The Necklace of the Pleiades: 24 Essays on Persian Literature, Culture and Religion (Iranian Studies Series)

The Necklace of the Pleiades

Iranian Studies Series The Iranian Studies Series publishes high-quality scholarship on various aspects of Iranian civilisation, covering both contemporary and classical cultures of the Persian cultural area. The contemporary Persian-speaking area includes Iran, Afghanistan, Tajikistan, and Central Asia, while classical societies using Persian as a literary and cultural language were located in Anatolia, Caucasus, Central Asia and the Indo-Pakistani subcontinent. The objective of the series is to foster studies of the literary, historical, religious and linguistic products in Iranian languages. In addition to research monographs and reference works, the series publishes English-Persian critical text-editions of important texts. The series intends to publish resources and original research and make them accessible to a wide audience. Chief Editor: A.A. Seyed-Gohrab (Leiden University) Advisory Board of ISS: F. Abdullaeva (University of Oxford) I. Afshar (University of Tehran) G.R. van den Berg (Leiden University) J.T.P. de Bruijn (Leiden University) N. Chalisova (Russian State University of Moscow) D. Davis (Ohio State University) F.D. Lewis (University of Chicago) L. Lewisohn (University of Exeter, UK) S. McGlinn (Unaffiliated) Ch. Melville (University of Cambridge) D. Meneghini (University of Venice) N. Pourjavady (University of Tehran) Ch. van Ruymbeke (University of Cambridge) S. Sharma (Boston University) K. Talattof (University of Arizona) Z. Vesel (CNRS, Paris) R. Zipoli (University of Venice)

The Necklace of the Pleiades Studies in Persian Literature Presented to Heshmat Moayyad on his 80th Birthday 24 Essays on Persian Literature, Culture and Religion

F.D. Lewis and S. Sharma (eds.)

Leiden University Press

Cover design: Tarek Atrissi Design ISBN 978 90 8728 091 8 e-ISBN 978 94 0060 009 6 NUR 630 © F.D. Lewis and S. Sharma / Leiden University Press, 2010 All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the written permission of both the copyright owner and the author of the book.

Heshmat Moayyad

Table of Contents Introduction Bibliography of Heshmat Moayyad’s works

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I. Alexander Romance On Some Sources of Nizm’s Iskandar-nma J. Christoph Bürgel Sources and Art of Amir Khosrou’s “The Alexandrine Mirror” Angelo Michele Piemontese

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II. The Epic Cycle Rostam and Zoroastrianism Dick Davis Reflections on Re-reading the Iliad and the Shahnameh Amin Banani Shrn and Other Female Archetypes in Firdaus’s Shhnmah Kinga Ilona Markus-Takeshita Editing the Shhnma: The Interface Between Literary and Textual Criticism Mahmoud Omidsalar Kuš-e pilguš: pahlavni degarsn (    : ) Jalal Matini

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III. Religious Texts and Contexts The Creative Compiler: The Art of Rewriting in ‘Ar’s Takirat al-awly’ Paul Losensky Shahriyr b. al-asan: A Persian Ism‘l d‘ of the Fatimid Age Wilferd Madelung “In Praise of One of the Deeply Learned ‘Ulam” –A Mysterious Poem by Qjr Court Poet Mrz „abb Allh Shrz “Q’n” Alyssa Gabbay

105

21 31

49 63 69

77 95

107 121

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IV. The Poetic Text and Central Motifs 149 Nosxa’i kohna az Divn-e Emmi-ye Haravi (        ) Iraj Afshar 151

A Life in Poetry: Hfiz’s First Ghazal Julie S. Meisami

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“My Heart is the Ball, Your Lock the Polo-Stick”: Development of the Ball and Polo-stick Metaphors in Classical Persian Poetry Asghar Seyed-Gohrab

183

V. Center and Periphery Sincerely Flattering Panegyrics: The Shrinking Ghaznavid Qasida Franklin Lewis Novelty, Tradition and Mughal Politics in Nau‘’s Sz u Gudz Sunil Sharma The Position of the Khorasani Dialects within the Persian-Dari-Tajiki Linguistic Continuum Youli Ioanessyan

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VI. The Modern Period

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The Political Realm’s Literary Convention: The Examples of Ishq and Iqbl Biancamaria Scarcia Amoretti Re-membering Amrads and Amradnums: Re-inventing the (Sedgwickian) Wheel Afsaneh Najmabadi The Title of Hedâyat’s Buf-e Kur [(The) Blind Owl)] Michael Hillmann Sâdeq Hedâyat, a Writer ahead of Time Claus V. Pedersen “A Fenceless Garden” – A Short Story by Mohammad Zarrin Sholeh Quinn Fayzi: nevisanda-ye n-šens ( !  "# :) Fereydun Vahman Refuting Rushdie in Persian Paul Sprachman From Dawn’s Art Michael Bylebyl

209 251

267

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295 309 325 337 353 363 373

INTRODUCTION The six or seven stars clustered in the constellation Taurus, brightly visible to the naked eye in the winter sky of the northern hemisphere and in the summer sky of the southern hemisphere, were known in Greek mythology as the Pleiades, the seven sisters born to Atlas and Pleione. In the Islamicate tradition, the Pleiades are sometimes seen as a cluster of grapes, sometimes as pearls or jewels (Imru al-Qays in his Muallaqa already likens them to a jewel-encrusted sash). The stars of the Pleiades may often appear linked as if by a halo or milky thread and are consequently likened to precious pearls on a string. “Parvin” and “Sorayyâ,” the Persian and Arabic-derived names for the Pleiades (both of which are now used as feminine proper names) are thus thought of as a necklace (eqd) which the heavens may bestow upon a poet in gratitude and reward for composing a beautiful poem. The heavenly gift mirrors the poem itself, which consists of carefully chosen words, bored like unique pearls and threaded in perfect metrical proportion. As âfe put it: You’ve sung a ghazal, pierced the pearls, come and sing it sweetly, Hafez! The heavens strew the very Necklace of the Pleiades upon your verse. *** Heshmat Moayyad (Heshmatollâh Mo’ayyad-e Sanandaji) was born in Hamadan, Iran and traveled widely through the towns and villages of that country in his youth. He earned his B.A. in Persian and Arabic literature from the University of Tehran in 1949 and left for Germany in 1951 to continue his studies in Persian literature, Islamic Studies and German at the University of Frankfurt am Main, where he studied under Hellmut Ritter, completing his Ph.D. in 1958. He began his teaching career in Frankfurt as a Lecturer, and in 1960 moved to the Istituto Universitario Orientale in Naples, Italy, first as a Lecturer, and then as Professore Incaricato, from 1964-65. Heshmat Moayyad first came to the United States as a visiting lecturer at Harvard University in 1962-63, at a time when Persian literature was not yet offered in many universities in this country. In 1966, with his wife Ruth, and daughters Leyli and Shirin, he came as Assistant Professor to the University of Chicago, where he established what would become a vibrant Persian Studies program, and where he has held the position of Professor of Persian Language and Literature in the Department of Near Eastern Languages & Civilizations since 1974. Heshmat Moayyad’s scholarly contributions to the literature, religions and history of Iran include ten books and in excess of one hundred articles and reviews, written in four languages (see the bibliography of his works, below). In addition, he has been an active and influential translator of modern Persian literature to English and German. Professor Moayyad has served on the advisory board of the Encyclopaedia Iranica, the

quarterly Chanteh, Iranshenasi, The Journal of Bahá’í Studies, and the Bahá’í Encyclopedia Project. He was the book review editor of Irannameh from 1983 to 1988, and of Iranshenasi from 1988 to the present day. He has been a visiting professor at UCLA (1966) and at the Harvard Summer School (1971-72), as well as at the University of Damascus (1993 – the experience of which he encapsulated in an engaging article, “Safar-nâma-ye shâm”). He has also traveled from Chicago to Iran, Afghanistan and South Asia to lecture and conduct research. In 1988 he visited the rich manuscript collections of the Raza Library (Rampur), Khuda Bakhsh Library (Patna), Abul Kalam Azad Library (Aligarh) in India, and lectured at the Aligarh Muslim University. Even as he trained students to read classical texts, Professor Moayyad constantly emphasized the importance of modern Persian literature and offered courses on the subject, a fact that is reflected in the range of papers in this volume. At Chicago he was the founder and host of the “Persian Poetry Evenings” (shab-e sher) from 1983 to 1989. He was also one of the founders of the Association of the Friends of Persian Culture, which holds yearly conferences in Persian in the Chicago area, dedicated to promoting knowledge of the arts, culture and religions of Iran. At the Center for Middle Eastern Studies, he organized the weekly Persian Circle (anjoman-e sokhan) which for several decades has provided an important forum for readings and lectures by innumerable poets and writers from Iran, Afghanistan and Tajikistan, as well as the Persian-speaking scholars, who have visited Chicago. In addition, the Persian Circle created an invaluable forum for students of Persian as a foreign language to hear and practice the different spoken registers and varieties of the language. In 1988, Professor Moayyad organized a major conference on the classical Indo-Persian poet Amir Khosrow (d. 1325), which was attended by scholars from all over the world. In 1989, he organized a three-day conference on Parvin Ete âmi, the proceedings of which were published in 1994 as Once a Dewdrop: Essays on the Poetry of Parvin Etesami. Over the course of more than four decades of active teaching, Heshmat Moayyad has trained several generations of students and contributed to the work of many colleagues. The two dozen articles and essays offered here were written by a wide range of internationally respected scholars in the field of Persian literature, Iranian history and Iranian religions, representing colleagues, friends and students who have benefited from Prof. Moayyad’s expertise, whether in Frankfurt, Naples, Harvard, Chicago or elsewhere. They are presented to Professor Heshmat Moayyad of the University of Chicago on the occasion of his 80th birthday, in gratitude and recognition for his long and fruitful career as scholar and teacher in the field of Persian and Iranian Studies. We look forward to many more years of his companionship and scholarship! The topics of the papers range from heretical movements within Sasanian Zoroastrianism and how they may have impacted the Shh-nma to the imagery, poetics and literary intertextuality of medieval Persian qasidas, ghazals and romances; from the

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methodology of editing Persian medieval manuscripts to the politics and sexuality reflected in modern texts; from authors central to the Iranian epic tradition, such as Ferdowsi, to the Indo-Persian poets of the Mughal and the modern era; from a Persian Ismaili writer of the 12th century to a modern Baha’i novelist in Iran. We hope that these papers (three of them in Persian, and the remainder in English) will provide points of interest not only for Persianists, but also those interested more broadly in the literatures of the Middle East and South Asia, and of medieval Europe. As the articles for this festschrift have been collected at different times from scholars working on different periods and subjects, each author was given discretion to choose the transliteration system best suited to their topic. The editors felt it unnecessary to impose a uniform system of transliteration on the articles, as Persianists should encounter no problem reconstructing the original language, and specialists will not need to do so. The papers are grouped broadly into six sections. The two papers in section one deal with the subject of Persian recitations of the Alexander Romance: J. Christoph Bürgel’s “On Some Sources of Nizmñ’s Iskandarnma” argues that Neâmi’s adaptation of stories was typically complex, drawing upon multiple sources which he altered to suit his own political circumstances and aesthetic objectives. In the case of the Eskandarnâma, these probably include a variety of Arabic sources, some of them rather obscure, including the Ikhwn al- af and geographical literature, etc. Angelo Michele Piemontese’s “Sources and Art of Amir Khosrou’s ‘The Alexandrine Mirror’” provides a detailed précis and analysis of the structure and plot of a complicated poetic work that was inspired by Neâmi’s masterpiece, but has heretofore received scant scholarly attention, despite Amir Xosrow’s significance. Section two, on the Epic Cycle, includes five papers. Rostam is the pre-eminent legendary hero of pre-Islamic Iran, and for this reason there is often a tacit assumption that he is somehow a Zoroastrian hero, or at least an embodiment of pre-Islamic IranianZoroastrian values. As Dick Davis shows in his “Rostam and Zoroastrianism,” however, there are a number of indications in the Shâh-nâma and in other texts close in time to it, that at least parts of the Rostam legend refer to a committed opponent of Zoroastrianism. Amin Banani’s “Reflections on Re-reading the Iliad and the Shahnameh” offers a reconsideration of some of the salient structural affinities, as well as the general points of similarity in cultural ethos, of the great epic of Ferdowsi and Homer (occasioned in part by the new translations of Davis and Fitzgerald). He argues for a (re-)inclusion of the Shâh-nâma in the western curriculum insofar as a comparative approach to these two poems would add a different and deeper dimension to the contemporary discourse on “orientalism” and the “clash of civilizations.” Kinga Ilona Markus-Takeshita’s “Shrn and Other Female Archetypes in Firdaus’s Shhnmah” examines chronological and stylistic questions in the mytho-history of the late-Kayanian era, as recorded in the Iranian Book of Kings, and versified by Ferdowsi in the post-Islamic period in the Shh-

