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第50章

my name is red-我的名字叫红-第50章

小说: my name is red-我的名字叫红 字数: 每页4000字

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where? 
“Never fear; I won’t offend your honor;” he said。 He laughed bitterly as he 
circled around to face me。 “Even now;” he said; “as I’m doing this; it doesn’t 
seem to be me。 It’s as if there’s something writhing within me pelling me 
to  do  its  evil  bidding。  Yet  I  need  that  thing  noheless。  It’s  that  way  with 
painting; too。” 
“These are old wives’ tales about the Devil。” 
“You think I’m lying; then?” 
183 
 
He didn’t have enough courage to murder me; so he wanted me to enrage 
him。  “Nay;  you’re  not  lying  but  you’re  not  acknowledging  what  you  feel 
either。” 
“I acknowledge very well what I feel。 I’m suffering the torments of the grave 
without having died。 Unawares; we’ve sunk to our necks in sin because of you; 
and now you’re preaching ”more courage。“ You’re the one who’s made me a 
murderer。 Nusret Hoja’s rabid henchmen will kill us all。” 
The  less  confident  he  became;  the  more  he  raised  his  voice  and  the  more 
fiercely  he  gripped  the  inkpot。  Would  somebody  passing  down  the  snowy 
street hear his shouting and enter the house? 
“How did you kill him?” I asked; more to buy time than out of curiosity。 
“How did you chance to meet at the mouth of that well?” 
“The night Elegant Effendi left your house; he came to me;” he said; with an 
unexpected desire to confess。 “He said he’d seen the final double…leaf painting。 
I tried at length to dissuade him from making an issue out of it。 I got him to 
walk over to the area ravaged by the fire。 I told him I had money buried near 
the  well。  When  he  heard  that;  he  believed  me…What  better  proof  that  an 
illustrator  is  motivated  by  greed  alone?  That’s  another  reason  I’m not sorry。 
He was a talented; but mediocre artist。 The greedy oaf was ready to dig into 
the frozen earth with his fingernails。 You see; if I truly had gold pieces buried 
beside  that  well;  I  wouldn’t  have  had  to  do  away  with  him。  Yes;  you  hired 
yourself quite a miserable wretch to do your gilding。 The dearly departed had 
finesse;  but  his  choice  of  color  and  application  was  ordinary;  and  his 
illuminations  were  uninspired。  I  didn’t  leave  a  trace…Tell  me;  then;  what  is 
the essence of ”style‘? Today; both the Franks and the Chinese talk about the 
character of a painter’s talent; what they call “style。” Should style distinguish a 
good artist from others or not?“ 
“Fear  not;”  I  said;  “a  new  style  doesn’t  spring  from  a  miniaturist’s  own 
desire。 A prince dies; a shah loses a battle; a seemingly never…ending era ends; a 
workshop is closed and its members disband; searching for other homes and 
other bibliophiles to bee their patrons。 One day; a passionate sultan 
will assemble these exiles; these bewildered but talented refugee miniaturists 
and  calligraphers;  in  his  own  tent  or  palace  and  begin  to  establish  his  own 
book…arts  workshop。  Even  if  these  artists;  unaccustomed  to  one  another; 
continue at first in their respective painting styles; over time; as with children 
who gradually bee friends by roughhousing on the street; they’ll quarrel; 
bond; struggle and promise。 The birth of a new style is the result of years 
184 
 
