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of  the  world;  His  justice  approaches  us。  See  here;  the  needle  Master  Bihzad 
blinded himself with…” 
Master Osman callously told the story of the needle; and I scrutinized the 
extremely sharp point of this disagreeable object beneath the magnifying glass 
which he lowered so I might better see; a pinkish film covered its tip。 
“The old masters;” Master Osman said; “would suffer pangs of conscience 
about   changing   their   talent;   colors   and   methods。   They’d   consider   it 
dishonorable  to  see  the  world  one  day  as  an  Eastern  shah  manded;  the 
next; as a Western ruler did—which is what the artists of our day do。” 
352 
 
His eyes were neither trained on mine nor upon the pages in front of him。 
It seemed as though he were gazing at a distant unattainable whiteness。 In a 
page of the Book of Kings lying open before him; Persian and Turanian armies 
clashed  with  all  their  force。  As  horses  fought  shoulder  to  shoulder;  enraged 
heroic warriors drew their swords and slaughtered one another with the color 
and  joy  of  a  festival;  their  armor  pierced  by  the  lances  of  the  cavalry;  their 
heads and arms severed; their bodies hacked apart or cloven in two; strewn all 
over the field。 
“When the great masters of old were forced to adopt the styles of victors 
and imitate their miniaturists; they preserved their honor by using a needle to 
heroically bring on the blindness that the labors of painting would’ve caused 
in  time。  Yes;  before  the  pureness  of  God’s  darkness  fell  over  their  eyes  like  a 
divine reward; they’d stare at a masterpiece ceaselessly for hours or even days; 
and  because  they  stubbornly  stared  out  of  bowed  heads;  the  meaning  and 
world of those pictures—spotted with blood dripping from their eyes—would 
take  the  place  of  all  the  evil  they  suffered;  and  as  their  eyes  ever  so  slowly 
clouded over they’d approach blindness in peace。 Do you have any idea which 
illustration  I’d  want  to  stare  at  till  I’d  attained  the  divine  blackness  of  the 
blind?” 
Like  a  man  trying  to  recall  a  childhood  memory;  he  fixed  his  eyes;  whose 
pupils seemed to shrink as their whites expanded; on a distant place beyond 
the walls of the Treasury。 
“The  scene;  rendered  in  the  style  of  the  old  masters  of  Herat;  wherein 
Hüsrev;  burning  madly  with  love;  rides  his  horse  to  the  foot  of  Shirin’s 
summer palace and waits!” 
Perhaps he’d now go on to describe that picture as if reciting a melancholy 
poem eulogizing the blindness of the old masters。 “My great master; my dear 
sire;” on a strange impulse; I interrupted him; “what I want to stare at for all 
eternity is my beloved’s delicate face。 It’s been three days since we wed。 I’ve 
thought of her longingly for twelve years。 The scene wherein Shirin falls in love 
with Hüsrev after seeing his picture reminds me of none other than her。” 
There  was  a  wealth  of  expression  on  Master  Osman’s  face;  curiosity 
perhaps;  but  it  had  to  do  neither  with  my  story  nor  with  the  bloody  battle 
scene  before  him。  He  seemed  to  be  expecting  good  news  in  which  he  could 
gradually take fort。 When I was sure he wasn’t looking at me; I abruptly 
grabbed the plume needle and walked away。 
353 
 