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nma. Archetypal heroines of the various epic cycles are compared with parallel data from other early medieval works in prose and poetry, including various traditions preserved by court poets (such as Neâmi) and in semi-hagiographical accounts of various neighboring civilizations. Mahmoud Omidsalar’s “Editing the Shhnma: The Interface Between Literary and Textual Criticism” sketches the process of producing and transmitting literary works of art in the classical Persian tradition and illustrates the crucial need for textual scholarship as a preliminary to detailed literary analysis. He argues for an eclectic method of textual editing, noting that while many of the significant rules of textual criticism developed for European classics are also relevant in editing classical Persian texts, some are inapplicable and others must be somewhat modified. Jalal Matini’s Persian article “Kuš-e pilguš: pahlavâni degarsân” (Kush the Elephanteared: a different kind of hero) closes the section with a study of the role and attributes of the champion Kush in the popular verse epic Kush-nma. In section three, Religious Texts and Contexts, three papers examine various texts of literary and religious import. In “The Creative Compiler: The Art of Rewriting in ‘Ar's Takirat al-awly’,” Paul Losensky applies Lefevre’s concept of “re-writing” to provide a nuanced analysis of ‘Ar’s translation and arrangement of the Persian and Arabic sources he drew upon for his prose collection of the vitae of the Sufis. Wilferd Madelung sketches the life and offers an analysis of two works by a lesser-known Ismaili missionary active in Fars, Kermân and Yemen during the 11th century CE in his “Shahriyr b. al-asan: A Persian Ism‘l d‘ of the Fatimid Age.” A translation of one of the qasidas of Q’n and a discussion of the possibility that it is addressed to Sayyid Ali Muhammad Bb, provides an opportunity to examine Q’n’s attitude toward his patrons and their politics in Alyssa Gabbay’s “‘In Praise of One of the Deeply Learned ‘Ulam’: A Mysterious Poem by Qjr Court Poet Mrz „abb Allh Shrz Q’n.” In “The Poetic Text and Central Motifs,” section four, Iraj Afshar discusses a previously unknown manuscript of the Divân of the 13th-century poet Emmi of Herat in his Persian article, “Nosxa’i kohna az Divn-e Emmi-ye Haravi.” Julie S. Meisami examines the questions of ambiguity and intertextuality in a famous ghazal of âfe which may have been deliberately chosen to begin his Divân, and which may give valuable clues about the literariness of âfe’ poetic project. Meisami considers this famous poem through a dual lens in “A Life in Poetry: Hafiz’s First Ghazal,” juxtaposing a modern perspective with that of Sudi’s commentary in a way that elucidates the structure and meaning of this and other ghazals. A. Asghar Seyed-Gohrab’s “‘My Heart is the Ball, Your Lock the Polo-Stick’”: Development of the Ball and Polo-stick Metaphors in Classical Persian Poetry” traces the rise and wide-ranging development of a central image in Persian poetry and its metaphorical applications, the ball and the polostick, from the tenth to the beginning of the sixteenth centuries.

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In section five, “Center and Periphery”, Franklin Lewis’s “Sincerely Flattering Panegyrics: The Shrinking Ghaznavid Qasida” re-examines the question of sincerity and truthfulness in poetry with respect to the panegyric tradition, considering how poets at the Ghaznavid court might have modulated their praise to reflect changing political circumstances; the length of the qasida itself may be one way in which poets regulated the dynamic of encomiastic sincerity. Sunil Sharma’s “Novelty, Tradition and Mughal Politics in Nau‘’s ‘Sz u Gudz’” introduces a verse romance written by an Iranian émigré poet at the Mughal court in which the poet narrates an “exotic” Indian tale about sati; his analysis recovers the strong political subtext of the poem. Shifting from literary to linguistic concerns, Youli Ioanessyan’s “The Position of the Khorasani Dialects within the Persian-Dari-Tajiki Linguistic Continuum” provides a comparative study of a variety of specific linguistic features in different regional dialects, arguing that the earlier geographical division of the Persian dialects into Western and Eastern, with the Khorasani dialects being classified (along with Afghano-Tajiki) as one of the two major subdivisions of the Eastern group, does not adequately reflect linguistic realities. Rather, the Khorasani dialects should be seen as a distinct group of their own, reflecting features of both the Western (Tehrani) and Eastern (Kabuli) groups. For the Modern Period, Biancamaria Scarcia Amoretti’s “The Political Realm's Literary Convention: The Examples of Ishq and Iqbl” provides a comparative study of two modern Persian poets (one Iranian and the other Indian) whose departures from tradition led to the forging of a new poetics. In her “Re-membering Amrads and Amradnums: Re-inventing the (Sedgwickian) Wheel,” Afsaneh Najmabadi documents the gendered nature of the debate over modernity and the nineteenth century preoccupation with the westernized male dandy (farangi-ma’b) as an emasculated, beardless man, arguing that the discourse of desire was feminized in an effort to replace male homoerotic affectivities, a marker of backwardness. Michael Hillman reviews the critical writing on âdeq Hedâyat in his “The Title of Hedyat’s Buf-e Kur [(The) Blind Owl)],” and explores the etymological and cultural significance of the two elements of the title of Hedâyat’s most famous work, as part of an evaluation of the European translation and understanding of the novel. Claus Pedersen’s “Sadeq Hedâyat, a Writer Ahead of Time” examines the strong elements of modernity in Hedâyat’s work, particularly the science fiction story, “Serum Gegen Liebes-Leidenschaft” from the collection, Sâyeh-rowshan (Chiaroscuro), and the ultimate synthesis of Iranian/American and male/female perspectives it offers. Mohammad Zarrin’s short story “A Fenceless Garden,” in Sholeh Quinn’s English translation, tells the story of an Iranian office worker grappling with issues in her marriage, her relationships, and her place in life. Her idealized image of one of her co-workers forces her to reassess some of the assumptions she had made about her own life. Fereydoun Vahman’s Persian article on the short story writer, Fayzi, “Fayzi: nevisanda-ye n-šens,” introduces the life and works of a

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twentieth century Baha’i short-story writer who deserves to be better known. Paul Sprachman’s “Refuting Rushdie in Persian” parses several translations of passages of Salman Rushdie’s Satanic Verses, which can only appear in Iran within the polemical context of refutations. Yet not all refutations are quite alike or perform the same cultural function. Michael Bylebyl, in “From Dawn’s Art,” offers a personal narrative recollecting his early encounter with the Ishrq philosophy of Shehâb al-Din Sohravardi, describing in a creative and sensitive manner the experiences of an American graduate student engaged in dissertation research in Tehran in 1976; it brings the volume to a close with a reminder of a time when American students and faculty could more easily travel to Iran to conduct or conclude their research. This volume would never have appeared if not for the timely intervention and assistance of a number of individuals. Chief among them are Michael Hillmann, who initiated the idea and the project of this festschrift, and Asghar Seyed-Gohrab, who played a decisive role in the final stages. Without their intervention, the volume would never have been possible. Others have also had a hand, including Siavash Samei, who turned the Persian articles into electronic text. Thanks are also due to Hossein Samei and Foruzan Lewis, and to Mr. Auke van den Berg of Rozenberg Publishers, and Purdue University Press for publication of these papers and shepherding the volume into print. Franklin Lewis, University of Chicago Sunil Sharma, Boston University

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A BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THE WORKS OF HESHMAT MOAYYAD Books o Die Maqmt des aznaw, eine legendäre Vita Ahmad-i m’s, genannt Žandapl (441-536/1049-1141). Frankfurt a. M.: Goethe Universität, 1959. 138pp. o Die Blinde Eule (trans.). The first German translation of Sâdeq Hedâyat’s novel Buf-e Kur. Geneva: H. Kossodo, 1960. 167pp. o Maqâmât-e Zhandapil Ahmad-e Jâm (ta’lif dar sadeh-ye sheshom-e hejri). Editio princeps of a 12th-century text by Sadid al-Din Mohammad-e Ghaznavi about Shaykh Ahmad-e Jâm, with introduction and annotations. Tehran: Bongâh-e Tarjomeh va Nashr-e Ketâb, 1961. liv+280pp. o Polyglott Sprachführer: Persisch. A Persian language self-study text. With Johann Karl Teufel (Teubner). Köln-Marienburg: Polyglott-Verlag. 1965. 7th printing, München, 1983. 31pp. o Maqâmât-e Zhandapil Ahmad-e Jâm. A second and expanded edition, based on new findings. Tehran: Bongâh-e Tarjomeh va Nashr-e Ketâb, 1967. lxxxviii+401pp. o Rowzat al-Rayâhin. Editio princeps of a 15th-century text by Darvish Ali Buzjâni, with introduction and annotations. Series: Majmueh-ye motun-e fârsi, 29. Tehran: Bongâh-e Tarjomeh va Nashr-e Ketâb, 1966. 174pp. o Farâ’ed-e Ghiâsi. Editio princeps, with introduction and notes, of the 14th-century collection of letters in Persian compiled c. 836 A.H. by Jalâl al-Din Yusof-e Ahl. Series: Zabân va adabiyât-e Irân. 2 vols. Tehran: Bonyâd-e Farhang-e Irân. Volume 1 (1977): lxvi+839pp. and Volume 2 (1979): xvii+747pp. (Two further volumes of this text, consisting of about 900 pages, including indices and annotations, still remain in press). o A Nightingale’s Lament. Selections from the Poems and Fables of Parvin Etesami (ed. and trans.). Translated from the Persian, together with Margaret A. Madelung. Lexington, KY: Mazda Publishers, 1985. xxxviii+231pp. o Once Upon a Time (Yeki bud, yeki nabud) by Mohammad Ali Jamalzadeh (ed. and trans.) The first collection of Jamalzadeh’s short stories in English, translated from the Persian, together with Paul Sprachman. Del Mar, NY: Caravan Press and Bibliotheca Persica, 1985. x+112pp. o Divân-e Parvin-e Etesâmi: qasâ’ed, masnaviyât, tamsilât va moqattaât (ed.), with an introduction and bibliography. Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda Publishers, 1987. xxxviii+286pp.

