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“Not painters;” corrected Enishte Effendi。 “Those who make idols。 And this 
not from the Koran but from Bukhari。” 
“On  Judgment  Day;  the  idol  makers  will  be  asked  to  bring  the  images 
they’ve created to life;” I said cautiously。 “Since they’ll be unable to do so their 
lot  will  be  to  suffer  the  torments  of  Hell。  Let  it  not  be  forgotten  that  in  the 
Glorious  Koran;  ”creator‘  is  one  of  the  attributes  of  Allah。  It  is  Allah  who  is 
176 
 
creative;  who  brings  that  which  is  not  into  existence;  who  gives  life  to  the 
lifeless。 No one ought to pete with Him。 The greatest of sins is mitted 
by painters who presume to do what He does; who claim to be as creative as 
He。“ 
I  made  my  statement  firmly;  as  if  I;  too;  were  accusing  him。  He  fixed  his 
gaze into my eyes。 
“Do you think this is what we’ve been doing?” 
“Never;” I said with a smile。 “However; this is what Elegant Effendi; may he 
rest in peace; began to assume when he saw the last painting。 He’d been saying 
that  your  use  of  the  science  of  perspective  and  the  methods  of  the  Veian 
masters was nothing but the temptation of Satan。 In the last painting; you’ve 
supposedly rendered the face of a mortal using the Frankish techniques; so the 
observer has the impression not of a painting but of reality; to such a degree 
that this image has the power to entice men to bow down before it; as with 
icons in churches。 According to him; this is the Devil’s work; not only because 
the art of perspective removes the painting from God’s perspective and lowers 
it to the level of a street dog; but because your reliance on the methods of the 
Veians as well as your mingling of our own established traditions with that 
of the infidels will strip us of our purity and reduce us to being their slaves。” 
“Nothing  is  pure;”  said  Enishte  Effendi。  “In  the  realm  of  book  arts; 
whenever a masterpiece is made; whenever a splendid picture makes my eyes 
water out of joy and causes a chill to run down my spine; I can be certain of 
the  following:  Two  styles  heretofore  never  brought  together  have  e 
together  to  create  something  new  and  wondrous。  We  owe  Bihzad  and  the 
splendor of Persian painting to the meeting of an Arabic illustrating sensibility 
and  Mongol…Chinese  painting。  Shah  Tahmasp’s  best  paintings  marry  Persian 
style  with  Turkmen  subtleties。  Today;  if  men  cannot  adequately  praise  the 
book…arts  workshops  of  Akbar  Khan  in  Hindustan;  it’s  because  he  urged  his 
miniaturists to adopt the styles of the Frankish masters。 To God belongs the 
East  and  the  West。  May  He  protect  us  from  the  will  of  the  pure  and 
unadulterated。” 
However  soft  and  bright  his  face  might  have  appeared  by  candlelight;  his 
shadow; cast on the wall; was equally as black and frightening。 Despite finding 
what he said to be exceedingly reasonable and sound; I didn’t believe him。 I 
assumed he was suspicious of me; and thus; I grew suspicious of him; I sensed 
that he was listening at times for the courtyard gate below; that he was hoping 
someone would deliver him from my presence。 
177 
 
