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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第100章

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maybe by the sultan’s favorite in the harem—and that they were legendary for 
a  time!  I’m  also  convinced  that  for  this  very  reason  all  the  mediocre 
miniaturists;  muttering  enviously  to  themselves;  imitated  this  horse  and 
multiplied  its  image。  In  this  fashion;  the  wonderful  horse  with  its  nostrils 
gradually became a model of form ingrained in the minds of the artists in that 
workshop。 Years later; after their rulers were defeated in battle; these painters; 
like somber women headed to other harems; found new shahs and princes to 
work for in new countries; and carried with them; stowed in their memories; 
the image of horses whose nostrils were elegantly cut open。 Perhaps under the 
influence  of  different  styles  and  different  masters  in  different  workshops; 
many  of  the  artists  never  made  use  of  and  eventually  forgot  this  unusual 
image  which  noheless  remained  preserved  in  a  corner  of  their  minds。 
Others;  however;  in  the  new  workshops  they  joined;  not  only  drew  elegant 
clipped…nosed horses; they also taught their pretty apprentices to do the same 
with the encouragement that ”this is how the old masters used to do it。“ So 
then; in this manner; even after the Mongols and their hardy horses retreated 
from  the  lands  of  the  Persians  and  Arabs;  even  centuries  after  new  lives  had 
begun in ravaged and burned cities; some painters continued drawing horses 
this  way;  believing  it  was  a  standard  form。  I’m  also  sure  that  others  still; 
pletely unaongol cavalry and the clipped noses 
of their steeds; draw horses the way we do in our workshop; insisting that this 
too is ”a standard form。“” 
“My  dear  master;”  I  said;  overwhelmed  with  awe;  “as  we  hoped;  your 
”courtesan method‘ truly did produce an answer。 It seems that each artist also 
bears his own hidden signature。“ 
“Not  each  artist;  but  each  workshop;”  he  said  with  pride。  “And  not  even 
each  workshop。  In  certain  miserable  workshops;  as  in  certain  miserable 
families; everyone speaks in a different voice for years without acknowledging 
359 
 
that happiness is born of harmony; and that as a matter of course; harmony 
bees happiness。 Some painters try to illustrate like the Chinese; some like 
the Turkmen and some like they do in Shiraz; fighting for years on end; never 
attaining a happy union—like a discontented husband and wife。” 
I saw that pride quite definitely ruled his face; the cross expression of a man 
who  wanted  to  be  all  powerful  had  now  replaced  the  look  of  the  morose; 
pitiable old man that I’d seen him wear for so long。 
“My dear master;” I said; “over a period of twenty years here in Istanbul; 
you’ve  united  various  artists  from  the  four  corners  of  the  world;  men  of  all 
natures  and  temperaments;  in  such  harmony  that  you’ve  ended  up  creating 
and defining the Ottoman style。” 
Why did the awe that I’d felt wholeheartedly only a short time ago give way 
to hypocrisy as I voiced my feelings? For our praise of a man; whose talent and 
mastery  genuinely  astounds  us;  to  be  sincere;  must  he  lose  most  of  his 
authority and influence and bee slightly pathetic? 
“Now then; where’s that dwarf hiding?” he said。 
He said this the way powerful men who are pleased by flattery and praise 
but recollect vaguely that they ought not be would—as though he wished to 
change the subject。 
“Despite being a great master of Persian legends and styles; you’ve created a 
distinct  world  of  illustration  worthy  of  Ottoman  glory  and  strength;”  I 
whispered。  “You’re  the  one  who  brought  to  art  the  power  of  the  Ottoman 
sword; the optimistic colors of Ottoman victory; the interest in and attention 
to  objects  and  implements;  and  the  freedom  of  a  fortable  lifestyle。  My 
dear  master;  it’s  been  the  greatest  honor  of  my  life  to  look  at  these 
masterpieces by the old legendary masters with you…” 
For a long time I whispered on in this manner。 Within the icy darkness and 
cluttered  disarray  of  the  Treasury;  which  resembled  a  recently  abandoned 
battlefield; our bodies were so close that my whispering became an expression 
of intimacy。 
Later; as with certain blind men who can’t control their facial expressions; 
Master  Osman’s  eyes  assumed  the  look  of  an  old  man  lost  in  pleasure。  I 
praised the old master at length; now with heartfelt emotion; now shuddering 
with the inner revulsion I felt toward the blind。 
360 
 