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o The Bahá’í Faith and Islam. Proceedings of a Symposium, McGill University, March 23-25, 1984 (ed.). Ottawa, Canada: Assocation for Bahá’í Studies, 1990. 146pp. o La Fe de Bahá’í y el islam (ed.). Spanish Translation of the above. Terrassa: Editorial Bahá’í, 1999. 237pp. o Stories from Iran. A Chicago Anthology 1921-1991 (ed.). Washington, D.C.: Mage Publishers, 1991. 5th printing, 2002. 517pp. o Once a Dewdrop. Essays on the Poetry of Parvin Etesami (ed.). Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda Publishers, 1994. vii+233pp. o Be-yâd-e Dust (“In Memory of the Friend”). Recollections and an essay in Persian on Abu’l-Qasem Faizi, with extracts from Faizi’s letters and eight of his essays, as well as his memoirs of nearly five years of living and teaching in Najafabad, Esfahan. Wilmette, IL: National Spiritual Assembly of the Baha’is of the United States, 1998. 206pp. o Black Parrot, Green Crow: A Collection of Short Fiction by Houshang Golshiri (ed.). The first collection of Golshiri in English, including a biography of the author, 18 short stories, and 3 poems. Washington, D.C.: Mage Publishers, 2003. 241pp. o The Colossal Elephant and His Spiritual Feats: The Life and Legendary Vita of Shaykh Ahmad-e Jâm. English Translation with Franklin Lewis, of Maqâmât-e Zhandapil, with annotations and a detailed introduction on the Sufi Shaykh alIslam Ahmad-e Jâm (d. 1141 A.D.). Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda Publications, 2004. ix+460pp. Articles o “Moderne Persische Literature.” Lexikon der Gegenwartsliteratur. Freiburg, 1960, pp. 975-79. o “Introduction on the life and works of Zandapil Ahmad-e Jam” (Persian), Maqâmât-e Zhandapil Ahmad-e Jâm. Tehran, 1961, pp. 9-54. o “Nachtrag zum Deutsch-Persischen Worterbuch von Wilhelm Eilers.” Annali dell’Istituto Universitario Orientale di Napoli 12 (1962): 32-81. o “A biography and review of the works of Alessandro Bausani” (Persian). Râhnamâ-ye Ketâb 6 (1963): 504-14 and 647-60. o “Eine wiedergefundene Schrift über Ahmad-e m und seine Nachkommen: Betrachtungen und Ergebnisse.” Annali. Istituto Orientale di Napoli 14 (1964): 255-86. o “Some remarks on the Nasirean Ethics by Nasir ad-Din Tusi,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 31 (1972): 179-86.

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o “Parvin’s Poems (The Poems of Parvin Etesâmi: A Cry in the Wilderness).” In: Islamwissenschaftliche Abhandlungen: Fritz Meier z. 60. Geburtstag. Ed. Richard Gramlich. Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1974, pp.164-190. o “Ab Na r Man r b. Moškn.” Encyclopaedia Iranica, v1: 352-353. o “A mad-e Jm.” Encyclopaedia Iranica v1: 648-649. o “Sargozasht-e ghamangiz-e Shâhnâmeh-ye Shâh Tahmâsebi” (The Sad Fate of Shah Tahmasb’s Shahnameh Manuscript). Iran Nameh 4 (1986): 428-432. o “ Attr, Fard al-Dn Muhammad.” The Encyclopaedia of Religion, pp. 500-501. o “Hazl o Tanz o Shukhi dar Sher-e Fârsi-ye Bahâr,” (Malek al-Shoarâ’ Bahâr’s Humorous and Satirical Poetry). Iran Nameh 5 (1987): 596-624. o “Be Yâd-e hashtâdomin Sâlgard-e tavallod-e Parvin Etesâmi” (Parvin Etesâmi’s 80th birth anniversary remembered). Iran Nameh 6 (1988): 116-142. o “On Parvin Etesâmi's 80th Anniversary” (Persian), CIRA Newsletter 3 (1987): 17-18. o “Lyric Poetry.” In: Persian Literature. Ed. Ehsan Yarshater. New York: Columbia University/Bibliotheca Persica, 1988, pp. 120-46. o “Boshq (Ab Es q) Aema.” Encyclopaedia Iranica, v4: 382-383. o “B zjn, Darwiš Al.” Encyclopaedia Iranica, v4:587-88. o “Ta’ammoli dar Kelidar” (Reflections on the Novel Klidar), Iran Nameh 7 (1988): 112-25. o “Alessandro Bausani” (An evaluation in Persian of his scholarly works, written on the occasion of his death in 1988), Payâm-e Bahâ’i, No. 114 (May 1989): 6-14. o “Jâygâh-e Parvin Etesâmi dar Sher-e Fârsi” (Parvin’s Place in the History of Persian Poetry). Iranshenasi 1 (1989): 212-39. o “Abu al-Fazl Golpâygâni debating with Prince Farhâd Mirzâ” (in Persian), Payâm-e Bahâ’i, No.122 (Jan.1990): 49-54 and No.123 (Feb.1990): 17-20. o “Response to Dr. Ahmad Mahdavi Damghani” (Persian). Iran Nameh 8 (1990): 328-32 (Reply to a critique of the article, "Reflections on the Novel Kelidar”) o “Dar Madâr-e Nezâmi. 1: Hasht Behesht-Haft Akhtar” (In the Orbit of Nezâmi I: A Comparative Analysis of Amir-Khosrow’s Hasht Behesht and Abdi Beg’s Haft Akhtar), Iranshenasi 2 (1990): 135-59. o “The Relationship between the Bahá’í Faith and Islam.” In: The Baha'i Faith and Islam. Ed. H. Moayyad. Ottawa, Association of Bahá’í Studies, 1990, pp.73-91. o “Scholarly Dilettantism and Tampering with History.” In YAD-NAMA, In Memoria di Alessandro Bausani. Ed. Biancamaria Scarcia Amoretti and Lucia Ristagno. Rome: Bardi Editore, 1991, vol. 1, pp. 327-333. o “Dar Madâr-e Nezâmi 2: Maryam va Shirin dar Sher-e Ferdowsi va Nezâmi (A comparative study of two women characters in Ferdowsi's Shahnameh and Nezâmi’s Khosrow va Shirin), Iranshenasi 3 (1991): 526-539.

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o “Târikh-e Adabiyât-e Fârsi: Moruri bar Savâbeq va Nazari darbâreh-ye Âyandehye ân” (On Histories of Persian Literature). Iranshenasi 3 (1991): 71-84. o “Nasabnâmeh-ye yek Ghazal-e Hâfez va Mokhammas-e ân dar Torki-ye Osmâni” (On the Genealogy of Hafez’ ghazal “zolf âshofteh” and its imitation in Ottoman Turkish). Iranshenasi 3 (1991): 337-344. o “The Persian Short Story: An Overview.” In Stories from Iran, A Chicago Anthology 1921-1991. Ed. H. Moayyad. Washington, D.C., Mage, 1991, pp.1329. Arabic Translation of this introduction by Najat Abu Samra, “al-Qissat alFrisiyya al-Qasra, Dirsat Fahisat,” al-Adab al-Ajnabiyya: Majalla Fa liyya Yu diruh Iti d al-Kuttb al-Arab (Adad Muzdawaj Kh bi al-Adab alFris). Nos. 77-78 (Damascus, 1994): 7-22. o “Yâdi az Sâlhâ-ye Javâni-ye Rahmat” (Reminiscences from the life of Dr. Rahmat Mohâjer), Payâm-e Bahâ’i, no. 143 (1991): 18-30. o “Dar Madâr-e Nezâmi 3: Naqdi bar Layli va Majnun-e Nezâmi” (A critical analysis of Nezami’s Layli va Majnun). Iranshenasi 4 (1992): 528-542. o “Man Yuhiruhu’llh” (On the frequency and significance of this Arabic term in the Bayân of Ali-Muhammad the Bb). In: Mahbub-e Âlam: be monâsebat-e bozorgdâsht-e sadomin sâl-e soud-e Hazrat-e Bahâ Allâh. Canada: Enteshârât-e Majalle-ye Andalib, 1992, pp. 94-101. o “Sarrâji Saggezi: Halqe’i Digar dar Nasabnâmeh-ye Ghazal-e ‘Zolf âshofteh’” (Another link in the genealogy of a poem by Hafez). Iranshenasi 4 (1993): 87981. o “Dar Madâr-e Nezâmi 4: Moqalledân-e Khosrow va Shirin-e Nezâmi” (On imitations of Nezâmi’s Khosrow va Shirin). Iranshenasi 5 (1993): 72-88. o “Badr-e Shervâni va Ashâr-ash. Nazari be Divâni Bâz-yâfteh” (On the poet Badr of Shirvan and his newly-discovered collection of poems). In: Persian Studies in North America. Studies in Honor of Mohammad Ali Jazayery. Ed. by Mehdi Marashi. Bethesda, MD: Iranbooks, 1994, pp. 60-115. o “Safar-nâme-ye Shâm” (Travelogue of Syria). Iranshenasi 6, 1 (1994): 1-17. o “Nâmeh’i az Varqâ-ye Shahid,” (A letter from the martyr Varqâ, edited). In: Khusheh-hâ’i az Kharman-e Adab va Honar (Switzerland, Landegg Academy). 5 (1994): 227-28. o “Âh-e Ensân” (On a poem by Sâdeq Chubak). Daftar-e Honar 2, 3 ( March 1995): Sadeq Chubak, pp.229-30. o “Fârsi râ Dorost va Shivâ Benevisim” (On Modern Persian prose). Payâm-e Bahâ’i no. 184 (1995): 19-23. o “Moruri bar Nasr-e Fârsi-ye Moâser” (On modern Persian prose and its development and shortcomings). Khusheh-hâ’i az Kharman-e Adab va Honar (Landegg Academy, Switzerland) 6 (1995): 239-58.

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o “Nasr-e Dâstân-nevisi-ye Fârsi” (On the prose style of novelists and short story writers). Khusheh-hâ’i az Kharman-e Adab va Honar (Landegg Academy, Switzerland) 6 (1995): 259-74. o “Parvin Etesâmi's Niche in the Pantheon of Persian Poetry.” In Once a Dewdrop. Essays on the Poetry of Parvin Etesâmi. Ed. H. Moayyad. Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda Publishers, 1994, pp.160-87. o “Dar madâr-e Nezâmi 5: Âtashi Qandahâri, Sarâyandeh-ye Gol-e Rangin” (Âtashi Qandahâri and his poem Gol-e Rangin, discovered in 1988 in India). Iranshenasi 7 (1995): 293-302. o “Gozide-ye Khâterât-e Nâser al-Din Shâh” (On the occasion of the anniversary of Naser al-Din Shah’s assassination in 1896). Iranshenasi 8 (1996):224-45. o “Sargozasht-e Zan-e Pârsâ-ye ‘Attâr (Tracing the background of one of ‘Attâr’s longest tales to its earliest known sources). Iranshenasi 9 (1997): 427-42. Reprinted in Jashn-nâme-ye Zabih Allâh Safâ. Tehran, 1998, pp. 434-53. o “Ketâbi dar hadd-e Farâ’ed,” Payâm-e Bahâ’i, no. 229 (1998): 12-18. o “Ete m, Mirz Yusof Khan štn, Ete âm-al-Molk.” Encyclopaedia Iranica, vol 8. o “Ete m, Parvn.” Encyclopaedia Iranica, vol 8. o “For , Besm (Basm), Abbs.” Encyclopaedia Iranica, vol 9. o “Goethe dar Â’ine-ye Sadi” (Goethe’s adaptations from Sadi in his WestOstlicher Divân, on the occasion of the 250th anniversary of Goethe’s birth). Iranshenasi 11, 1 (1999): 36-58. o “Goethe va Sadi” (an appendix to the former article). Iranshenasi 11, 2 (1999): 260-64. o “Dar Sug-e do Ostâd-e Bozorg” (Obituary for Professors Safâ and Zarrinkub). Payâm-e Bahâ’i, no. 240 (Nov 1999): 39-41. o “Tâ’us-e ‘Eliyin: darbâre-ye Zhandapil Ahmad-e Jâm va Shaykh Abu Said-e Abu al-Khayr” (On Shaykh Abu Said-e Abu al-Khayr and Shaykh Ahmad-e Jâm). Iranshenasi 11, 3 (1999): 549-57. o “Tâ’us-e ‘Eliyin: darbâre-ye Zhandapil Ahmad-e Jâm va Shaykh Abu Said-e Abu al-Khayr: II” (Part II of above). Iranshenasi 11, 4 (2000): 742-49. o “On Eradication of Religious, Racial, and National Prejudice” (in Persian, a chapter in Rowzane-hâ-ye Omid (Windows of Hope). Luxembourg, 2000, pp. 253-70. o “Persian Bahâ’i Poetry 1850-1950” (In Persian). Khusheh-hâ’i az Kharman-e Adab va Honar 12 (2001): 95-114. o “Ravesh-e Pazhuheshhâ-ye Enteqâdi-ye Adabiyât va Târikh dar Qarn-e Bistom dar Irân” (Methodologies of Academic Research in Literature and History in 20th Century Iran). Khusheh-hâ’i az Kharman-e Adab va Honar 12 (2001): 21-31.

