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such a frightful; nerve…wracking existence? By blaming himself before anyone
else does; the artist believes he’ll be spared what he’s feared for years。 Others
listen to him and believe him only when he admits his guilt; for which he is
then condemned to burn in Hell—the illustrator of Isfahan lit these hellfires
himself。”
“But you’re not a miniaturist;” he said。 “I didn’t kill him out of fear。”
“You murdered him because you wanted to paint as you wished; without
fear。”
For the first time in a long while; the miniaturist who aspired to be my
murderer said something quite intelligent: “I know you’re explaining all this
to distract me; to dupe me; to get yourself out of this situation;” and he
added; “but what you’ve just said is the truth。 I want you to understand;
listen to me。”
I looked into his eyes。 He’d pletely forgotten the formality customary
between us as he spoke: He’d been carried away by his own thoughts。 But to
where?
“Never fear; I won’t offend your honor;” he said。 He laughed bitterly as he
circled around to face me。 “Even now;” he said; “as I’m doing this; it doesn’t
seem to be me。 It’s as if there’s something writhing within me pelling me
to do its evil bidding。 Yet I need that thing noheless。 It’s that way with
painting; too。”
“These are old wives’ tales about the Devil。”
“You think I’m lying; then?”
183
He didn’t have enough courage to murder me; so he wanted me to enrage
him。 “Nay; you’re not lying but you’re not acknowledging what you feel
either。”
“I acknowledge very well what I feel。 I’m sufferin