第46部分(第3/7 頁)

　masters　having　an　argument：

“Because we’ve spent our entire lives ardently and faithfully working as

painters； naturally； we； who have now gone blind； know red and remember

what　kind　of　color　and　what　kind　of　feeling　it　is；”　said　the　one　who’d　made

the horse drawing from memory。 “But； what if we’d been born blind？ How

would we have been truly able to prehend this red that our handsome

apprentice　is　using？”

“An　excellent　issue；”　the　other　said。　“But　do　not　forget　that　colors　are　not

known；　but　felt。”

“My　dear　master；　explain　red　to　somebody　who　has　never　known　red。”

“If we touched it with the tip of a finger； it would feel like something

between iron and copper。 If we took it into our palm； it would burn。 If we

tasted　it；　it　would　be　full…bodied；　like　salted　meat。　If　we　took　it　between　our

lips；　it　would　fill　our　mouths。　If　we　smelled　it；　it’d　have　the　scent　of　a　horse。　If

it　were　a　flower；　it　would　smell　like　a　daisy；　not　a　red　rose。”

One　hundred　and　ten　years　ago　Veian　artistry　was　not　yet　threat　enough

that　our　rulers　would　bother　themselves　about　it；　and　the　legendary　masters

believed　in　their　own　methods　as　fervently　as　they　believed　in　Allah；　therefore；

they regarded the Veian method of using a variety of red tones for every

ordinary sword wound and even the most mon sackcloth as a kind of

disrespect and vulgarity hardly worth a chuckle。 Only a weak and hesitant

miniaturist　would　use　a　variety　of　red　tones　to　depict　the　red　of　a　caftan；　they

claimed—shadows　were　not　an　excuse。　Besides；　we　believe　in　only