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o “Pazhuheshgarân-e Adabiyât va Târikh az Qazvini tâ Kadkani” (Distinguished Scholars of Persian Literature and the History of Iran from Muhammad Qazvini to Muhammad-Reza Shafii-Kadkani). Khusheh-hâ’i az Kharman-e Adab va Honar 12 (2001): 33-54. o “Chahâr Nâmeh-ye Âsheqâneh az Avâkher-e Qarn-e Haftom-e Hejri” (Four love letters by Zayn al-Din-e Qodsi to an unnamed woman from ca. 1260-1300 AD, edited and analyzed). Iranshenasi 13 (2001): pp. 46-53. o “Torkân-e Pârsi-guy: Ashâr-e Pârsi-ye Shâerân-e Osmâni” (Persian-Speaking Turks: Ottoman Poets and their Persian Poetry). Iranshenasi 14, 1 (2002): 111122. o “Torkân-e Pârsi-guy: Ashâr-e Pârsi-ye Shâerân-e Osmâni. 2: Fozuli-ye Baghdâdi” (Persian-Speaking Turks 2: Fozuli of Baghad). Iranshenasi 14, 2 (2002): 291-99. o “Yâdi az Mehdi Akhavân-e Sâles (Omid) va Hushang Golshiri” (In Memory of Mehdi Akhavan-e Sâles and Hushang Golshiri). Iranshenasi 14, 3 (2003): 802809. o “Torkân-e Pârsi-guy: Ashâr-e Pârsi-ye Shâerân-e Osmâni, 4: Nefi” (PersianSpeaking Turks 4: Nefi). Iranshenasi 14, 3 (2003): 533-39. o “Torkân-e Pârsi-guy: Ashâr-e Pârsi-ye Shâerân-e Osmâni, 5: Nâbi” (PersianSpeaking Turks 5: Nâbi). Iranshenasi 16, 3 (2004): 671-77. o “Torkân-e Pârsi-guy: Ashâr-e Pârsi-ye Shâerân-e Osmâni, 6: Yâvuz Soltân Selim” (Persian-Speaking Turks 6: Yâvuz Sultan Selim). Iranshenasi 16, 4 (2005): 643-48. o “Torkân-e Pârsi-guy: Ashâr-e Pârsi-ye Shâerân-e Osmâni, 7: Sultân Suleiman Qânuni, motakhalles be Mohebbi” (Persian-Speaking Turks 7: Sultan Selim, “Mohebbi”). Iranshenasi 17, 3 (2005): 451-55. o “Tanz-e Molamma : Qasideh’i az Qâzi-ye Hajim” (A Macaronic Qasideh by Qâzi Hajim). Iranshenasi 18, 1 (2006): 32-42. o “Moqaddeme’i bar Now-e Shahr-âshub dar Sher-e Fârsi” (An Introduction to the Shahr-âshub Genre in Persian). Iranshenasi 18, 4 (2007): o “Sayyedâ-ye Nasafi, Moruri bar Zendegi va Divân va Matn-e Shahr-âshub-e U” (Sayyedâ-ye Nasafi, an Introduction to the Life and Poetry, Especially his Shahrâshub). Iranshenasi 19, 1 (2007): 58-64. Book reviews o E. G. Browne: A Literary History of Persia. Persian Translation, Vol. 1: Az Ferdowsi tâ Sadi. Sokhan 6 (1955): 944-47. o Walter Hinz: Persisch, Leitfaden der Umgangssprache. Oriens 8 (1955): 312-15.

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o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o

Hellmut Ritter: Das Meer der Seele. Sokhan 7 (1956): 215-18. Die Reise Zum Wonnigen Fisch. Sokhan 11 (1960): 609-11. C. G. Troeller: Persien ohne Maske. Râhnamâ-ye Ketâb 4 (1961): 93-104. E. Malle: Schroeder's Reisefuehrer Iran. Râhnamâ-ye Ketâb 4 (1961): 26-29. “Chand Ketâb darbâreh-ye Miniâtur” (Several Books on Persian Miniatures). Râhnamâ-ye Ketâb 4 (1961): 850-55 and 1071-77. Ruzbehân Baqli Shirâzi: Abhar al-Âshiqin (Le jasmin des fidèles d’amour). Ed. H. Corbin and M. Moin. Speculum 37, 4 (Oct. 1962): 651-54. Iraj Afshar: Index Iranicus, vol. 1. Annali dell’Istituto Orientale di Napoli 12 (1963): 316-18. Wilhelm Eilers: Deutsch-Persisches Woerterbuch, Lieferungen 1-4. Oriens 18 (1965-66): 407-10. Issa Chehabi: Deutsch-Persischer Sprachfuehrer. Oriens 23-24 (1970-71): 54446. Muhammad Iqbal: Book of Eternity (Javidnameh). English Translation by A. J. Arberry. Mahfel 7 (1971): 163-68. Bozorg Alavi und Manfred Lorenz: Lehrbuch der Persischen Sprache. International Journal for Middle East Studies 3 (1972): 375-80. John Andrew Boyle: Grammar of Modern Persian. Oriens 25-26 (1975): 387-91. H. Junker and Bozorg Alavi: Persisch-Deutsches Woerterbuch. Oriens 25-26 (1975): 396-99. Fakhr al-Din Gorgani: Vis and Ramin. English Translation by G. Morrison. Journal of Near Eastern Studies 34 (1975): 213-15. Farid al-Din 'Attar: Ilahinameh or Book of God. English Translation by John Andrew Boyle. Journal of the Society for Iranian Studies 10 (1977): 211-15. Fritz Meier: Abu Said Abu’l-Hayr...Wirklichkeit und Legende. Acta Iranica 1976, and Journal of the American Oriental Society 102 (1982): 381-82. Fritz Meier: Abu Sa'id Abu'l-Hayr...Wirklichkeit und Legende. Iran Nameh 1 (1983): 299-303. J. Kessler and Amin Banani (trans.): Bride of Acacias. Poems by Forugh Farrokhzad. Iran Nameh 1 (1983): 308-12. Nizami: Chosrov und Shirin. German Translation by Johann Christoph Buergel. Iran Nameh 1 (1983): 473-77. Michael Hillman, Editor: Major Voices in Contemporary Persian Literature. Iran Nameh 1 (1983): 649-62. Ehsan Yarshater, Editor: Encyclopaedia Iranica, Fascicles 1-5. Iran Nameh 2 (1984): 511-16. Ferdowsi: Das Koenigsbuch. Deutsch von Helmhart Kanus-Crede. Iran Nameh 2 (1984): 520-28.

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o Gilles Peress: Telex Iran. Aperture, NY, 1984. Iran Nameh 3 (1984): 175-78. o M. A. Jamalzadeh: Isfahan Is Half the World. Translated by W. L. Heston. Iran Nameh 3 (1985): 328-33. o E. G. Browne: The Press and Poetry of Modern Persia. Reprint, 1983. Iran Nameh 3 (1985): 536-539. o Farid al-Din 'Attar: The Conference of the Birds. Translated by Dick Davis. Iran Nameh 3 (1985): 529-533. o Gh. H. Yusofi: Kâghaz-e Zar. Tehran, 1983. Iran Nameh 3 (1985): 733-738. o Hasan Tahbâz: Yâdbudnâmeh-ye Sâdeq Hedâyat. W. Germany, 1983. Iran Nameh 4 (1985): 152-154. o alâ al-Din al-Munajjid: Al-Mufa al fi al-Alfâ al-Fârisiyya al-Muarraba. Tehran 1978. Iran Nameh 4 (1986): 498-510. o Thomas Ricks, Editor: Critical Perspectives on Modern Persian Literature. Washington D.C., 1984. Iran Nameh 4 (1986): 525-530. o J. Ch. Buergel: Steppe im Staubkorn. Texte aus der Urdu Dichtung Muhammad Iqbals. Freiburg, 1982. Journal of the American Oriental Society 107 (1987): 805806. o Nazir Ahmad: Divân-e Amid-e Loiki. Lahore, 1985. Iran Nameh 4 (1987): 36774. o Waris Kirmani: Dreams Forgotten. An Anthology of Indo-Persian Poetry. New Delhi, 1984. Iran Nameh 6, 1 (1987): 145-149. o Mostafâ Zamâniniâ: Râh-e Derâz-e Istânbol. Tehran, 1985. Iran Nameh 6, 2 (1988): 327-332. o Cyrus Ghani: Iran and the West. A Critical Bibliography. London, 1987. Iran Nameh 6 (1988): 509-511. o J. T. P. De Bruijn: Of Piety and Poetry. The Interaction of Religion and Literature in the Life and Works of Hakim San’. Leiden: Brill, 1983. Iranshenasi 1, 1 (1989): 160-170. o Annemarie Schimmel: Gärten der Erkenntnis - Texte aus der Islamischen Mystik. Dusseldorf, 1986. Journal of the American Oriental Society 109 (1989): 301. o Annemarie Schimmel (ed. and trans.): Nimm eine Rose und nenne sie Lieder Poesie der Islamischen Völker. Dusseldorf, 1987. Journal of the American Oriental Society 109 (1989): 301-302. o Cyrus Ghani, Editor: Nâmeh-hâ-ye Dr. Qâsem Ghani. London, 1989. Iranshenasi 1, 3 (1989): 569-74. o Ahmad Karami (ed.): Divân-e Shaykh Ahmad-e Jâm. Tehran, 1365/1986. Iranshenasi 2, 3 (1990): 642-648. o Abbâs Zaryâb-e Kho’i: Bazmâvard. Tehran, 1368/1989. Iranshenasi 2 (1991): 860-866.