“You  yourself  told  me  how  Sheikh  Muhammad  the  Master  of  Isfahan 
burned  down  the  great  library  containing  the  paintings  he  had  renounced; 
and how he also immolated himself in a fit of bad conscience;” he said。 “Now 
let me tell you another story related to that legend that you don’t know。 It’s 
true; he’d spent the last thirty years of his life hunting down his own works。 
However;  in  the  books  he  perused;  he  increasingly  discovered  imitations 
inspired by him rather than his original work。 In later years; he came to realize 
that two generations of artists had adopted as models of form the illustrations 
he himself had renounced; that they’d ingrained his pictures in their minds—
or  more  accurately;  had  made  them  a  part  of  their  souls。  As  Sheikh 
Muhammad  attempted  to  find  his  own  pictures  and  destroy  them;  he 
discovered  that  young  miniaturists  had;  with  reverence;  reproduced  them  in 
countless  books;  had  relied  on  them  in  illustrating  other  stories;  had  caused 
them to be memorized by all and had spread them over the world。 Over long 
years; as we gaze at book after book and illustration after illustration; we e 
to learn the following: A great painter does not content himself by affecting us 
with  his  masterpieces;  ultimately;  he  succeeds  in  changing  the  landscape  of 
our minds。 Once a miniaturist’s artistry enters our souls this way; it bees 
the criterion for the beauty of our world。 At the end of his life; as the Master 
of Isfahan burned his own art; he not only witnessed the fact that his work; 
instead  of  disappearing;  actually  proliferated  and  increased;  he  understood 
that everybody now saw the world the way he had seen it。 Those things which 
did  not  resemble  the  paintings  he  made  in  his  youth  were  now  considered 
ugly。” 
Unable to rein in the awe stirring within me and to control my desire to 
please  Enishte  Effendi;  I  fell  before  his  knees。  As  I  kissed  his  hand;  my  eyes 
filled with tears and I felt I had relinquished to him the place in my soul that 
had always been reserved for Master Osman。 
“A  miniaturist;”  said  Enishte  Effendi  in  the  tone  of  a  self…satisfied  man; 
“creates  his  art  by  heeding  his  conscience  and  by  obeying  the  principles  in 
which he believes; fearing nothing。 He pays no attention to what his enemies; 
the zealots and those who envy him have to say。” 
But  it  occurred  to  me  that  Enishte  Effendi  wasn’t  even  a  miniaturist  as  I 
kissed his aged and mottled hand through my tears。 I was embarrassed by my 
thought。 It was as if another had forced this devilish; shameless notion into my 
head。 Even so; you too know how true this statement is。 
“I’m not afraid of them;” Enishte said; “because I’m not afraid of death。” 
178 
 
Who  were  “they”?  I  nodded  as  if  I  understood。  Yet  annoyance  began  to 
mount within me。 I noticed that the old volume immediately beside Enishte 
was El…Jevziyye’s Book of the Soul。 All dotards who seek death share a love for 
this book that recounts the adventures that await the soul。 Since I’d been here 
last; I saw only one new item among the objects collected in trays; resting on 
the  chest;  among  the  pen  cases;  penknives;  nib…cutting  boards;  inkwells  and 
brushes: a bronze inkpot。 
“Let’s establish; once and for all; that we do not fear them;” I said boldly。 
“Take out the last illustration。 Let’s show it to them。” 
“But wouldn’t this prove that we minded their slander; at least enough to 
take it seriously? We’ve done nothing of which we ought to be afraid。 What 
could justify your being so frightened?” 
He stroked my hair like a father。 I was afraid that I might burst into tears 
again; I embraced him。 
“I  know  why  that  unfortunate  gilder  Elegant  Effendi  was  killed;”  I  said 
excitedly。 “By slandering you; your book and us; Elegant Effendi was planning 
to  set  Nusret  Hoja  of  Erzurum’s  men  upon  us。  He  was  convinced  that  we’d 
fallen sway to the Devil。 He’d begun spreading such rumors; trying to incite 
the  other  miniaturists  working  on  your  book  to  rebel  against  you。  I  don’t 
know why he suddenly began to do this。 Perhaps out of jealousy; perhaps he’d 
e  under  Satan’s  influence。  And  the  other  miniaturists  also  heard  how 
determined Elegant Effendi was to destroy us all。 You can imagine how each of 
them grew frightened and succumbed to suspicions as I myself had。 Because 
one of their lot was cornered; in the middle of the night; by Elegant Effendi—
who had incited him against you; us; our book; as well as against illustrating; 
painting  and  all  else  we  believe  in—that  artist  fell  into  a  panic;  killing  that 
scoundrel and tossing his body into a well。” 
“Scoundrel?” 
“Elegant Effendi was an ill…natured; ill…bred traitor。 Villain!” I shouted as if 
he were before me in the room。 
Silence。 Did he fear me? I was afraid of myself。 It was as if I’d succumbed to 
somebody else’s will and thoughts; yet; this was not wholly unpleasant。 
“Who was this miniaturist who fell into a panic like you and the illustrator 
from Isfahan? Who killed him?” 
“I don’t know;” I said。 
179 
 
Yet I wanted him to infer from my expression that I was lying。 I realized that 
I’d  made  a  grave  error  in  ing  here;  but  I  wasn’t  going  to  succumb  to 
feelings  of  guilt  and  regret。  I  could  see  that  Enishte  Effendi  was  growing 
suspicious  of  me  and  this  pleased  and  fortified  me。  If  he  became  convinced 
that I was a murderer and this knowledge struck terror throughout his soul; 
then he wouldn’t dare refuse to show me the final painting。 I was so curious 
about  that  picture;  not  because  of  any  sin  I’d  mitted  on  its  account—I 
genuinely wanted to see how it’d turned out。 
“Is it impor

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