invited　him　to　our　house。　I　was　fully　aware　that　my　story　bore　a　promise　of

both　sorrow　and　bliss　that　would　bind　the　two　of　us　together。

“Every picture serves to tell a story；” I said。 “The miniaturist； in order to

beautify　the　manuscript　we　read；　depicts　the　most　vital　scenes：　the　first　time

lovers lay eyes on each other； the hero Rüstem cutting off the head of a

devilish　monster；　Rüstem’s　grief　when　he　realizes　that　the　stranger　he’s　killed

is his son； the love…crazed Mejnun as he roams a desolate and wild Nature

among lions； tigers； stags and jackals；　the anguish of Alexander； who； having

e to the forest before a battle to divine its oute from the birds；

witnesses a great falcon tear apart his woodcock。 Our eyes； fatigued from

reading　these　tales；　rest　upon　the　pictures。　If　there’s　something　within　the　text

that our intellect and imagination are at pains to conjure； the illustration

es　at　once　to　our　aid。　The　images　are　the　story’s　blossoming　in　color。　But

painting　without　its　acpanying　story　is　an　impossibility。

28

“Or　so　I　used　to　think；”　I　added；　as　if　regretfully。　“But　this　is　indeed　quite

possible。 Two years ago I traveled once again to Venice as the Sultan’s

ambassador。　I　observed　at　length　the　portraits　that　the　Veian　masters　had

made。 I did so without knowing to which scene and story the pictures

belonged；　and　I　struggled　to　extract　the　story　from　the　image。　One　day；　I　came

across　a　painting　hanging　on　a　palazzo　wall　and　was　dumbfounded。

“More than anything； the image was of an individual； so