《my name is red-我的名字叫红》我的名字叫红-第186章

Frankish masters that paved the ong artists and endless　
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quandries was never resolved。 For painting itself was abandoned； artists　
painted　neither　like　Easterners　nor　Westerners。　The　miniaturists　did　not　grow　
angry and revolt； but like old men b to an illness； they　
gradually　accepted　the　situation　with　humble　grief　and　resignation。　They　were　
neither curious about nor dreamed about the work of the great masters of　
Herat　and　Tabriz；　whom　they　once　followed　with　awe；　or　the　Frankish　masters；　
whose innovative methods they aspired to； caught indecisively between envy　
and　hatred。　Just　as　the　doors　of　houses　are　closed　of　an　evening　and　the　city　is　
left　to　darkness；　painting　was　also　abandoned。　It　was　mercilessly　forgotten　that　
we’d　once　looked　upon　our　world　quite　differently。　
My　father’s　book；　sadly；　remained　unfinished。　From　where　Hasan　scattered　
the pleted pages on the ground； they were transferred to the Treasury；　
there； an efficient and fastidious librarian had them bound together with　
other unrelated illustrations belonging to the workshop； and thus they were　
separated into several bound albums。 Hasan fled Istanbul； and disappeared；　
never　to　be　heard　from　again。　Shevket　and　Orhan　never　forgot　that　it　wasn’t　
Black　but　their　Uncle　Hasan　who　was　the　one　who　killed　my　father’s　murderer。　
In place of Master Osman； who died two years after going blind； Stork　
became Head Illuminator。 Butterfly； y late　
father’s　talents；　devoted　the　rest　of　his　life　to　drawing　ornamental　designs　for　
carpets； cloths and tents。 The young assistant masters of the workshop gave　
themselves over to similar work。 No one behaved as though abandoning　
illustration　were　any　great　loss。　Perhaps　because　nobody　had　ever　seen　his　own　
face　done　justice　on　the　page。　
My　whole　life；　I’ve　secretly　very　much　wanted　two　paintings　made；　which　
I’ve　never　mentioned　to　anybody：　
1。 My own portrait； but I knew however hard the Sultan’s miniaturists　
tried；　they’d　fail；　because　even　if　they　could　see　my　beauty；　woefully；　none　of　
them　would　believe　a　woman’s　face　was　beautiful　without　depicting　her　eyes　
and　lips　like　a　Chinese　woman’s。　Had　they　represented　me　as　a　Chinese　beauty；　
the way the old masters of Herat would’ve； perhaps those who saw it and　
recognized　me　could　discern　my　face　behind　the　face　of　that　Chinese　beauty。　
But later generations； even if they realized my eyes weren’t really slanted；　
could never determine what my face truly looked like。 How happy I’d be　
today；　in　my　old　age—which　I　live　out　through　the　fort　of　my　children—if　
I　had　a　youthful　portrait　of　myself！　
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2。　A　picture　of　bliss：　What　the　poet　Blond　Naz？m　of　Ran　had　pondered　in　
one of his verses。 I know quite well how this painting ought to be made。　
Imagine the picture of a mother with her two children； the younger one；　
whom　she　cradles　in　her　arms；　nursing　him　as　she　smiles；　suckles　happily　at　
her bountiful breast； smiling as well。 The eyes of the slightly jealous older　
brother　and　those　of　the　mother　should　be　locked。　I’d　like　to　be　the　mother　in　
that　picture。　I’d　want　the　bird　in　the　sky　to　be　depicted　as　if　flying；　and　at　the　
same time； happily and eternally suspended there； in the style of the old　
masters　of　Herat　who　were　able　to　stop　time。　I　know　it’s　not　easy。　
My　son　Orhan；　who’s　foolish　enough　to　be　logical　in　all　matters；　reminds　
me　on　the　one　hand　that　the　time…halting　masters　of　Herat　could　never　depict　
me　as　I　am；　and　on　the　other　hand；　that　the　Frankish　masters　who　perpetually　
painted　mother…with…child　portraits　could　never　stop　time。　He’s　been　insisting　
for　years　that　my　picture　of　bliss　could　never　be　painted　anyhow。　
Perhaps　he’s　right。　In　actuality；　we　don’t　look　for　smiles　in　pictures　of　bliss；　
but rather； for the happiness in life itself。 Painters know this； but this is　
precisely　what　they　cannot　depict。　That’s　why　they　substitute　the　joy　of　seeing　
for　the　joy　of　life。　
In　the　hopes　that　he　might　pen　this　story；　which　is　beyond　depiction；　I’ve　
told　it　to　my　son　Orhan。　Without　hesitation　I　gave　him　the　letters　Hasan　and　
Black　sent　me；　along　with　the　rough　horse　illustrations　with　the　smeared　ink；　
which were found on poor Elegant Effendi。 Above all； don’t be taken in by　
Orhan if he’s drawn Black more absentminded than he is； made our lives　
harder than they are； Shevket worse and me prettier and harsher than I am。　
For the sake of a delightful and convincing story； there isn’t a lie Orhan　
wouldn’t　deign　to　tell。　
1990–92；　1994–98　
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336–330 B。C。： Darius ruled in Persia。 He was the last king of the　
Achaemenids；　losing　his　empire　to　Alexander　the　Great。　
336–323　B。C。：　Alexander　the　Great　established　his　empire。　He　conquered　
Persia and invaded India。 His exploits as hero and monarch were legendary　
throughout　the　Islamic　world　even　until　modern　times。　
622：　The　Hegira。　The　emigration　of　the　Prophet　Muhammad　from　Mecca　
to　Medina；　and　the　beginning　of　the　Muslim　calendar。　
1010： Firdusi’s Book of Kings。 The Persian poet Firdusi （lived circa 935–
1020）　presented　his　Book　of　Kings　to　Sultan　Mahmud　of　Ghazni。　Its　episodes　
on　Persian　myth　and　history—including　Alexander’s　invasion；　tales　of　the　hero　
Rüstem　and　the　struggle　between　Persia　and　Turan—have　inspired　miniaturists　
since　the　fourteenth　century。　
1206–1227： The reign of Mongol ruler Genghis Khan。 He invaded Persia；　
Russia　and　China；　and　extended　his　empire　from　Mongolia　to　Europe。　
C。　1141–1209：　The　Persian　poet　Nizami　lived。　He　wrote　the　romantic　epic　the　
Quintet； prised of the following stories； all of which have inspired　
miniaturist painters： The Treasury of Mysteries； Hüsrev and Shirin； Leyla and　
Mejnun；　The　Seven　Beauties　and　The　Book　of　Alexander　the　Great。　
1258：　The