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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第25章

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Sultan saw his son’s depiction of this scene; he was overe with the sense 
that  the  painting  embodied  some  flaw;  he’d  seen  the  signature;  but  wasn’t 
consciously aware of it; and he simply reacted to the picture with the thought; 
”This painting bears a flaw。“ And since one would never expect any such thing 
from the old masters; the Sultan was seized by a kind of panic; suspecting that 
this volume he was reading recounted not a story or a legend; but what was 
most  unbefitting  a  book:  reality  itself。  When  the  elderly  man  sensed  this;  he 
was  overe  with  terror。  His  illustrator  son  had  entered  through  the 
window;  as  in  the  painting;  and  without  even  looking  twice  at  his  father’s 
bulging  eyes;  swiftly  drove  his  dagger—as  large  as  the  one  in  the  painting—
into his father’s chest。 
 
72 
 
DJIM 
In  his  History;  Rashiduddin  of  Kazvin  merrily  writes  that  250  years  ago  in 
Kazvin;  manuscript  illumination;  calligraphy  and  illustration  were  the  most 
esteemed and beloved arts。 The reigning Shah in Kazvin at that time ruled over 
forty countries from Byzantium to China—perhaps the love of book arts was 
the secret of this great power—but alas; he had no male heir。 To prevent the 
lands he’d conquered from being divided up after his death; the Shah decided 
to  find  a  bright  miniaturist  husband  for  his  beautiful  daughter;  and  toward 
this end; arranged a petition among the three great young masters of his 
atelier;  all  of  whom  were  bachelors。  According  to  Rashiduddin’s  History;  the 
object   of   the   petition   was   very   simple:   Whoever   made   the   most 
remarkable painting would be the victor! Like Rashiduddin himself; the young 
miniaturists knew that this meant painting in the manner of the old masters; 
and thus; each of the three made a rendition of the most widely liked scene: In 
a  garden  reminiscent  of  Heaven  itself;  a  young  and  beautiful  maiden  stood 
amid  cypress  and  cedar  trees;  among  timid  rabbits  and  anxious  swallows; 
immersed  in  lovelorn  grief;  staring  at  the  ground。  Unknowingly;  the  three 
miniaturists  had  rendered  the  same  scene  exactly  as  the  old  masters  would 
have;  yet;  the  one  who  wanted  to  distinguish  himself  and  thereby  take 
responsibility  for  the  painting’s  beauty  had  hidden  his  signature  among  the 
narcissus flowers in the most secluded spot in the garden。 And on account of 
this  brazen  act;  by  which  the  artist  broke  with  the  humility  of  the  old 
virtuosos;  he  was  immediately  exiled  from  Kazvin  to  China。  Thus;  the 
petition  was  begun  anew  between  the  two  remaining  miniaturists。  This 
time;  both  painted  a  picture  lovely  as  a  poem;  depicting  a  beautiful  maiden 
mounted on her horse in a magnificent garden。 But one of the miniaturists—
whether  by  a  slip  of  his  brush  or  by  intent;  no  one  knew—had  depicted 
strangely the nostrils of the white horse belonging to the maiden with Chinese 
eyes and high cheekbones; and this was straightaway perceived as a flaw by the 
Shah and his daughter。 True; this miniaturist hadn’t signed his name; but in 
his  splendid  painting;  he’d  apparently  included  a  masterful  variation  in  the 
horse’s   nostrils   to   distinguish   the   work。   The   Shah;   declaring   that 
“Imperfection is the mother of style;” exiled this illustrator to Byzantium。 Yet 
there  was  one  last  significant  event  according  to  the  weighty  History  by 
Rashiduddin  of  Kazvin;  which  occurred  when  preparations  were  being  made 
for  the  wedding  between  the  Shah’s  daughter  and  the  talented  miniaturist; 
who  painted  exactly  like  the  old  masters  without  any  signature  or  variation: 
For the entire day before the wedding; the Shah’s daughter gazed grief…stricken 
at  the  painting  made  by  the  young  and  handsome  great  master  who  was  to 
73 
 
bee  her  husband  on  the  morrow。  As  darkness  fell  that  evening;  she 
presented herself to her father: “It is true; yes; that the old masters; in their 
exquisite paintings; would depict beautiful maidens as Chinese; and this is an 
unalterable  rule  e  to  us  from  the  East;”  she  said。  “But  when  they  loved 
someone;  the  painters  would  include  an  aspect  of  their  beloved  in  the 
rendering of the beautiful maiden’s brow; eye; lip; hair; smile; or even eyelash。 
This secret variation in their illustrations would be a sign that could be read by 
the lovers and the lovers alone。 I’ve stared at the beautiful maiden mounted 
on her horse for the whole day; my dear father; and there’s no trace of me in 
her! This miniaturist is perhaps a great master; he’s young and handsome; but 
he does not love me。” Thereupon; the Shah canceled the wedding at once; and 
father and daughter lived out the remainder of their lives together。 
 
“Thus;  according  to  this  third  parable;  imperfection  gives  rise  to  what  we 
call ”style;“” said Black quite politely and respectfully。 “And does the fact that 
the  miniaturist  is  in  love  bee  apparent  from  the  hidden  ”sign‘  in  the 
image of the beauty’s face; eye or smile?“ 
“Nay;”  I  said  in  a  manner  that  bespoke  my  confidence  and  pride。  “What 
passes  from  the  maiden;  the  focus  of  the  master  miniaturist’s  love;  to  his 
picture is not ultimately imperfection or flaw but a new artistic rule。 Because; 
after a time and through imitation; everyone will begin to depict the faces of 
maidens just like that particular beautiful maiden’s face。” 
We fell silent。 I saw that Black; who’d listened intently to the three parables 
I  recounted;  had  now  focused  his  attentions  upon  the  sounds  my  attractive 
wife  made  as  she  roamed  the  hallway  and  the  next  room。  I  glared  at  him 
menacingly。 
“The first story established that ”style‘ is imperfection;“ I said。 ”The second 
story  established  that  a  perfect  picture  needs  no  signature;  and  the  third 
marries  the  ideas  of  the  first  and  the  second;  and  thus  demonstrates  that 
“signature’  and  ”style‘  are  but  means  of  being  brazenly  and  stupidly  self…
congratulatory about flawed work。“ 
How  much  did  this  man;  to  whom  I’d  just  given  an  invaluable  lesson; 
understand  of  painting?  I  said:  “Have  you  understood  who  I  am  from  my 
stories?” 
“Certainly;” he said; without conviction。 
74 
 
So  you  don’t  try  to  discern  who  I  am  through  his  eyes  and  perceptions; 
allow me to tell you directly。 I can do anything。 Like the old masters of Kazvin; 
I can draw and color with pleasure and glee。 I say this with a smile: I’m better 
than everybody。 I have nothing whatsoever to do with the reason for Black’s 
visit; which—if perchance my intuition serves me correctly—is the disappear…
ance of Elegant Effendi the Gilder。 
Black asked me about the mixing of marriage and art。 
I  work  a  lot  and  I  enjoy  my  work。  I  recently  married  the  most  beautif
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