentiontoobjedimplements,andthefreedomofafortablelifestyle.Mydearmaster,it’sbeenthegreatesthonorofmylifetolookatthesemasterpiecesbytheoldlegendarymasterswithyou…”
ForalongtimeIwhisperedoninthismanner.WithintheicydarknessandcluttereddisarrayoftheTreasury,whichresembledaretlyabatlefield,ourbodiesweresoclosethatmywhisperingbecameanexpressionofintimacy.
Later,aswithcertainblindmenwho’ttroltheirfacialexpressions,MasterOsman’seyesassumedthelookofanoldmanlostinpleasure.Ipraisedtheoldmasteratlength,nowwithheartfeltemotion,nowshudderingwiththeinnerrevulsioowardtheblind.
Heheldmyhandwithhiscoldfingers,caressedmyforearmandtouchedmyface.Hisstrengthandageseemedtopassthroughhisfingersintome.I,again,thoughtofShekurewhoawaitedmeathome.
Standingstillthatwayforatime,pagesopenedbeforeus,itwasasifmylavishpraiseandhisself-admirationandself-pityhadsofatiguedusthatwewereresting.We’dbebarrassedofeachother.
“Where’sthatdwarfgoo?”heaskedagain.
Iwascertainthatthewilydwarfwashidinginsomegus.AsifIweresearghimout,Iturnedmyshouldersrighta,butkeptmyeyestraientivelyonMasterOsman.Washetrulyblindorwashetryingtoviheworld,includinghimself,thathewasblind?I’dheardthatsomeuedandinpetentoldmastersfromShirazfeignedblindnessintheiroldagetocurryrespedtopreventothersfrommentioningtheirfailures.
“Iwouldliketodiehere,”hesaid.
“Mygreatmaster,mydearsir,”Ifawned,“inthisagewhenvalueisplaotonpaintingbutonthemoneyoneearnfromit,notontheoldmastersbutonimitatorsoftheFranks,Isowelluandwhatyou’resayingthatitbriomyeyes.Yetitisalsoyourdutytoproteasterillustratorsfromtheirenemies.Pleasetellme,whatclusionshaveyoudrawnfromthe”courtesahod“?Whoistheminiaturistwhopaihathorse?”
“Olive.”
He’dsaidthiswithsucheasethatIhadnocetobesurprised.
Hefellsilent.
“ButI’malsocertainthatOlivewasn’ttheonewhomurderedyourEnishteorunfortunateElegantEffendi,”hesaidcalmly.“IbelievethatOlivedrewthehorsebecausehe’stheonewho’smostboundtotheoldmasters,whoknowsmostintimatelythelegendsandstylesofHeratandwhosemaster-apprentiealogystretchesbaarkand.NowIknowyouwon’taskme,”Whyhaven’tweenteredthesenostrilsiherhorsesthatOlivedrewovertheyears?“sinceI’vealreadymentionedhowattimesadetail—thewingofabird,thewayaleafisattachedtoatree—bepreservedinmemoryfeions,passingfrommastertoapprentidyetmightnotmaonthepageduetotheinfluenoidmasteroronatoftheparticulartastesandwhimsofaparticularworkshoporsultan.Sothen,thisisthehorsethatdearOlive,inhischildhood,learneddirectlyfromthePersianmasterswithouteverbeingabletetit.ThefactthatthehorsesuddenlyappearedforthesakeofEnishte’sbookisacrueltrickofAllah’s.Hadn’tallofustakentheoldmastersofHeratasourmodels?JustliketheTurkmenillustratorsforwhomthefaceofabeautifulwomaohesefeatures,didhinkexclusivelyofthemasterpiecesofHeratwhehoughtofwell-executedpictures?Wearealltheirdevotedadmirers.NourishingallgreatartistheHeratofBihzad,andsuppthisHerataretheMongolhorsemenandtheese.WhyshouldOlive,thhlyboundtothelegendsofHerat,murderpantEffendi,whowasevenmorebound—evenblindlydevoted—tothesameoldmethods?”
“Whothen?”Isaid.“Butterfly?”
“Stork!”hesaid.“ThisiswhatIknowiofhearts,forIamwellacquaihhisgreedandfury.Listen,inallprobabilitywhilegildingforyourEnishte,whofoolishlyandclumsilyimitatedFrankishmethods,pantEffendicametobelievethatthisventuremightsomehowbedangerous.SincehewasenoughofadolttolistenearlytothedrivelofthatfoolishpreacherfromErzurum—unfortunately,mastersofgilding,thoughclodthanpainters,arealsandstupid—andmoreover,becauseheknewyoursillyEnishte’sbookortantprojectoftheSultan,hisfearsanddoubtsclashed:ShouldhebelieveinhisSultanorinthepreacherfromErzurum?Anyothertimethisunfortunatechild,whomIknewlikethebayhand,would’veetomeaboutadilemmathatwaseatingawayathim.Butevehhisbirdbrain,knewverywellthattheactofgildingforyourEnishte,thatmimicoftheFranks,amouoabetrayalofmeanduild;andsohesoughtanotherfidant.HefidedinthewilyandambitiousStorkandmadethemistakeoflettinghimselfbeawedbytheintelledmoralityofamanwhosetalentimpressedhim.I’veseeyoftimeshowStorkmanipulatedElegantEffendibytakingadvahepilder’sadmiration.WhateverargumenttookplacebetweeresultediEffendi’smurderatStork’shands.AndsihedeceasedlongagofidedhisworriestotheErzurumis,they,inafitofvengeaodemonstratetheirpower,wentontokillyourFrankophileEnishte,whomtheyheldresponsibleforthe
deathoftheirpanion.I’tsaythatI’mallthatsorryaboutthewholematter.Yearsago,yourEnishtedupedOurSultanintohaviianpainter—hisnamewasSebastiano—makeaportraitofHisExcellentheFrankishstyleasifHewereaninfidelking.Notsatisfiedwiththat,inadisgracefulaffronttomydignity,hehadthisshamefulwiventomeasamodeltobecopied;andoutofdirefearofOurSultan,Idishonorablycopiedthatpicturewhichwasmadeusingihods.HadInotbeenforcedtodothat,perhapsIcouldgrieveforyourEnishte,andtodayhelpfindthesdrelwhokilledhim.Butmyisnot松语文学www.16sy.coM免费小说阅读
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