in　ravaged　and　burned　cities；　some　painters　continued　drawing　horses

this way； believing it was a standard form。 I’m also sure that others still；

pletely　unaongol　cavalry　and　the　clipped　noses

of　their　steeds；　draw　horses　the　way　we　do　in　our　workshop；　insisting　that　this

too　is　”a　standard　form。“”

“My dear master；” I said； overwhelmed with awe； “as we hoped； your

”courtesan　method‘　truly　did　produce　an　answer。　It　seems　that　each　artist　also

bears　his　own　hidden　signature。“

“Not each artist； but each workshop；” he said with pride。 “And not even

each workshop。 In certain miserable workshops； as in certain miserable

families；　everyone　speaks　in　a　different　voice　for　years　without　acknowledging

359

that　happiness　is　born　of　harmony；　and　that　as　a　matter　of　course；　harmony

bees　happiness。　Some　painters　try　to　illustrate　like　the　Chinese；　some　like

the　Turkmen　and　some　like　they　do　in　Shiraz；　fighting　for　years　on　end；　never

attaining　a　happy　union—like　a　discontented　husband　and　wife。”

I　saw　that　pride　quite　definitely　ruled　his　face；　the　cross　expression　of　a　man

who wanted to be all powerful had now replaced the look of the morose；

pitiable　old　man　that　I’d　seen　him　wear　for　so　long。

“My　dear　master；”　I　said；　“over　a　period　of　twenty　years　here　in　Istanbul；

you’ve united various