ing　their　portraits　made。　Their　likenesses　had　imbued　them　with

such magic； had so distinguished them； that for a moment among the

paintings I felt flawed and impotent。 Had I been depicted in this fashion； it

seemed；　I’d　better　understand　why　I　existed　in　this　world。”

He was frightened because he suddenly understood—and perhaps

desired—that Islamic artistry； perfected and securely established by the old

masters　of　Herat；　would　meet　its　end　on　account　of　the　appeal　of　portraiture。

“However； it was as if I too wanted to feel extraordinary； different and

unique；”　he　said。　As　if　prodded　by　the　Devil；　he　felt　himself　strongly　drawn　to

what　he　feared。　“How　should　I　say　it？　It’s　as　if　this　were　a　sin　of　desire；　like

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growing　arrogant　before　God；　like　considering　oneself　of　utmost　importance；

like　situating　oneself　at　the　center　of　the　world。”

Thereafter； this idea dawned on him： These methods which the Frankish

artists　made　use　of　as　if　playing　a　prideful　child’s　game；　could　be　more　than

simply　magic　associated　with　Our　Exalted　Sultan—but　could　in　fact　bee　a

force　meant　to　serve　our　religion；　bringing　under　its　sway　all　who　beheld　it。

I　learned　that　the　idea　of　preparing　an　illuminated　manuscript　had　arisen

then：　my　Enishte；　who’d　returned　to　Istanbul　from　Venice；　suggested　it　would

be excellent indeed for Our Sultan to be the subject of a portrait in the

Frankish style。 But after His Excellency took exception； a book containing

pictures　of　Our　Sultan　and　the　objects　that　represented　Him　was　agreed　upon。

“It　is　the　story　that’s　ess