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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第95节

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tormented;  pretty;  moon…faced;  gazelle…eyed;  sapling…thin  painters—battered 
by  masters—who  suffered  for  their  art;  yet  remained  full  of  excitement  and 
hope; enjoying the affection that developed between them and their masters 
341 
 
and  their  shared  love  of  painting;  before  succumbing  to  anonymity  and 
blindness after long years of toil。 
It was with such melancholy and regret that I entered this world of fine and 
delicate  feelings;  the  possibility  of  whose  depiction  my  soul  had  quietly 
forgotten over years of rendering wars and celebrations for Our Sultan。 In an 
album  of  collected  pictures  I  saw  a  red…lipped;  thin…waisted  Persian  boy 
holding a book on his lap exactly as I was holding one at that moment; and it 
reminded me of what shahs with a weakness for gold and power always forget: 
The world’s beauty belongs to Allah。 On the page of another album drawn by 
a young master from Isfahan; with tears in my eyes; I beheld two marvelous 
youths  in  love  with  each  other;  and  was  reminded  of  the  love  my  own 
handsome  apprentices  nourished  for  painting。  A  tiny…footed;  transparent…
skinned; weak and girlish youth had bared a delicate forearm; which aroused 
in  one  the  desire  to  kiss  it  and  die;  while  a  cherry…lipped;  almond…eyed; 
sapling…thin; button…nosed beauty of a maiden gazed with wonder—as though 
viewing three lovely flowers—upon the three small; deep marks of passion the 
youth  had  burned  onto  the  inside  of  that  adorable  arm  to  demonstrate  the 
strength of his love and his attachment to her。 
Oddly; my heart began to quicken and pound。 As had happened sixty years 
ago  in  my  early  apprenticeship;  while  I  was  looking  at  some  rather  indecent 
illustrations  of  handsome  marble…skinned  boys  and  slim  small…breasted 
maidens drawn in the black…ink style of Tabriz; beads of sweat accumulated on 
my forehead。 I recalled the passion for painting I felt and the depth of thought 
I  experienced  when;  a  few  years  after  I’d  married  and  taken  my  first  steps 
toward  master  status;  I  saw  a  lovely  angel…faced;  almond…eyed;  rose…petal…
skinned youth brought in as an apprentice candidate。 For a moment; I had the 
strong  feeling  that  painting  was  not  about  melancholy  and  regret  but  about 
this  desire  I  felt  and  that  it  was  the  talent  of  the  master  artist  that  first 
transformed this desire into a love of God and then into a love of the world as 
God saw it; so strong was this feeling that it caused me to relive with ecstatic 
delight  all  the  years  I’d  spent  over  the  drawing  board  until  my  back  was 
hunched; all the beatings I’d endured while learning my craft; my dedication 
to courting blindness through illustration and all the agonies of painting I’d 
suffered  and  made  others  suffer。  As  if  running  my  eyes  over  something 
forbidden;  I  stared  long  and  silently  at  this  wondrous  illustration  with  the 
same delight。 Much later I was still staring。 A teardrop slid from my eye over 
my cheek into my beard。 
342 
 
When  I  noticed  that  one  of  the  candlesticks  slowly  floating  through  the 
Treasury  was  approaching  me;  I  put  the  album  away  and  randomly  opened 
one  of  the  volumes  the  dwarf  had  recently  set  beside  me。  This  was  a  special 
album  prepared  for  shahs:  I  saw  two  deer  at  the  edge  of  a  green  copse 
enamored of each other; with jackals watching them in hostile envy。 I turned 
the page: Chestnut and bay horses that could’ve been the work of only one of 
the  old  masters  of  Herat—how  spectacular  they  were!  I  turned  the  page:  A 
confidently  seated  governmental  official  greeted  me  from  a  seventy…year…old 
picture; I couldn’t determine who it was from the face because he looked like 
anybody; or so I thought; yet the air of the painting; the seated man’s beard 
painted  in  various  hues  recalled  something。  My  heart  beat  quickly  as  I 
recognized the execution of the magnificent hand in the piece。 My heart knew 
before I did; only he could’ve drawn such a splendid hand: This was the work 
of Bihzad。 It was as if light were gushing from the painting to my face。 
I had seen pictures drawn by the Great Master Bihzad a few times before; 
perhaps  because  I  hadn’t  looked  at  them  alone;  but  in  a  group  of  former 
masters  years  ago;  perhaps  because  we  couldn’t  be  certain  whether  it  was 
indeed the work of the great Bihzad; I hadn’t been as taken as I was now。 
The  heavy  moldy  darkness  of  the  Treasury  chamber  seemed  to  brighten。 
This beautifully drawn hand merged in my mind with that thin; magnificent 
arm branded with signs of love; which I’d just now seen。 Again; I praised God 
for showing me such spectacular beauty before I went blind。 How do I know 
I’ll soon be blind? I don’t know! I sensed that I could share this intuition of 
mine with Black; who’d sidled up to me holding a candle and was looking at 
the page; but something else came out of my mouth。 
“Behold the remarkable rendering of the hand;” I said。 “It’s Bihzad。” 
My hand went of its own will to hold Black’s; as if it were holding the hand 
of one of those soft; velvet…skinned; beautiful apprentice boys; each of whom 
I’d loved in my youth。 His hand was smooth and firm; warmer than my own; 
delicate and broad; and I was thrilled by the veined side of his wrist。 When I 
was young; I would take an apprentice child’s hand into my palm and; before 
telling  him  how  to  hold  the  brush;  I’d  gaze  with  affection  into  his  sweet; 
frightened eyes。 That’s how I looked at Black。 Reflected in his pupils; I saw the 
flame of the candle he held aloft。 “We miniaturists are brethren;” I said; “but 
now everything is ing to an end。” 
“How do you mean?” 
343 
 
