ent estate was perched on the shores of Lake

o；　the　proprietor　had　collected　the　portraits　of　all　the　great　personages　in

Frankish history from kings to cardinals； and from soldiers to poets： “When

my　hospitable　host　left　me　alone　to　roam　as　I　wished　throughout　his　palazzo；

which　he’d　proudly　given　me　a　tour　of；　I　saw　that　these　supposedly　important

infidels—most of whom appeared to be real and some of whom looked me

straight in the eye—had attained their importance in this world solely on

account　of　having　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　conside