conscience about denying all this foul slander。”
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“Why is it that you feel guilty？” he asked。 “What’s gnawing at your soul？
Who has caused you to doubt yourself？”
“…to worry that one has attacked what he knows to be sacred； after
spending months merrily illustrating a book…to suffer the torments of Hell
while living…if I could only see that last painting in its entirety。”
“Is this what troubles you？” he said。 “Is this why you’ve e？”
Suddenly panic seized me。 Could he be thinking something horrendous； like
I was the one who’d killed the ill…fated Elegant Effendi？
“Those who want Our Sultan dethroned and replaced by the prince；” I said；
“are furthering this insidious gossip； saying that He secretly supports the
book。”
“How many really believe that？” he asked wearily。 “Every cleric with any
ambition who’s met with some favor and whose head has swollen as a result
will preach that religion is being ignored and disrespected。 This is the most
reliable way to ensure one’s living。”
Did he suppose I’d e solely to inform him of a rumor？
“Poor old Elegant Effendi； God rest his soul；” I said； my voice quavering。
“Supposedly； we killed him because he saw the whole of the last painting and
was convinced that it reviled our faith。 A division head I know at the palace
workshop told me this。 You know how junior and senior apprentices are；
everyone gossips。”
Maintaining this line of reasoning and growing increasingly impassioned； I
e。 I didn’t know how much of what I said I myself
had indeed heard； how much I fabricated out of fear after doing away with
that wicked slanderer； or how much I improvised。 Having devoted much of the
conversation to flattery； I was anticipating that Enishte Effendi would show
me the two…page illustration and put me at ease。 Why didn’t he realize this
was the only way I might overe my fears about being mired in sin？
Intending to startle him； I defiantly asked； “Might one be capable of
making blasphemous art without being aware of it？”
In place of an answer； he gestured very delicately and elegantly with his
hand—as if to warn me there was a child sleeping in the room—and I fell
pletely silent。 “It has bee very dark；” he said； almost in a whisper；
“let’s light the candle。”
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After lighting the candlestick from the hot coals of the brazier which heated
the room； I noticed in his face an expression of pride； one to which I was
unaccustomed； and this displeased me greatly。 Or was it an expression of pity？
Had he figured everything out？ Was he thinking that I was some sort of a base
murderer or was he frightened by me？ I remember how suddenly my thoughts
spiraled out of control and I was stupidly listening to what I thought as if
somebody else was thinking。 The carpet beneath me； for example： There was a
kind of wolflike design in one corner； but why hadn’t I noticed it before？
“The love all khans； shahs and sultans feel for paintings； illustrations and
fine books can be divided into three seasons；” said Enishte Effendi。 “At first
they are bold； eager and curious。 Rulers want paintings for the sake of respect；
to influence how others see them。 During this period； they educate
themselves。 During the second phase； they mission books to satisfy their
own tastes。 Because they’ve learned sincerely to enjoy paintings； they amass
prestige while at the same time amassing books； which； after their deaths；
ensure the persistence of their renown in this world。 However； in the autumn
of a sultan’s life； he no longer concerns himself with the persistence of his
worldly immortality。 By ”worldly immortality‘ I mean the desire to be
remembered by future generations； by our grandchildren。 Rulers who admire
miniatures and books have already acquired an immortality through the
manuscripts they’ve missioned from us—upon whose pages they’ve had
their names inserted； and； at times； their histories written。 Later； each of them
es to the conclusion that painting is an obstacle to securing a place in the
Otherworld； naturally something they all desire。 This is what bothers and
intimidates me the most。 Shah Tahmasp； who was himself a master
miniaturist and spent his youth in his own workshop； closed down his
magnificent atelier as his death approached； chased his divinely inspired
painters from Tabriz； destroyed the books he had produced and suffered
interminable crises of regret。 Why did they all believe that painting would bar
them from the gates of Heaven？“
“You know quite well why！ Because they remembered Our Prophet’s
warning that on Judgment Day； Allah will punish painters most severely。”
“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
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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。
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“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。”
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Who were “they”？ I nodded as if I