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o Mohammad Bâqer Najm-e Sâni: Mawezeh-ye Jahângiri. Ed. Sajida Sayyed Alavi. Iranshenasi 3, 3 (1991): 621-628. o Iranica Varia: Papers in Honor of Ehsan Yarshater. Acta Iranica, Troisieme Serie, vol. xvi. Leiden: Brill, 1990. Iranshenasi 4, 4 (1993): 807-22. o H.B. Dehqâni Tafti: Masih va Masihiyat nazd-e Irâniân. Seyr-e Ejmâli dar Târikh. London, 1992. Iranshenasi 5, 1 (1993): 202-204. o Ali Dehbâshi (ed.): Yâdnâmeh-ye Parvin Eteâmi. Tehran, 1370/1991. Iranshenasi 5, 3 (1993): 627-32. o Kurt Scharf (ed. and trans.): Forugh Farrochsad, Jene Tage. Frankfurt a.M.: Bibliothek Suhrkamp, 1993. Iranshenasi 6, 1 (1994): 198-200. Reprinted in Daftar-e Honar, vol. 1, no.2 (Sep. 1994): Forugh Farrokhzad, pp. 114-115. o Angelo M. Piemontese (ed.): Catalogo dei Manoscritti Persiani Conservati nelle Biblioteche d’Italia. Roma, 1989. Iranshenasi 6, 1 (1994): 200-203. o Sheila S. Blair: The Monumental Inscriptions from Early Islamic Iran and Transoxiana, Leiden: Brill, 1992. Iranshenasi 6, 1 (1994): 203-209. o Mohammad Sawaie (ed.): Risla f Ta qq Tarb al-Kalimt al-Ajamiyya, by Ahmad ibn Sulaymn al-Marf bi ibn Kaml Psh al-Wazr. Damascus, 1991. Iranshenasi 6, 2 (1994): 354-59. o George Braziller (ed.): For Rushdie: Essays by Arab and Muslim Writers in Defence of Free Speech. New York, 1994. Iranshenasi 6, 2 (1994): 359-62. o Richard Gramlich (ed. and trans.): Das Sendschreiben al-Qušayrs über das S ftum. Wiesbaden: F. Steiner Verlag, 1989. Iranshenasi 6, 3 (1994): 628-33. o Shems Friedlander, The Whirling Dervishes. Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 1992. Iranshenasi 6, 3 (1994): 633-36. o al-Adab al-Ajnabiyya. Majalla Fa liyya yu diruh Ii d al-Kuttb al-Arab. ‘Adad Muzdawaj Khss bi al-Adab al-Frs, no. 77-78, (Damascus, 1994). Iranshenasi 6, 4 (1995): 877-80. o J.E. Knoerzer (trans.): Ali Dashti’s Prison Days. Life under Reza Shah. Costa Mesa: Mazda Publishers, 1994. Iranshenasi 7, 3 (1995): 664-71. o Annemarie Schimmel, I am Wind, You are Fire. The Life and Work of Rumi. Boston/London: Shambala, 1992. Iranshenasi 7, 4 (1996): 849-57. o Uto von Meltzer and Vincent Rosenzweig (trans.): Rumi, Nie ist wer liebt allein. Mystische Liebeslieder. Bearbeitet von Monika Hutterstrasser. Graz: Leykam, 1994. Iranshenasi 8, 1 (1996): 169-74. o Jürgen Ehlers: Die Natur in der Bildersprache des Shahname. Wiesbaden, 1995. Iranshenasi 8, 3 (1996): 610-18. o David Yerushalmi: The Judeo-Persian Poet ‘Emrani and His “Book of Treasure”, Leiden/New York: Brill, 1995. Iranshenasi 8, 4 (1997): 820-24.

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o Amnon Netzer (ed.): Pâdyâvand: Pazhuhesh-nâme-ye Yahud-e Irân, vol. 1. Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda, 1996. Rahâvard 44 (1997): 331-35. o Amnon Netzer (ed.): Pâdyâvand, vol. 2. Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda, 1997. Iranshenasi 11, 2 (1999): 445-52. o Homâ Sarshâr (ed.): Taruâ. Yahudiân-e Irâni dar Târikh-e Moâser, vol. 1. Beverly Hills, CA: Center for Iranian Jewish Oral History, 1996. Iranshenasi 8, 4 (1997): 794-800. o Homâ Sarshâr (ed.): Yahudiân-e Irâni dar Târikh-e Moâser, vol. 2. Beverly Hills, CA: Center for Iranian Jewish Oral History, 1997. Iranshenasi 10, 4 (1999): 83745. o Homâ Sarshâr (ed.): Yahudiân-e Irâni dar Târikh-e Moâser, vol. 3. Beverly Hills, CA: Center for Iranian Jewish Oral History, 1999. Rahâvard 51 (1999): pp. 5659. o Uto von Meltzer (trans.) and Wheeler Thackston (trans.): Nâser Khosrow’s Safarnâmeh in German and English translation. Safarname: Das Reisetagebuch des persischen Dichters N ir-i Husrau. Graz: Leykam, 1993; and Naser Khosraw’s Book of Travels. New York: Bibliotheca Persica, 1986. Iranshenasi 9, 1 (1997): 198-202. o Fâtemeh Sanatiniâ: Ma’âkhez-e Qesas va Tamsilât-e Marnavi-hâ-ye Attâr-e Nayshâburi. Iranshenasi 9, 2 (1997): 328-33. o Emiko Okada (ed.): Vis o Ramin. 3 volumes: Text, Word Frequency, Vocabulary. Tokyo, 1991. Iranshenasi 10, 1 (1998): 182-88. o Udo Schafer, Nicole Towfigh, and Ulrich Golmer: Desinformation als Methode. Die Baha’i Monographie des F. Ficicchia. Stuttgart: G. Olms Verlag, 1995. Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 8, 3 (Nov. 1998): 451-54. o Marianna Shreve Simposon: Sultan Ibrahim Mirza’s Haft Awrang. A Princely Ms. from 16th-century Iran. Freer Gallery of Art/Yale University Press, 1997. Iranshenasi 11, 1 (1999): 202-12. o Iranzamin. Echo der Iranischen Kultur. 11. Jahrgang no. 2/3, 1998-1999. Iranshenasi 12, 1 (2000): 194-200. o Wheeler Thackston, Jr. and Hossein Ziai (eds. and trans.): Arifi of Heart, The Ball and Polo Stick, or the Book of Ecstasy. Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda, 1999. Iranshenasi 12, 2 (2000): 438-42. o Irân Darrudi. Dar Fâsele-ye do Noqteh. Tehran: Nashr-e Nay, 4th printing, 1377/1998. Iranshenasi 12, 3 (2000): 631-47. o Leonard Lewisohn (ed.): Divân-e Mohammad Shirin-e Maghrebi. Tehran/London: University of Tehran, 1372/1993. Iranshenasi 12, 4 (2001): 91015.

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o A. Bausani: Religion in Iran from Zarathustra to Baha’ullah. New York, 2000. Payâm-e Bahâ’i, no. 258 (2001): pp. 41-43. o Iraj Afshâr and Mahmud Omidsâlâr (eds.): Mojmal al-tavârikh va al-Qesas. Tehran: Talâyeh, 1389/2001. Iranshenasi 13, 2 (2001): 432-5. o Sayf al-Din Najmâbâdi and Siegfried Weber (eds.): Mojmal al-tavârikh va alqesas. Neckerhausen: Deux Mondes, 1379/2000. Iranshenasi 13, 2 (2001): 44045. o Fakhrezzaman Schirazi-Mahmoudian: Literarische Verwendung persischer Termini und Redewendungen im Werke deq Hedyats: Ein Kompendium. Wiesbaden, Harrasowitz, 1999. Iranshenasi 13, 2 (2001): 436-40. o Jürgen Ehlers: Mit goldenem Siegel: über Briefe, Schreiber und Boten im Shâhnâme. Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2000. Iranshenasi 13, 3 (2001): 671-77. o Shahram Ahadi: New Persian Language and Linguistics. A Selected Bibliography up to 2001. Harrasowitz, 2002. Iranshenasi 15, 1 (2003): 164-9. o A.A. Seyed-Gohrab (ed.): Jamâli-ye Dehlavi, The Mirror of Meanings. Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda, 2002. Iranshenasi 16, 2 (2004): 341-47. o Iraj Afshâr (ed.): Fehrest-e dast-nevis-hâ-ye Fârsi dar Ketâb-khâneh-ye Melli-ye Otrish va Ârshiv-e Dowlati-ye Otrish dar Vin. Tehran: Nashr-e Farhangestân, 1382/2003. Iranshenasi 17, 2 (2005): 389-94. o Nahid Mozaffari (ed.): Strange Times, My Dear: The Pen Anthology of Contemporary Iranian Literature. New York: Arcade, 2005. Iranshenasi 18, 2 (2006): 330-36. o Bahman Gâzpur: Resâleh-ye Qodsiyeh-ye Tariqat-e Seddiqân. Tehran: Horufiyyeh, 1384/2005. Iranshenasi 18, 4 (2007): 697-700.

Translations o Hellmut Ritter, “Die Anfänge der Hurufi Sekte.” Translated into Persian with an introduction. Farhang-e Irân-Zamin 10 (1962): 319-93. o “Mosibatnâmeh of Attâr,” from Hellmut Ritter’s Das Meer der Seele. Translated into Persian, Râhnamâ-ye Ketâb 7 (1964): 19-24. o “War Daqiqi ein Zoroastrier?,” by H. H. Schaeder. Translated into Persian with an introduction and notes. In: Yâdnâmeh-ye Habib Yaghmâ’i. Tehran, 1978. pp. 471-497. o “Motun-e bâz-yâfteh-ye arabi darbâreh-ye târikh-e emâmân-e Zaydi-ye Tabarestân va Daylâmân va Gilân,” by Wilferd Madelung, from the introduction to his Arabic Texts Concerning the History of The Zaydi Imams of Tabaristan,

17

o o o o o o o o o

Daylaman and Gilan (Beirut/Wiesbaden, 1987). Translated into Persian with an Introduction. Iranshenasi 2 (1990): 431-46. Gholam Hosayn Nazari, “Moths in the Night” (short story). In: Stories from Iran, A Chicago Anthology 1921-1991, pp. 229-30. idem: “The Cast” (short story). Ibid, 231-32. idem: “Adolescence and the Hill” (short story). Ibid, 233-34. idem: “Mr. Hemayat” (short story). Ibid, 235-38. idem: “Shadowy “(short story), ibid: 239-41. Mahshid Amir-Shahi, “The Smell of Lemon Peel, The Smell of Fresh Milk” (short story). Ibid: 433-45. “Dehkhoda’s Fiddle-Faddle.” Chanteh: The Iranian Cross-Cultural Quarterly, 8 (1994): 46-49. Parvin Etesâmi: Ten Poems. Translated together with Margret Madelung in: Once a Dewdrop (1994, see above), pp. 208-33. Gloria Faizi, “A Biography of Abu’l-Qasim Faizi” in Bahá’í World, vol. 18 (1986): 659-665. Translated into Persian as “Zendeginâmeh-ye Abu al-Qâsem-e Fayzi,” in Be Yâd-e Dust (see above), pp. 9-25. Work in progress

o Hâji Mirzâ Heydar-‘Ali Esfahâni, A Biography of Abu al-Fazl Golpâygâni. Editio princeps of the Persian text, with introduction and annotations. o The Letters of Hâji Mirzâ Heydar-‘Ali Esfahâni to his wife (ed.). From an uncatalogued manuscript in the editor’s possession. o Torkân-e Pârsiguy. A collection of Persian poetry by major Turkish poets, with introduction. o A Collection of unpublished letters by Abd al-Bahâ’ (d. 1921) to the Bahâ’is of Germany.

18

I. Alexander Romance

On Some Sources of Niz$m%'s Iskandarnma J. Christoph Bürgel University of Bern

Professor Heshmat Moayyad was my first teacher of Persian, in the early fifties, when he was writing his dissertation on Zhindapl with Hellmut Ritter and I was just a beginner in the Orientalisches Seminar of the Johann Wolfgang von Goethe University in Frankfurt on the Main. Since then, we have been in friendly contact, and have also been sharing a veneration for the Persian poet Nizm, who ranked foremost in Prof. Ritter’s scholarly work. Ritter’s “Die Bildersprache Nizm’s” remains a classic. The following remarks, mainly footnotes to my German translation of Nizm’s latest and longest epos, 1 incomplete and unsatisfying as they are,2 are here presented in token of my long friendship with Heshmat Moayyad and our mutual love for Nizm. I. As was already shown by Bertels, the way Nizm made use of his sources was arbitrary, in the sense that he did not refrain from changing his sources to accord with his own ideas.3 However, when it comes to the goals that Nizm pursued by introducing these alterations, there is nothing at all arbitrary. Where Nizm altered his sources, it was to illustrate his humanistic ideas. In considering Nizm’s sources, one has to make a division between two different types: first, the general source from which a basic idea or overall plot stems, and second, sources employed only for certain particular events, or inserted stories, etc. Thus the general idea for Makhzan al-asrr, a didactic epos dealing with twenty moral topics each illustrated by one little story, came from San’’s Hadqat al-haqqa, as Nizm

1

Nizami, Das Alexanderbuch – Iskandarname. Übertragung aus dem Persischen, Nachwort und Anmerkungen von J.C. Bürgel (Zürich: Manesse 1991). 2 A complete survey of his sources in this epos is a desideratum I would love to realize, but it would cost me much more time than was at my disposition, when I was invited to contribute to this Festschrift. Rather than delving into the details of source criticism, I plan to write a monograph on the poet, provided the circumstances of my life allow me to do so. 3 See E. Bertels, Twor˜eski put’ poeta (Moscow: Izdatel’stvo Akademii Nauk SSSR, 1956), and idem, Izbrannye trudy: Nizami i Fuzuli (Moscow: Izdatel’stvo vostochnoy literatury, 1962).