I said; “Everything is ing to an end” like a great master who longs for 
blindness;  having  devoted  his  years  to  a  lord  or  a  prince;  having  created 
masterpieces in his workshop in the style of the ancients; having even ensured 
that this workshop had its own style; a great master who knows; whenever his 
patron lord loses his last battle; that new lords will e in the wake of the 
plundering enemy; disband the workshop; tear apart bound volumes leaving 
the pages in disarray and belittle and destroy what remains; including the fine 
details  that  he  long  believed  in;  that  were  of  his  own  discovery  and  that  he 
loved like his own children。 But I needed to explain this to Black differently。 
“This  illustration  is  of  the  great  Poet  Abdullah  Hatifi;”  I  said。  “Hatifi  was 
such a great poet that he simply stayed home while everybody else rushed out 
and  toadied  up  to  Shah  Ismail  after  the  king  took  Herat。  In  response;  Shah 
Ismail personally went all the way to his house on the outskirts of the city to 
see him。 We know this is Hatifi; not from Bihzad’s rendering of Hatifi’s face; 
but from the writing beneath the illustration; don’t we?” 
Black looked at me; indicating “yes” with his pretty eyes。 “When we look at 
the face of the poet in the painting;” I said; “we see that it could be a face like 
any other face。 If Abdullah Hatifi were here; God rest his soul; we could never 
hope to recognize him from the face in this picture。 However; we could do so 
relying on the illustration in its entirety: There’s something in the manner of 
the position; in Hatifi’s pose; in the colors; the gilding and the stunning 
hand rendered by Master Bihzad that at once indicates the picture is of a poet。 
Meaning  precedes  form  in  the  world  of  our  art。  As  we  begin  to  paint  in 
imitation of the Frankish and Veian masters; as in the book that Our Sultan 
had missioned from your Enishte; the domain of meaning ends and the 
domain of form begins。 However; with the Veian methods…” 
“My  Enishte;  may  he  rest  in  eternal  peace;  was  murdered;”  Black  said 
rudely。 
I  caressed  Black’s  hand;  which  rested  within  my  own;  as  if  respectfully 
stroking  the  tiny  hand  of  a  young  apprentice  who  might  one  day  indeed 
illustrate   masterpieces。   Quietly   and   reverently   we   looked   at   Bihzad’s 
masterpiece for a time。 Later; Black withdrew his hand from mine。 
“We passed quickly over the chestnut horses on the previous page without 
examining their noses;” he said。 
“There’s nothing to them;” I said; and turned back to the previous page so 
he might see for himself: There was nothing extraordinary about the nostrils of 
the horses。 
344 
 
“When  shall  we  find  the  horses  with  peculiar  noses?”  Black  asked  like  a 
child。 
But;  in  the  middle  of  the  night;  toward  morning;  when  we  found  Shah 
Tahmasp’s  legendary  Book  of  Kings  in  an  iron  chest  beneath  piles  of  various 
shades of green watered silk and drew it forth; Black was curled up fast asleep 
on  a  red  Ushak  carpet;  with  his  well…formed  head  lying  on  a  velvet  pillow 
embroidered with pearls。 Meanwhile; as soon as I 

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