《my name is red-我的名字叫红》我的名字叫红-第180章

actually　was。　I　wanted　only　that　my　artist　brethren　recognize；　understand　and　
share　in　my　exuberance。　I　was　both　the　center　of　everything；　like　a　sultan　or　a　
king；　and；　at　the　same　time；　myself。　The　situation　fed　my　pride　as　it　increased　
my　embarrassment。　Finally　these　two　feelings　balanced　each　other；　and　I　was　
able　to　relax　and　take　dizzying　pleasure　in　the　picture。　But　for　this　pleasure　to　
be plete； I knew every mark on my face and shirt； all of the wrinkles；　
shadows；　moles　and　boils；　every　detail　from　my　whiskers　to　the　weave　of　my　
clothes　and　all　their　colors　in　all　their　shades　had　to　be　perfect；　down　to　the　
minutest　details；　as　much　as　the　skill　of　Frankish　painters　would　allow。　
I noted in the faces of my old panions fear； bewilderment and the　
inescapable　feeling　devouring　us　all：　jealousy。　Along　with　the　angry　revulsion　
they　felt　toward　a　man　hopelessly　mired　in　sin；　they　were　also　envious。　
430　
“During　the　nights　I　spent　here　staring　at　this　picture　by　the　light　of　an　oil　
lamp；　I　felt　for　the　first　time　that　God　had　forsaken　me　and　only　Satan　would　
befriend me in my isolation；” I said。 “I know that even if I were truly the　
center of the world—and each time I looked at the picture this is precisely　
what I wanted—despite the splendor of the red that ruled the painting；　
despite　being　surrounded　by　all　of　these　things　I　loved；　including　my　dervish　
panions and the woman who resembled beautiful Shekure； I’d still be　
lonely。　I’m　not　afraid　of　possessing　character　and　individuality；　nor　do　I　fear　
others bowing down and worshiping me； on the contrary； this is what I　
desire。”　
“You　mean　to　say　that　you　feel　no　remorse？”　said　Stork　like　a　man　who’d　
just　left　a　Friday　sermon。　
“I　feel　like　the　Devil　not　because　I’ve　murdered　two　men；　but　because　my　
portrait　has　been　made　in　this　fashion。　I　suspect　that　I　did　away　with　them　so　I　
could　make　this　picture。　But　now　the　isolation　I　feel　terrifies　me。　Imitating　the　
Frankish　masters　without　having　attained　their　expertise　makes　a　miniaturist　
even　more　of　a　slave。　Now　I’m　desperate　to　escape　this　trap。　Of　course；　all　of　
you　know：　After　all　is　said　and　done；　I　killed　them　both　so　the　workshop　might　
persist　as　it　always　has；　and　Allah　certainly　knows　this　too。”　
“Yet this will bring even greater trouble upon us；” said my beloved　
Butterfly。　
I　abruptly　grabbed　the　wrist　of　that　fool　Black；　who　was　still　looking　at　the　
picture； and with all my strength； digging my nails into his flesh； I angrily　
squeezed　and　twisted　it。　The　dagger　that　he　rather　timidly　held　dropped　from　
his　hand。　I　grabbed　it　from　the　ground。　
“But　now　you　won’t　be　able　to　resolve　your　troubles　by　handing　me　over　to　
the　torturer；”　I　said。　As　if　to　poke　out　his　eye；　I　brought　the　point　of　the　dagger　
toward　Black’s　face。　“Give　me　the　plume　needle。”　
He　took　it　out　and　handed　it　to　me　with　his　good　hand；　and　I　stuck　it　into　
my　sash。　I　focused　my　gaze　into　his　lamblike　eyes。　
“I　pity　beautiful　Shekure　because　she　had　no　alternative　but　to　marry　you；”　
I　said。　“If　I　hadn’t　been　forced　to　kill　Elegant　Effendi　to　save　you　all　from　ruin；　
she would’ve married me and been happy。 Indeed； I was the one who most　
fully　understood　the　tales　and　talents　of　the　Europeans　as　her　father　recounted　
them　to　us。　So；　listen　carefully　to　the　last　of　what　I　will　tell　you：　There　is　no　
longer　any　place　here　in　Istanbul　for　us　master　miniaturists　who　wish　to　live　
by skill and honor alone。 Yes； this is what I’ve realized。 If we’re reduced to　
431　
imitating　the　Frankish　masters；　as　the　late　Enishte　and　Our　Sultan　desired；　we　
will　be　restrained；　if　not　by　the　Ezurumis　and　those　like　Elegant　Effendi；　then　
by　the　justified　cowardice　within　us；　and　we　won’t　be　able　to　continue。　If　we　
fall　sway　to　the　Devil　and　continue；　betraying　everything　that　has　e　before　
in　a　futile　attempt　to　attain　a　style　and　European　character；　we　will　still　fail—
just as I failed in making this self…portrait despite all my proficiency and　
knowledge。 This primitive picture I’ve made； without even achieving a fair　
resemblance of myself； revealed to me what we’ve know all along without　
admitting it： The proficiency of the Franks will take centuries to attain。 Had　
Enishte Effendi’s book been pleted and sent to them； the Veian　
masters would’ve smirked； and their ridicule would’ve reached the Veian　
Doge—that　is　all。　They’d　have　quipped　that　the　Ottomans　have　given　up　being　
Ottoman　and　would　no　longer　fear　us。　How　wonderful　it　would　be　if　we　could　
persist on the path of the old masters！ But no one wants this； neither His　
Excellency　Our　Sultan；　nor　Black　Effendi—who　is　melancholy　because　he　has　
no　portrait　of　his　precious　Shekure。　In　that　case；　sit　yourselves　down　and　do　
nothing but ape the Europeans century after century！ Proudly sign your　
names　to　your　imitation　paintings。　The　old　masters　of　Herat　tried　to　depict　the　
world　the　way　God　saw　it；　and　to　conceal　their　individuality　they　never　signed　
their　names。　You；　however；　are　condemned　to　signing　your　names　to　conceal　
your　lack　of　individuality。　But　there　is　an　alternative。　Each　of　you　has　perhaps　
been summoned； and if so； you’re hiding it from me： Akbar； Sultan of　
Hindustan； is strewing about money and blandishments； trying to gather in　
his　court　the　most　talented　artists　in　the　world。　It’s　quite　apparent　that　the　
book　to　be　pleted　for　the　thousandth　year　of　Islam　will　not　be　prepared　
here　in　Istanbul；　but　in　the　workshops　of　Agra。”　
“Must　an　artist　first　bee　a　murderer　to　be　as　high　and　mighty　as　you？”　
asked　Stork。　
“Nay； it’s enough to be the most gifted and the most talented；” I said　
heedlessly。　
A　proud　cockerel　crowed　twice　in　the　distance。　I　gathered　my　bundle　and　
my gold pieces； my notebook of forms； and put my illustrations into my　
portfolio。 I considered how