He held my hand with his cold fingers; caressed my forearm and touched 
my face。 His strength and age seemed to pass through his fingers into me。 I; 
again; thought of Shekure who awaited me at home。 
Standing still that way for a time; pages opened before us; it was as if my 
lavish praise and his self…admiration and self…pity had so fatigued us that we 
were resting。 We’d bee embarrassed of each other。 
“Where’s that dwarf gone to?” he asked again。 
I was certain that the wily dwarf was hiding in some niche watching us。 As 
if I were searching him out; I turned my shoulders right and left; but kept my 
eyes trained attentively on Master Osman。 Was he truly blind or was he trying 
to  convince  the  world;  including  himself;  that  he  was  blind?  I’d  heard  that 
some untalented and inpetent old masters from Shiraz feigned blindness 
in their old age to curry respect and to prevent others from mentioning their 
failures。 
“I would like to die here;” he said。 
“My great master; my dear sir;” I fawned; “in this age when value is placed 
not  on  painting  but  on  the  money  one  can  earn  from  it;  not  on  the  old 
masters  but  on  imitators  of  the  Franks;  I  so  well  understand  what  you’re 
saying that it brings tears to my eyes。 Yet it is also your duty to protect your 
master illustrators from their enemies。 Please tell me; what conclusions have 
you drawn from the ”courtesan method‘? Who is the miniaturist who painted 
that horse?“ 
“Olive。” 
He’d said this with such ease that I had no chance to be surprised。 
He fell silent。 
“But I’m also certain that Olive wasn’t the one who murdered your Enishte 
or unfortunate Elegant Effendi;” he said calmly。 “I believe that Olive drew the 
horse because he’s the one who’s most bound to the old masters; who knows 
most intimately the legends and styles of Herat and whose master…apprentice 
genealogy stretches back to Samarkand。 Now I know you won’t ask me; ”Why 
haven’t we encountered these nostrils in the other horses that Olive drew over 
the years?“ since I’ve already mentioned how at times a detail—the wing of a 
bird;  the  way  a  leaf  is  attached  to  a  tree—can  be  preserved  in  memory  for 
generations; passing from master to apprentice; and yet might not manifest on 
the page due to the influence of a moody or rigid master or on account of the 
particular tastes and whims of a particular workshop or sultan。 So then; this is 
361 
 
the horse that dear Olive; in his childhood; learned directly from the Persian 
masters without ever being able to forget it。 The fact that the horse suddenly 
appeared for the sake of Enishte’s book is a cruel trick of Allah’s。 Hadn’t all of 
us  taken  the  old  masters  of  Herat  as  our  models?  Just  like  the  Turkmen 
illustrators for whom the face of a beautiful woman meant one with Chinese 
features;  didn’t  we  think  exclusively  of  the  masterpieces  of  Herat  when  we 
thought   of   well…executed   pictures?   We   are   all   their   devoted   admirers。 
Nourishing all great art is the Herat of Bihzad; and supporting this Herat are 
the Mongol horsemen and the Chinese。 Why should Olive; thoroughly bound 
to  the  legends  of  Herat;  murder  poor  Elegant  Effendi;  who  was  even  more 
bound—even blindly devoted—to the same old methods?” 
“Who then?” I said。 “Butterfly?” 
“Stork!” he said。 “This is what I know in my heart of hearts; for I am well 
acquainted with his greed and fury。 Listen; in all probability while gilding for 
your  Enishte;  who  foolishly  and  clumsily  imitated  Frankish  methods;  poor 
Elegant  Effendi  came  to  believe  that  this  venture  might  somehow  be 
dangerous。 Since he was enough of a dolt to listen earnestly to the drivel of 
that  foolish  preacher  from  Erzurum—unfortunately;  masters  of  gilding; 
though  closer  to  God  than  painters;  are  also  boring  and  stupid—and 
moreover; because he knew your silly Enishte’s book was an important project 
of the Sultan; his fears and doubts clashed: Should he believe in his Sultan or 
in the preacher from Erzurum? Any other time this unfortunate child; whom I 
knew like the back of my hand; would’ve e to me about a dilemma that 
was eating away at him。 But even he; with his bird brain; knew very well that 
the act of gilding for your Enishte; that mimic of the Franks; amounted to a 
betrayal of me and our guild; and so he sought another confidant。 He confided 
in  the  wily  and  ambitious  Stork  and  made  the  mistake  of  let

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