In  a  dark  part  of  the  third  of  the  Treasury  rooms;  the  one  abutting  the 
baths;  there  was  a  corner  cluttered  with  hundreds  of  strange  clocks  sent  as 
presents from Frankish kings and sovereigns; when they stopped working; as 
they usually did within a short time; they were set aside here。 Withdrawing to 
this  room;  I  carefully  scrutinized  the  needle  that  Master  Osman  claimed 
Bihzad had used to blind himself。 
By  the  red  daylight  filtering  inside;  reflecting  off  the  casings;  crystal  faces 
and  diamonds  of  the  dusty  and  broken  clocks;  the  golden  tip  of  the  needle; 
coated  with  a  pinkish  liquid;  occasionally  shimmered。  Had  the  legendary 
Master  Bihzad  actually  blinded  himself  with  this  implement?  Had  Master 
Osman done the same terrible thing to himself? The expression of an impish 
Moroccan;  the  size  of  a  finger  and  colorfully  painted;  attached  to  the 
mechanism of one of the large clocks seemed to say “Yes!” Evidently; when the 
clock  was  working;  this  man  in  the  Ottoman  turban  would  merrily  nod  his 
head as the hour tolled—a small joke on the part of the Hapsburg king who 
sent it; and his skillful clock…maker; for the amusement of Our Sultan and the 
women of His harem。 
I looked through quite a few very mediocre books: As the dwarf confirmed; 
these were among the effects of pashas whose properties and belongings were 
confiscated after they were beheaded。 So many pashas had been executed that 
these  volumes  were  without  number。  With  a  pitiless  joy;  the  dwarf  declared 
that any pasha so intoxicated by his own wealth and power as to forget he was 
a subject of the Sultan and to have a book made in his own honor; illuminated 
with gold leaf as if he were a monarch or a shah; well deserved to be executed 
and have his possessions expropriated。 Even in these volumes; some of which 
were  albums;  illuminated  manuscripts  or  illustrated  collections  of  poetry; 
whenever I came across a version of Shirin falling in love with Hüsrev’s picture; 
I stopped and stared。 
The  picture  within  a  picture;  that  is;  the  picture  of  Hüsrev  which  Shirin 
encountered during her countryside outing; was never rendered in detail; not 
because  miniaturists  couldn’t  adequately  depict  something  so  small—many 
had the dexterity and finesse to paint upon fingernails; grains of rice or even 
strands of hair。 Why then hadn’t they drawn the face and features of Hüsrev—
the object of Shirin’s love—in enough detail so that he might be recognized? 
Sometime in the afternoon; perhaps to forget my hopelessness; and thinking; 
as I leafed through a disorderly album I’d chanced upon; that I’d broach such 
questions to Master Osman; I was struck by the image of a horse in a picture 
of a bridal procession painted on cloth。 My heart skipped a beat。 
354 
 
There  before  me  was  a  horse  with  peculiar  nostrils  carrying  a  coquettish 
bride。  The  beast  was  looking  at  me  out  of  the  picture。  It  was  as  though  the 
magical horse were on the verge of whispering a secret to me。 As if in a dream; 
I wanted to shout; but my voice was silent。 
In one continuous movement; I collected up the volume and ran among the 
objects and chests to Master Osman; laying the page open before him。 
He looked down at the picture。 
When no spark of recognition appeared on his face; I grew impatient。 “The 
nostrils  of  the  horse  are  exactly  like  those  made  for  my  Enishte’s  book;”  I 
exclaimed。 
He  lowered  his  magnifying  lens  over  the  horse。  He  bent  down  so  far; 
bringing his eye to the lens and picture; that his nose nearly touched the page。 
I couldn’t stand the silence。 “As you can see; this isn’t a horse made in the 
style and method of the horse drawn for my Enishte’s book;” I said; “but the 
nose is the same。 The artist attempted to see the world the way the Chinese 
do。” I fell quiet。 “It’s a wedding procession。 It resembles a Chinese picture; but 
the figures aren’t Chinese; they’re our people。” 
The master’s lens seemed to be flat against the page; and his nose was flat 
against the lens。 In order to see; he made use of not only his eyes; but his head; 
the  muscles  of  his  neck;  his  aged  back  and  his  shoulders  with  all  his  might。 
Silence。 
“The nostrils of the horse are cut open;” he said later; breathless。 
I leaned my head against his。 Cheek to cheek we stared at the nostrils for a 
long long time。 I sadly realized that not only were the horse’s nostrils cut; but 
Master Osman was having difficulty seeing them。 
“You do see it; don’t you?” 
“Only very little;” he said。 “Describe the picture。” 
“If  you  ask  me;  this  is  a  melancholy  bride;”  I  said  mournfully。  “She’s 
mounted  on  a  gray  horse  with  its  nostrils  cut  open;  she’s  on  her  way  to  be 
wed; with her panions and an escort of guards who are strangers to her。 
The  faces  of  the  guards;  their  harsh  expressions;  intimidating  black  beards; 
furrowed eyebrows; long thick mustaches; heavy frames; robes of simple thin 
cloth;  thin  shoes;  headdresses  of  bear  fur;  their  battle…axes  and  scimitars 
indicate that they belong to the Whitesheep Turkmen of Transoxiana。 Perhaps 
the  pretty  bride—who  appears  to  be  on  a  long  journey  to  judge  by  the  fact 
355 
 
she’s  traveling  with  her  bridesmaid  at  night  by  the  light  of  oil  lamps  and 
torches—is a melancholy Chinese princess。” 
“Or  perhaps  we  only  think  the  bride  is  Chinese  now;  because  the 
miniaturist;  to  emphasize  her  flawless  beauty;  whitened  her  face  as  the 
Chinese do and painted her with slanted eyes;” said Master Osman。 
“Whoever  she 

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