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the pride of the Sultan； that is； if this art is meant to be only a festival for the
eyes； then Butterfly is indeed a true miniaturist。 He makes wide； easy； blithe
curves； as if he’d taken lessons from the masters of Kazvin forty years ago； he
confidently applies his bright； pure colors； and there’s always a gentle
circularity hidden in the arrangement of his paintings； but I’m the one who
trained him； not those long…dead masters of Kazvin。 Maybe it’s for this reason
that I love him like a son； nay； more than a son—but I never felt any awe
toward him。 As with all of my apprentices； in his boyhood and adolescence； I
beat him freely with brush handles； rulers and even pieces of wood； but this
doesn’t mean I don’t respect him。 Though I beat Stork frequently with rulers； I
respect him too。 In contrast to what the casual onlooker might assume； a
master’s beating doesn’t rid the young apprentice of jinns of talent and the
Devil； but only suppresses them temporarily。 If it happens to be a good
beating； and deserved； later on the jinns and the Devil will rise up and
stimulate the developing miniaturist’s resolve to work。 As for the beatings I
administered to Butterfly； they shaped him into a content and obedient artist。
I at once felt the need to praise him to Black： “Butterfly’s artistry；” I said；
“is solid proof that the picture of bliss； which the celebrated poet ponders in
his masnawi； is only possible through a God…given gift for understanding and
applying color。 When I realized this； I also realized what Butterfly lacked： He
hadn’t known that momentary loss of faith that Jami refers to in his poetry as
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”the dark night of the soul。“ Like an illustrator painting in the great happiness
of Heaven； he sets to his work with conviction and contentment； believing that
he can make a blissful painting； which he does succeed in doing。 Our armies
besieging Doppio castle； the Hungarian ambassador kissing the feet of Our
Sultan； Our Prophet ascending through the seven heavens； these are of course
all inherently happy scenes； but rendered by Butterfly； they bee flights of
ecstasy springing from the page。 In an illustration of mine； if the darkness of
death or the seriousness of a government session weighs heavy； I’ll tell
Butterfly to ”color it as you see fit；“ and thereupon； the outfits； leaves； flags
and sea that lay there muted as if sprinkled with dirt meant to fill a grave
begin to ripple in the breeze。 There are times when I think Allah wants the
world to be seen the way Butterfly illustrates it； that He wants life to be
jubilation。 Indeed； this is a realm where colors harmoniously recite
magnificent ghazals to each other； where time stops； where the Devil never
appears。”
However； even Butterfly knows this isn’t enough。 Someone must have quite
rightly—yes； in good measure—whispered to him that in his work everything
was as joyous as a holiday； but devoid of depth。 Child princes and senile old
harem women on the verge of death enjoy his paintings； not men of the world
forced to struggle with evil。 Because Butterfly is well aware of these criticisms；
poor man； he at times grows jealous of average miniaturists who though much
less talented than he are possessed of demons and jinns。 What he mistakenly
believes to be devilry and the work of jinns is more often than not
straightforward evil and envy。
He aggravates me because when he paints； he doesn’t lose himself in that
wondrous world； surrendering to its ecstasy； but only reaches that height
when he imagines his work will please others。 He aggravates me because he
thinks about the money he’ll earn。 It’s another of life’s ironies： There are many
artists with much less talent yet more able than Butterfly to surrender
themselves to their art。
In his need to make up for his shortings； Butterfly is preoccupied with
proving that he has sacrificed himself to art。 Like those birdbrained
miniaturists who paint on fingernails and pieces of rice； pictures almost
invisible to the naked eye； he’s engrossed with minute and delicate
craftsmanship。 I’d once asked him whether he gave himself over to this
ambition； which has blinded many illustrators at an early age； because he was
ashamed of the excessive talent Allah had granted him。 Only inept miniaturists
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paint each leaf of a tree they’ve drawn on a grain of rice to make an easy name
for themselves and to gain importance in the eyes of dense patrons。
Butterfly’s inclination to design and illustrate for other people’s pleasure
rather than for his own； his uncontrollable need to please others； made him；
more than any of the others； a slave to praise。 And so it follows that an
uncertain Butterfly wants to ensure his standing by being Head
Illuminator。 It was Black who had raised this subject。
“Yes；” I said； “I know he’s been scheming to succeed me after I die。”
“Do you think this would drive him to murder his miniaturist brethren？”
“It might。 He’s a great master； but he’s not aware of this； and he can’t leave
the world behind when he paints。”
I said this； whereupon I grasped that in truth I； too； wanted Butterfly to
assume leadership of the workshop after me。 I couldn’t trust Olive； and in the
end Stork would unwittingly bee slave to the Veian style。 Butterfly’s
need to be admired—I was upset at the thought that he could take a life—
would be vital in handling both the workshop and the Sultan。 Only Butterfly’s
sensitivity and faith in his own palette could resist the Veian artistry that
duped the viewer by trying to depict reality itself rather than its
representation； in all its detail： pictures； shadows included； of cardinals；
bridges； rowboats； candlesticks；