Shortly a silence enveloped the whole workshop where close to eighty

painters；　students　and　apprentices　worked　in　the　small　cells　which　constituted

the lower floor。 This was a postbeating silence； the likes of which I’d

experienced　many　times；　a　silence　which　would　be　broken　at　times　by　a　nerve…

wracking chuckle or a witticism； at times by a few sobs or the suppressed

moan of the beaten boy before his crying fit would remind the master

miniaturists of the beatings they themselves received as apprentices。 But the

half…blind niy…two…year…old master caused me to sense something deeper

for a moment； here； far from all the battles and turmoil： the feeling that

everything was ing to an end。 Immediately before the end of the world；

there　would　also　be　such　silence。

Painting　is　the　silence　of　thought　and　the　music　of　sight。

As　I　kissed　Master　Osman’s　hand　to　bid　him　farewell；　I　felt　not　only　great

respect　toward　him；　but　a　sentiment　that　plunged　my　soul　into　turmoil：　pity

mixed with the adoration befitting a saint； a peculiar feeling of guilt。 This；

perhaps； because my Enishte—who wanted painters； openly or secretly； to

imitate　the　methods　of　the　Frankish　masters—was　his　rival。

I　suddenly　sensed；　as　well；　that　I　was　perhaps　seeing　the　great　master　alive

for the last time； and in the fluster of wanting to please and hearten him； I

asked　a　question：

67

“My　great　master；　my　dear　sir；　what　separates　the　genuine　miniaturist　from

the　ordinary？”　I　assumed　the　Head　Illuminator；　who　was　accustomed　to　such