J. Christoph Bürgel

himself suggests in the beginning of this epos by his reference to San’, without however naming the Hadqat expressly.4 The strict structural device, however, was apparently his own contribution.5 Three of the four following epics drew their subject matter from the Shhnma, namely Khusraw and Shrn, Haft Paikar and Iskandarnma. 6 Lail and Majnn was inspired by Arabic sources, probably the long chapter in the Kitb al-aghn. Yet, nowhere did Nizm restrict himself to just one source. The mere intention to surpass his models, to outdo his predecessors, as he often claims to have done, implied the necessity of using more than just the one source from which the initial impulse had come. Thus while following San’’s structural idea of illustrating didactic chapters by inserted stories, Nizm borrowed none of San’’s stories, but found his own twenty examples mainly from places as yet unidentified. 7 In Khusraw va Shrn, he not only greatly modified Firdaws’s story of the Sasanian ruler and his Armenian wife, but enriched the plot by another love story, that between Shrn and Farhd, thus gaining an inner tension, a dramatic development absent in Firdaws’s version. At the same time, he wrote this epos, which has so many features of a drama, as a literary contravention of Gurgn’s Ws and Rmn.8 In Nizm’s eyes, Ws had acted immorally by yielding to Rmn’s desire. This is why the young Shrn, his model of proper female behavior, is exhorted by her aunt not to behave like Ws, so as not to fall into disgrace. She follows this counsel throughout the narrative, whose structure is thus clearly influenced by Nizm’s idea of correcting a model that he found morally objectionable. We may assume that his sources here were already not exclusively literary, but also included philosophical or ethical material. The obvious evidence for this is the summary of Kalla wa Dimna in forty verses as given by Khusraw’s wise counselor Buzurgmihr towards the end of the epos.9 Nizm’s Shrn is also a correction of Firdaws’s, as well as of the historical Shrn, both figures being far below the high-flown moral standard of Nizm’s heroine. The same is true, mutatis mutandis, for Nizm’s Khusraw, who is not shown as the tyrant he has apparently been historically, nor as the conqueror and womanizer he is in the Shhnma, but as a human individual, who, even though the heir of a throne, has to develop from an

4

Cf. Nizm, Makhzan al-asrr, ed. V. Dastgird%, 364ff. For this epos see now the thorough analysis by R. Würsch, Nizamis Schatzkammer der Geheimnisse. Eine Untersuchung zu Mahzan al-asrar (Wiesbaden: L. Reichert, 2005). 6 For these three epics see the respective introductions (“Nachwort”) in my German translations: Chosrou und Schirin (Zürich: Manesse, 1980), and Die Abenteuer des Königs Bahram Gur und seiner sieben Prinzessinnen (München: C.H. Beck, 1991). 7 See the above-mentioned analysis of R. Würsch. 8 See my “Die Liebesvorstellungen im persischen Epos Wis und Ramin,“ Asiatische Studien 33 (1979): 6598. 9 See Khusraw u Shñrñn, ed. Dastgirdñ, 406-410; German translation, 309-312. 5

22

On Some Sources of Nizm's Iskandarnma

immature, uncontrolled youth into a responsible ruler and sincere lover.10 In this process of maturation women play an important role, as again in the development of Nizm’s later princely heroes, Bahrm G r and Alexander the Great. Actually, Nizm’s three epics dealing with kings may be read as some sort of Fürstenspiegel.11 But the question remains whether, for this dimension, Nizm himself was influenced by some Fürstenspiegel material or manuals on ethics, or if all this came from himself, or perhaps, at least in part from his first wife pk, a Kipchak slave whom the prince of Darband had sent him as a present and reward for his first poem. According to Bertels, the totally unIslamic figure of Shrn is only explainable by the influence of pk, whose loss Nizm bewails in a moving personal note after having related the death of Shrn. 12 pk, apparently a Christian, would thus have been the living model behind Shrn, this unique figure in medieval Persian literature of a loving woman and a noble lady. On the other hand, the fact that Nizm inserted a summary of the fables of Kalla wa Dimna in Khusraw and Shrn, with the moral point of each fable expressed in one verse, and that he borrowed the stories of the seven villains in Haft Paikar from the Siysatnma of Nizm al-Mulk, are clear indications that he was familiar with works of the mirror for princes genre. In Haft Paikar, the hero’s identity and the main features of his life are again taken from the Shhnma. One story, that of Bahrm and his harp-playing slave-girl Fitna, for whom he performs the breath-taking hunting feat, is a famous example (already highlighted by Bertels), of how Nizm would change his source material with a view toward working out their ethical dimensions.13 But where does the basic idea of the seven story-telling princesses come from? That Nizmi had conceived this structural device already at the beginning of his literary career is suggested by a line in the introduction of the Makhzan al-asrr: haft khalfa bi-yik khna dar / haft hikyat bi-yik afsna dar “Seven caliphs within one palace, seven tales within one story” It seems quite clear to me that here, in addition to the Shhnma and the source, or probably sources, that inspired the seven stories frame, other non-literary sources have contributed to his picture of the world. Thus, e.g., I would surmise that he had already 10

See the introduction to my translation of this epos. Chosrou und Schirin, 331-367. Cf. J. Meisami, Medieval Persian Court Poetry (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987), Chapter V: “Allegories of Kingship and Justice,” 180-236. 12 ed. Dastgird, 429-30, German tr., 326-27. Bertels, Nizami i Fuzuli, 118. 13 For a detailed analysis, cf. my contribution in Ehsan Yarshater, ed., Persian Literature. Columbia Lectures on Iranian Studies 3 (Persian Heritage Foundation/Bibliotheca Persica, 1988), 172-76. 11

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read by this point at least sections of the Ras’il Ikhwn al-saf’, “The Epistles of the Brethren of Purity,” which were certainly used by him in the Iskandarnma, as I shall presently expound. II. Coming now to the Iskandarnma, it is clear that I shall not be able to do justice to the problem of the sources of this longest and most complex of all the five epics of our poet, apart from the fact that I am still far from having studied it as thoroughly as a complete analysis of the sources would require. My findings are rather preliminary and somewhat random. First of all, it is quite clear that the first impulse here, as in the case of Khusraw and Shrn and Haft Paikar, came from the Shhnma. A second important impulse for the Iskandarnma is to be found, however, in a source which could yield nothing in the two previous cases, i.e. the Koran, with its mention of Dh al-Qarnain, the DoubleHorned, in Surah 18. Nizm himself refers to the source problem time and again in his introductory remarks. One aspect is his relationship to Firdaws. With all due respect, our poet utters his decision not to repeat things Firdaws had already written, except were it was inevitable. Another general deliberation concerns his attitude vis-à-vis the miraculous, the mirabilia, already so conspicuous in Pseudo-Callisthenes and much of the Greek Alexander tradition. In dealing with this problem, Nizm uses the terms lie/falsehood (durgh) and truth (rst) which, of course, evoke the time-honored Arabic debate about the permissibility of lying in poetry, which had, however, usually addressed the problem of hyperbole or the issue of fiction.14 Nizm does in fact touch upon the question of fiction and clearly pronounces himself in favor of it, yet only with certain restrictions, particularly concerning the notion of shigiftî, the miraculous or astounding (ultimately going back to the thaumaston of Aristotle's Poetics):15 I want now to empty the stage and start a magician’s shadow-play, to evoke the image of a figure as has never been shown by any player. I made its beginning so as to enchant by the melody of its music. Everything I found miraculous I told in a manner which made it believable to the mind (l:heart). 14

Cf. my “‘Die beste Dichtung ist die lügenreichste’ Wesen und Bedeutung eines literarischen Streites des arabischen Mittelalters im Lichte komparatistischer Betrachtung,”Oriens 23-24 (1970-71): 7-102. 15 Cf. l.c., 12ff.

24

On Some Sources of Nizm's Iskandarnma

Any account that is separated from reason, I did not erect my poetry upon it.16 A few pages later he takes up the topic again: Yes, everything that I found incredible, I decided not to include. (Unless) I gave it such an expression that the readers would find it agreeable. To roam in (the realm of) the miraculous (shigift) too far, leads poetry into absurdity. If however you strip poetry altogether of the miraculous, the old books will gain no novelty. Keep poetry in a measure that one may trust it by analogy. Even if poetry shimmers like a jewel, if it contains incredible things, it will appear as lie. (and yet) a lie that resembles the truth (rst), is better than a truth that is severed from (moral) correctness (durust).17 The principle here developed by Nizm is highly revealing. Actually, it appears like a reconciliation of the two opposing stances of the above-mentioned conflict, the one pleading for lying and the other claiming truthfulness in poetry. It also reminds one of the Aristotelian rule given in the Poetics: “What is convincing (eikos, likely, plausible), even though impossible, should always be preferred to what is possible and unconvincing.”18 Here, however, instead of the impossible Nizm has the lying (also admitted by Aristotle under certain circumstances),19 and instead of the convincing, he has the morally correct. In other words, Nizm has observed a rule of Aristotelian Poetics with Platonic spirit. At the end of the Sharafnma, Nizm repeats his principle in a short statement which runs as follows: In places where I found untruth (n-rst) (i.e. in my sources), I wove into it the ornament of truth. Poetry that does not march on the way of truth, 16

Iskandarnma I (Sharafnma), 68.4-8. Iskandarnma I (Sharafnma), 74.9- 75.4. 18 Aristotle, Poetics XXIV,19 19 Cf. “Die beste Dichtung,” 13. 17

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J. Christoph Bürgel

is abject, even if it carries its fundament up to the moon. Where the old pioneer (meaning Firdaws) led poetry away from correctness, I amended his errors. With this excuse, I retold what he had already told.20 However, Nizm also talks about the sources he used, even though in a rather general way, both at the beginning of Sharafnma21 and in the Iqblnma:22 The works of this king, who traveled to the horizons, I did not find treated in one (particular) volume. The words, even though (as rich) as a filled treasure house, were scattered in many a manuscript. From every manuscript I gathered material and imprinted upon it the ornament of poetry. Furthermore from modern chronicles Jewish, Christian and Pahlavi, I selected from every book its cream, from every shell I extracted its marrow. Language by language I gathered the treasure, and from that all I created a whole. Whoever knows all these tongues, his tongue will refrain from reproach.23 It emerges from these remarks that Nizm was familiar with several languages. Of course, he knew Arabic. He expressly mentions middle Persian. But as for Christian and Jewish sources, we may only guess what he means in terms of languages. Did he perhaps know Georgian or Armenian? Or does he simply refer to Arabic sources written by Christians and Jews? In addition to these general remarks on his sources, he mentions a number of authors and book titles, probably pointing to sources he used. First of all, at the beginning of Iqblnma, he speaks of Alexander’s interest in the sciences and mentions three books, even though again in a somewhat vague manner befitting his poetical style. The first book is qualified as gîtî-shinâs, “world-knowing,” which in all