of  disagreements;  jealousies;  rivalries  and  studies  in  color  and  painting。 
Generally; it’ll be the most gifted member of the workshop who fathers this 
form。  Let’s  also  call  him  the  most  fortunate。  To  the  rest  of  the  miniaturists 
falls the singular duty of perfecting and refining this style through perpetual 
imitation。” 
Unable  to  look  me  straight  in  the  eye;  he  assumed  an  unexpected  gentle 
manner;  and  begging  my  passion  as  much  as  my  honesty;  he  asked  me; 
trembling like a maiden: 
“Do I have a style of my own?” 
I thought tears would flow from my eyes。 With all the gentleness; sympathy 
and kindness I could muster; I hastened to tell him what I believed to be the 
truth: 
“You  are  the  most  talented;  divinely  inspired  artist  with  the  most 
enchanted touch and eye for detail that I’ve seen in all my sixty years。 If you 
put a painting before me which had seen the bined work of a thousand 
miniaturists; I’d still be able to recognize instantly the God…given magnificence 
of your pen。” 
“Agreed; but I know you’re not wise enough to appreciate the mystery of 
my  skill;”  he  said。  “You’re  lying;  now;  because  you’re  afraid  of  me。  Describe; 
once again; the character of my methods。” 
“Your pen selects the right line seemingly of its own accord; as if without 
your touch。 What your pen draws is neither truthful nor frivolous! When you 
portray a crowded gathering; the tension emerging from the glances between 
figures;   their   positioning   on   the   page   and   the   meaning   of   the   text 
metamorphose  into  an  elegant  eternal  whisper。  I  return  to  your  paintings 
again and again to hear that whisper; and each time; I realize with a smile that 
the meaning has changed; and how shall I put it; I begin to read the painting 
anew。 When these layers of meaning are taken together; a depth emerges that 
surpasses even the perspectivism of the European masters。” 
“Fine  and  well。  Forget  about  the  European  masters。  Start  from  the 
beginning。” 
“You  have  such  a  truly  magnificent  and  forceful  line;  that  the  observer 
believes in what you’ve painted rather than in reality itself。 And just as your 
talent  could  create  a  picture  that  would  force  the  most  devout  man  to 
renounce  his  faith;  it  could  also  bring  the  most  hopeless;  unrepentant 
unbeliever to Allah’s path。” 
185 
 
“True; but I’m not sure that amounts to praise。 Try again。” 
“There’s no miniaturist who knows the consistency of paint and its secrets 
as  well  as  you  do。  You  always  prepare  and  apply  the  glossiest;  most  vibrant; 
most genuine colors。” 
“Yes; and what else?” 
“You know you’re the greatest of painters after Bihzad and Mir Seyyid Ali。” 
“Yes; I’m aware of this。 If you are too; why are you making the book with 
that model of mediocrity Black Effendi?” 
“First;  the  work  he  does  doesn’t  require  a  miniaturist’s  skill;”  I  said。 
“Second; unlike yourself; he’s not a murderer。” 
He  smiled  sweetly  under  the  influence  of  my  joke。  With  this;  I  thought  I 
might be able to escape this nightmare thanks to a new expression—this word 
“style。”  Upon  my  broaching  the  subject;  we  began  a  pleasant  discussion 
concerning the bronze Mongol inkpot he held; not like father and son; but like 
two curious and experienced old men。 The weight of the bronze; the balance of 
the inkpot; the depth of its neck; the length of old calligraphy reed pens and 
the mysteries of red ink; whose consistency he could feel as he gently swung 
the  inkpot  before  me…We  agreed  that  if  the  Mongols  hadn’t  brought  the 
secrets   of   red   paint—which   they’d   learned   from   Chinese   masters—to 
Khorasan; Bukhara and Herat; we in Istanbul couldn’t make these paintings at 
all。  As  we  talked;  the  consistency  of  time;  like  that  of  the  paint;  seemed  to 
change; to flow ever more quickly。 In a corner of my mind I was wondering 
why no one had yet returned home。 If only he’d put down that weighty object。 
With  our  customary  workaday  ease;  he  asked  me;  “When  your  book  is 
finished; will those who see my work appreciate my skill?” 
“If we can; God willing; finish this book without interference; Our Sultan 
will look it over; of course; checking first to see whether we used enough gold 
leaf in the appropriate places。 Then; as if reading a description of Himself; as 
any sultan would; He’ll stare at his own portrait; struck by His own likeness 
rather than by our magnificent illustrations; thereafter; if He takes the time to 
examine  the  spectacle  we’ve  painstakingly  and  devotedly  created  at  the 
expense of the light of our eyes; so much the better。 You know; as well as I; that 
barring a miracle; He’ll lock the book away in His treasury without even asking 
who  made  the  frame  or  the  gilded  illuminations;  who  painted  this  man  or 
that horse—and like all skillful artisans; we’ll go back to painting; ever hopeful 
that one day a miracle of acknowledgment will find us。” 
186 
 
We were silent for a while; as if patiently waiting for something。 
“When will that miracle happen?” he asked。 “When will all those paintings 
we’ve worked on until we could no longer see straight truly be appreciated? 
When will they give me; give us; the respect we deserve?” 
“Never!” 
“How so?” 
“They’ll never give you what you want;” I said。 “In the future; you’ll be even 
less appreciated。” 
“Books last for centuries;” he said proudly but without confidence。 
“Believe me; none of the Veian masters have your poetic sensibility; your 
conviction; your sensitivity; the purity and brightness of your colors; yet their 
paintings  are  more  pelling  because  they  more  closely  resemble  life  itsel

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