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：
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“My great master； my dear sir； what separates the genuine miniaturist from
the ordinary？” I assumed the Head Illuminator； who was accustomed to such