20

Iskandarnma I, 523.12-524.1. i.e., the first part of Iskandarnma. 22 i.e., the second part of Iskandarnma. 23 Iskandarnma I, 69, 4-9. 21

26

On Some Sources of Nizm's Iskandarnma

likelihood refers to either Ptolemy's Geography,24 or to his Megale Syntaxis (known in Arabic as al-Majist = Almagest).25 The second book is called Daftar-i ramz-i rhnyn (“Register of the symbols of the spiritual beings”), by which is meant beyond any doubt a work, or the works, of the famous Neo-Pythagorean magician of the first century Apollonios of Tyana, whose writings had been translated and were well-known in the medieval Muslim world. 26 The title evoked by Nizm's verse is in fact the Risla f ta’thr al-rhnyt, which deals with talismans and the conjuration of demons. In its Arabic form, Balns, Apollonius figures as advisor to Iskandar during his expeditions in Nizm's Iskandarnma. The third book is first introduced as sifr-i Iskandar, by which: the people of R m rendered iron as smooth as wax by which they found knowledge about love and hatred and what the sky has (conceals) in the seven spheres. He goes on to say: Now, of these pearl-strewing shells one finds no sign except for Istamkhis.27 This of course refers to the Kitb istamkhs, another famous book on talismans, quoted by the Ikhwn al-saf’ and the anonymous author of the Ghyat al-hakm. It was reported to have been given by Aristotle to Alexander before his Indian expedition.28 Finally, in the chapter on the reasons why Alexander was called the Double-Horned, 29 Nizm mentions the Kitb al-ulf, a famous text on Astrology by Ab Ma´shar al-Balkh, written between 840 and 860.30 In other words, Istamkhis and K. al-ulf are the only two book titles mentioned unmistakably by our author. It is strange that he should have singled out these two works, the former one of the most renowned Greek sources of magic, the other a well-known text on astrology. I have not yet been able to investigate either of them. But there is at least one story that is in all likelihood taken from the Istamkhis, namely the report about the sar-parastn, or skull-adorers, a group of people who would procure themselves soothsaying skulls by forcing a man into a jar filled with 24

Cf. M. Plessner, s.v. “Batlamiyus” in Enclopaedia of Islam, 2nd ed. Cf. M. Ullmann Die Natur- und Geheimwissenschaften im Islam. Handbuch der Orientalistik I, VI, 2 (Leiden: Brill, 1972), 282ff. 26 Cf. “Balinas,” in EI2; M. Ullmann, Die Natur- und Geheimwissenschaften im Islam, 389. 27 Iskandarnma II (Iqbalnma), 38. 28 Cf. Ullmann, Die Natur- und Geheimwissenschaften im Islam, 374ff. 29 Iskandarnma II, 44, last line. 30 Ullmann, Die Natur- und Geheimwissenschaften im Islam, 317ff. 25

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J. Christoph Bürgel

boiling oil and leaving him there until, after 30 or 40 days, his head could easily be severed from the body and would be put into a niche in the wall, where it answered questions about the future.31 This procedure is mentioned in the Ghyat al-hakm, (“Goal of the Sage”), known to the Latin Middle Ages as Picatrix, whose author probably took it from the Istamkhs.32 The Istamkhs or the K. al-ulf might also be the sources for some other stories concerning occult sciences, such as the two stories about alchemy, the one about Mary the Copt, and the one about the false alchemist from Khurasan, who successfully cheated a caliph with a shrewd trick, or the stories about astrology. One of these stories about occult knowledge however, comes obviously from another source, as I already indicated in my paper on the occult sciences in Nizm’s Iskandarnma,33 namely the story about the shepherd and the ring. This is one of the stories already well known in Greek antiquity. Plato mentions it in his Republic and it became known under the title of “Gyges’ ring.”34 The Brethren of Purity took it from an Arabic version of that work, and quoted it in the Chapter of their Epistles dealing with magic, expressly mentioning the second maqla of Plato's Republic as their source. Now, in his rhymed version of this story, Nizm uses a very rare Arabic word of obscure meaning, rarely used even in Arabic and almost never met with in Persian. This same word, khasf, occurs in the Arabic version of the Brethren. One other detail gives further evidence of Nizm's having used an Arabic source here. At the end of the story, the shepherd, who has found the magic ring which makes him invisible, mingles with a group of rusul, ”messengers,” with whom he enters the palace of the king and kills him. Now, rusul also means “prophets.” In Nizm's version, the shepherd appears before the king and pretends to be a prophet, referring to his becoming invisible as the miracle (mu‘jiz) proving his prophethood, whereupon the king and his people submit to him. Returning to more general aspects, the general plan of Nizm's Iskandarnma–its tripartite structure as announced in the foreword–is almost beyond doubt inspired by Frb’s political philosophy. Following his announcement, Nizm shows Alexander in the three stages of conqueror, philosopher and prophet: At first I'll knock at the door of the kingdom and speak about the conquering of countries.

31

Iskandarnma II, 189ff. Pseudo-Majriti, “Picatrix.”Das Ziel des Weisen von Pseudo-Majriti, translated into German from the Arabic by Hellmut Ritter and Martin Plessner. Studies of the Warburg Institute, 27 (London: Warburg Insitute 1962), 146ff. 33 See my “Occult Sciences in the Iskandarnameh of Nizami,” in Kamran Talattof and J. W. Clinton, eds. The Poetry of Nizami Ganjavi: Knowledge, Love, and Rhetoric (New York: Palgrave, 2000), 129-139. 34 Plato, Republic, Second Book, 359b-360d. 32

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On Some Sources of Nizm's Iskandarnma

Then I'll adorn my word with philosophy and renew its old strife. Finally, I'll talk about his prophethood, for God himself calls him a prophet.35 This corresponds exactly with Frb's view of the ideal sovereign, as developed in his work on the perfect state (al-madna al-f ila), where he explains that this office requires that one combine the qualities of a political and military leader, a philosopher and a prophet.36 I will not go into the details of Iskandar’s expeditions. But it is clear that even though using much of Firdaws’s material, Nizm rearranged it so as to abolish its geographical confusion, mainly by dividing Iskandar’s travels into two separate enterprises, first the military expedition and then the non-violent exploration of the world as a prophet. The contest between the two painters, the Greek and the Chinese, is a slightly modified version of a story told by Ghazl in his Mzn al-´amal, which, after Nizm, was also used by R m in his Mathnaw.37 The story about the musical contest between Aristotle and Plato is probably inspired by the Ikhwn al-saf’, who mention a similar somniferous influence of music as the one first mastered by Plato and then emulated by Aristotle;38 it also occurs in a wellknown anecdote about Frb.39 Another complex problem, where a whole set of sources have to be considered, is to do with the geographical aspects of Iskandar’s expeditions and journeys. Here, books like the Murj al-dhahab by al-Mas´ d, the Kitb al-tjn by Ibn Hishm, the geography by Ibn al-Faqh,40 the Risla by Ibn Fadln,41 etc., have probably been drawn upon by 35

Iskandarnma I, 55,2-4 Farb, F mabdi’ r’ ahl al-madna al-fdila, ed. and German trans. by F. Dieterici, Der Musterstaat (Leiden: Brill, 1900), 28th chapter. English ed. and trans. by R. Walzer. 37 Cf. Priscilla Soucek, “Nizami on Painters and Painting” in Islamic Art in the Metropolitan Museum of Art (New York: MMA, 1972), 1-21. 38 Cf. H. G. Farmer, The Influence of Music: From Arabic Sources, A lecture delivered before the Musical Association (London, 1926); J.C. Bürgel, The Feather of Simurgh. The Licit Magic of the Arts in Medieval Islam (New York: New York University Press, 1988), 101ff. 39 Ibn Khallikan’s Biographical Dictionary, 4 vols., trans. McGuckin De Slane (Paris, 1842-71; repr. New York, 1961), 3:309. 40 See M. Bridges and J.C. Bürgel, eds., The Problematics of Power. Eastern and Western Representations of Alexander the Great. Schweiz.Asiengesellschaft, Monogr. 22 (Bern and Berlin, etc.: P. Lang, 1996), particularly the articles by F. Doufikar-Aerts, “Alexander the Great and the Pharos of Alexandria in Arabic Literature” (191-202); Ch. Genequand, “Sagesse et pouvoir. Alexandre en Islam” (125-133); F. de Polignac, “Cosmocrator: L’islam et la légende antique du souverain universel” (135-148). 36

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J. Christoph Bürgel

Nizm. As an example I mention the appearance of a monster-like warrior in the army of the R s, the like of which is described in Ibn Fadln's Risla 42 (The R s were not Russians, but Normans or more exactly, the Varangians who migrated down the Volga in the 9th century and founded a dynasty).43 Already Georg Jacob has shown that Nizm was influenced by these rather recent historical events in his description of the seven battles with this tribe.44 Another detail probably stems from the same source: Nizm tells us how impressed Alexander was when he learnt that the R s used marten skins as currency.45 Now, Ibn Fadln mentions, that the R s of his time used sable skins for this very aim.46 Still another set of sources concerns philosophical issues. Apart from Aristotle and Apollonius, who are present throughout the epos respectively as minister and counselor of Alexander, Nizm mentions the names of Hermes, Thales, Socrates, Plato, Porphyry, and briefly summarizes their doctrines about the origin of the world. 47 Of Aristotle, Plato and Socrates (in this order!), he quotes those hikam or gnomes, which his Alexander is taking along after he has become a prophet.48 All of this points to a keen interest in Greek philosophy. Actually, the second and third part of the Iskandarnma may be read as a defense of that heritage so threatened in the time of Nizm, as may be gleaned already from his programmatic announcement quoted above: I'll renew the old strife of philosophy.49 Many similar questions still await detailed investigation. One thing, however, is beyond doubt: Nizm's exploration and exploitation of sources has never been deeper, broader and more complex than in his last epos, the Iskandarnma.

