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anything from the illustrations。 Nevertheless; he couldn’t refrain from drawing
Our Sultan’s attention to the horses in these magnificent paintings: the way
one reared; the delicate stance of the next and; in the third; a dignity and pride
matching the content of ancient books。 Meanwhile; he speculated about
which artist had made each picture; and the pageboy who’d gone door to
door to the artists’ houses confirmed what Master Osman said。
“My Sovereign; don’t be surprised that I know my painters like the back of
my hand;” said the master。 “What bewilders me is how one of these men;
whom I indeed know like the back of my hand; could make a pletely
unfamiliar mark。 For even the flaw of a master miniaturist has its origins。”
“You mean to say?” said Our Sultan。
“Your Excellency; Prosperous Sultan and Refuge of the World; in my
opinion; this concealed signature; evident here in the nostrils of this chestnut
horse; is not simply the meaningless and absurd mistake of a painter; but a
sign whose roots reach into the distant past to other pictures; other
techniques; other styles and perhaps even other horses。 If we were allowed to
322
examine the marvelous pages of centuries…old books that You keep under lock
and key in the cellars; iron chests; and cabis of the Inner Treasury; we might
be able to identify as technique what we now see as mistake; then; we could
attribute it to the brush of one of the three miniaturists。”
“You wish to enter my Treasury?” said the Sultan in amazement。
“That is my wish;” said my master。
This was a request as brazen as asking to enter the harem。 Just then; I
understood that in as much as the harem and the Treasury occupied the two
prettiest spots in the courtyard of the Private Paradise of Our Sultan’s Palace;
they also occupied the two dearest spots in Our Sultan’s heart。
I was trying to read what would happen from Our Sultan’s beautiful face;
which I could now look upon without fear; but He suddenly vanished。 Had He
been incensed and offended? Would we; or even the miniaturists as a whole;
be punished on account of my master’s impudence?
Looking at the three horses before me; I imagined that I would be killed
before seeing Shekure again; without ever sharing her bed。 Despite the
immediacy of all their beautiful attributes; these magnificent horses now
seemed to have emerged from a quite distant world。
I thoroughly realized during this horrifying silence that just as being taken
into the heart of the palace as a child; being raised here and living here meant
serving Our Sultan and perhaps dying for Him; so being a miniaturist meant
serving God and dying for the sake of His beauty。
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