41

Z.V. Togan, Ibn Fadlan’s Reisebricht (Leipzig, 1939). Togan, Par. 72 43 This, along with the Alans, seems to be one of the more frequent references of Rus, at least in Persian sources. For more information about the very complicated and contested meaning of this term, see the article “Rus” by P.B. Golden in EI 2. 44 G. Jacob, “Iskenders Warägerfeldzug – Ein iranischer Heldengesang des Mittelalters aus Nizami’s Iskendername,” Auszug metrisch nachgebildet (Glückstadt, n.d.). 45 Iskandarnma I, 479-80. 46 Togan, Par. 56 47 Iskandarnma II,123ff. 48 Iskandarnma II,142-164. 49 Iskandarnma I,55; cf. my “Conquérant, philosophe et prophète. L’image d’Alexandre le Grand dans l’épopée de Nizami,” in Christophe Balaÿ, Claire Kappler and Ziva Vesel, eds. Pand-o Sokhan. Mélanges offerts à Charles-Henri de Fouchécour. Bibliothèque Iranienne, 44 (Tehran, 1995), 65-78. 42

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Sources and Art of Amir Khosrou’s “The Alexandrine Mirror” Angelo Michele Piemontese University of Rome, ‘La Sapienza’

Amir Khosrou Dehlavi (1251-1325), who inherited the military rank of amir from his father, a Turkish archer and knight, was the most talented Persian poet of India. He was versed in various arts and sciences, such as historiography, linguistics, rhetoric, and music. His Âyene-ye Eskandari, “The Alexandrine Mirror” (dated Delhi 799 H./1299 A.D.), is a little known but prominent Persian variation of the Alexander Romance that Khosrou wrote in response to the renowned “Alexander” poem (Eskandar-nâme, circa 1197-1203) by Nezâmi of Ganja.1 Khosrou was an exact contemporary of Dante Alighieri (1265-1321), who among other things dealt with the figure and the person of the emperor according to European canons (De Monarchia, 1311). There is a certain resemblance between the two authors with respect to artistic versatility, encyclopedic knowledge, liveliness of dramatic pathos and cosmic representation, research and conception of a universal empire. Amir Khosrou’s “The Alexandrine Mirror” represents the Roman king civilizer of the world in Alexander’s clothes. This universal king is portrayed as a wise strategist, equanimous ruler, industrious scientist, explorer and conqueror of the world, intrepid navigator of the unknown ocean, all by the grace of God and the favor of Fortune. Alexander “was born in Rome and died in Syria” (bar âmad ze Rum o foru shod be Shâm, line 3975). As the king of Rome (Rum, means its empire and country), having annexed Africa (Zang) and the Persian kingdom of Darius, he conquers China and Russia (Rus) and explores the Western Sea (daryâ-ye Maghreb), both the Mediterranean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean. Alexander represents the new Darius, the navigator (Dârâ-ye daryâ1

On Amir Khosrou, see: M. Habib, Hazrat Amir Khusrau of Delhi (Bombay: D. B. Taraporevala Sons & Co., 1927); M. M. Wahid Mirza, The Life & Works of Amir Khusrau (Calcutta: Baptist Mission PressPunjab University Oriental Publications, 1935); C. A. Storey, Persian Literature. A Bio-Bibliographical Survey. Section II. Fasciculus 3. History of India (London, 1939), pp. 495-504; Shri Hasnuddin Ahmad (ed.), Life, Time and Works of Amir Khusrau Dehlavi. Seventeenth Centenary Commemoration Volume (Bombay: Leaders Press, 1975). Majles-e Amir Khosraw-e Balkhi [!] (Kabul: Vezârat-e Ettelâât va Kultur, Bayhaqi Mo’assese, 1354/1976); H. Suleimanov & F. Suleimanova, Miniatures Illuminations of Amir Hosrov Dehlevi’s Works, ed. by E. Y. Yusupov (Tashkent: Academy of Sciences of the Uzbek SSR, H. S. Suleimanov Institute of Manuscripts); Mumtaz Husain, Amir Khusrow Dehlawi. A monography of Amir Khusrow’s life & works based on his own writings and those of his contemporaries (New Delhi: National Amir Khusrow Society-Aiwan-i Ghalib, 1986).

Angelo Michele Piemontese navard, line 3666), and ‘the universal emperor’, jahândâr, the lord of the world (jahân, meaning also ‘space’ and ‘empire’). This Persian term corresponds to kosmokrátôr in the anonymous Greek Alexander Romance, which is said to be a work by pseudoCallisthenes (about 200 A. D.). Khosrou seems to be animated by the memory of a Roman legal order in contrast to his own contemporary climate of cruelty. Turkish archers, the main body of the Chinese imperial army, as well as the pirates of Cyprus, some Franks (Farang), are all polemically included by Khosrou among people connected with violence and robbery. The Alexandrine code of behavior as related by Khosrou calls to mind the juridical Roman axiom unicuique suum “to each one his own.”2 Alexander implements this rule of justice, which concerns the correlative measure of the right of everybody to be aware, to work, to act, and to eat; and of the artist to strive to observe competence and virtue (honar, also “talent, skill, craft”). The Roman Emperor closest to this figure of Alexander seems to be Hadrian (117-138 A.D.). He was an industrious traveler, jurist and builder. He built the stone wall that bears his name and was, according to Tertullianus (3rd century), “an explorer of everything that was to be seen” (curiositatum omnium explorator).3 The same year that Khosrou composed “The Alexandrine Mirror,” the Mongol commander Qutlugh Khwâja had reached the gates of Delhi, which were defended by ‘Alâ’ al-Din, the Sultan of a Turkish dynasty, the Khalji (1290-1320), and the political dedicatee of Khosrow’s Khamse, or quintet of narrative poems. Khosrow composed his quintet in reply to the prestigious quintet of Nezâmi (1141-1209). ‘Alâ’ al-Din annexed some regions of central-southern India to the Sultanate of Delhi and cultivated the idea of conquering the world and establishing a new religious doctrine. The protagonist of “The Alexandrine Mirror” exhibits all the requisites of chivalry, conquers China and proves himself through clemency and the institution of law to be more civilized. Imposing his authority in legitimate forms, he orders the restitution of war booty to the vanquished and acquires the dignity of a universal emperor. Khosrou was perhaps taking his revenge on the Mongols in “The Alexandrine Mirror” by relating the conquest of the empire of China by Alexander. Under Qubilay Khan (1274-1294), who had assumed the Chinese name Yüan for his dynasty in Khanbaliq (Peking), the Mongol Empire was in diplomatic relations with Europe and menaced the Sultanate of Delhi, where Khosrou lived. During one of the Mongol incursions in the region of Multan, Khosrou had been taken prisoner but managed to escape (1285). He describes

2 3

Cicero, De Natura Deorum, III 15; Iustinianus, Institutiones, liber I, titulus 1. Apologeticus adversus gentes pro Christianis, V.8-9, cfr. J.-P. Migne, Patrologia Latina, I (Lutetiae Parisiorum, 1866), col. 347.

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Sources and Art of Amir Khosrou´s `The Alexandrine Mirror` war and the sufferings of military life in some of the more impressive scenes from “The Alexandrine Mirror.” The current edition of the poem contains 4416 lines (plus an addendum), though the author himself states that there are 4450 lines. The editorial apparatus includes both a preface (lines 1-648) and an afterward, a self-apologia (lines 4292-4416). 4 Khosrou acknowledges “the artist of Ganja” (honar-parvar-e Ganje), that is Nezâmi, as a masterly poet, though the heights of his artistry are not matched by his wisdom. Nezâmi erroneously raises Alexander to the rank of prophet in his Eskandar-nâme (lines 387, 391-395, 406-411, 1631-35), whereas Khosrou says that in reality Alexander became king and world conqueror solely through the help of God and of “angels and scientists” such as Plato and Aristotle (lines 414-422). Khosrou takes up this topic (cho naw kardeam sekke-ye pish r, line 372), having studied it carefully, after having referred to various old historical and scientific sources (cho kardam ze har nâme-i bâz jost, line 3973). He deals (lines 385-387) with the parts of “the Alexandrine reign” (molk-e eskandari) that Nezâmi had skipped over, beginning with the campaign in China “that I saw in some ancient histories” (ke didam be ta’rikh-hâ-ye kohan, lines 696-698). “The Alexandrine Mirror” is divided into 35 “speeches” (goftâr) with a didactic purpose. Frequent moral digressions and instructive anecdotes (exempla) are interspersed with these “speeches” in Alexander’s story. They concern the behavior of the prince and of every man, as well as the ethology of animals. These moral instructions and the exploits of Alexander constitute two sections of the poem, perhaps not perfectly coordinated. The principal subject dealt with is the Alexander Romance. The author marked each of its fifteen sequences5 with suitable formulas of incipit, repeated now and then.6 1. Introduction by the author (verses 280-427). This concerns the art of poetry, the insidious profession of criticism, providing an introduction to the work, the mythography of Alexander and its character.

4

Amir Khosrou Dehlavi, Â’ine-ye Eskandari, ed. Dj. Mirsaidov (Moscow: «Nauk», 1977). This defective edition lacks any explanatory note about the original text, which often contains rare words and controversial names. The same edition, stripped of the textual variants, appears in Amir Khosrou Dehlavi, Khamse, ed. Amir Ahmad Ashrafi, (Tehran: Shaqâyeq, 1362/1983), pp. 405-573. 5 Cf. Amir Khusrau, Lo Specchio Alessandrino, trans.and introd. by A. M. Piemontese (Soveria Mannelli: Rubbetino, 1999), and my article “Le submersible Alexandrin dans l’abysse, selon Amir Khusrau,” in Alexandre le Grand dans les littératures occidentales et proche-orientales. Actes du Colloque de Paris, 27-29 novembre 1999 [: 1997], réunis par L. Harf-Lancner, C. Kappler and F. Suard (Nanterre: Centre des Sciences de la Littérature, 1999), pp. 253-271. 6 Cf. lines 649, 701, 908, 1369, 1623, 1945, 2209, 2443, 2586, 2825, 3347, 3659, 3880, 4064.

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Angelo Michele Piemontese 2. Alexander’s itinerary by land and sea (verses 649-700). This describes “the conquest of the horizons” (fath-e âfâq, line 690) as the aim of the Alexandrine parable, that is the discovery of the world and its universal dominion. 3. The confrontation of the two emperors (verses 701-839). This relates the conquest of China, “the land of the regal lords” (keshvar-e khodâyân, line 1499), then the military, political and moral confrontation of Alexander with the Chinese emperor, “sovereign of the four horizons” (khâqân-e âfâq, line 1459). This section contains the message of Alexander to the emperor of China (vv. 720-731), the oration of his wise counselor, and that of the khâqân in reply to him (vv. 745-766, 768-784). The author meditates with keen description on the warriors awaiting death in the night encampments of both fronts (vv. 819-831). 4. The imperial tension (verses 908-1308). Here we have a narrative of knightly tournaments. A disguised Amazon, Kanifu, the daughter of a Turkish archer serving the Chinese emperor, is defeated in a duel and enslaved by Alexander. Here the author masterly portrays the two tragic panels of any war, the senseless violence of battle and the lethal effects of different weapons (vv. 916-946, 1174-91). This tension is then broken in the subsequent scene of the undressing of the Amazon and her contemplation by the victorious warrior, Alexander himself (vv. 1126-37). The Amazon relates her autobiography in a monologue (vv. 1251-89). 5. Alexander’s authority (verses 1369-1554). Having defeated the Chinese emperor in a duel by the strength of his arms (niru-ye bâzu, line 1410), Alexander gives him back the treasure and appoints him as the regent of China. The new emperor of the world establishes juridical order in the country. This includes a message to Alexander addressed by the khâqân (vv. 1380-95), Alexander’s edicts concerning the surrender of China (vv. 1418-21), the restitution of booty (vv. 1461-63, 1468), and the gifts presented to the emperor (vv. 1498-99). There are two further orations, the first one delivered by Alexander before the Chinese king he had defeated, and the second one in reply to the same king. By that time he is named the vice-regent of the country (vv. 1484-97, 152142). The text also includes an inventory of the imperial Chinese treasure (vv. 1505-09). 6. Alexander’s expedition towards the Northern region (verses 1623-1884). It records the disaster in the Aphotic Zone (zolomât), the angelical gift of a rescuing bunch of grapes, the conquest of Mount Yâjuj, the building of the wall against the primitive and harmful people living there. A series of monologues: the oration of the angel donor (vv. 1656-71), the petition of the Mount Yâjuj dalesmen in front of Alexander (vv. 1709-15), the report of the informer describing the Yâjuj people (vv. 1723-43). The heroicomic turn-up: Yâjuj springs from the hole and launches an assault (vv. 1754-67), then his ravenous meal, a bestial self-tearing to pieces, and his intoxication by wine (vv. 1801-07, 1812-16). A happy end: the fine edict concerning the surveillance over Yâjuj by means of the wall, the liberation from the Menace. This fine text looks like the inscription placed

34

Sources and Art of Amir Khosrou´s `The Alexandrine Mirror` on the site (vv. 1876-82). All this demonstrates the mercy and astuteness of Alexander as a strategist. 7. Alexander’s wedding with Kanifu, the Turkish Amazon, whom he had enslaved as a captive of war (verses 1945-2132). The rejoicing includes the spring feast in the park (vv. 1949-67), the epithalamium sung by the bride, a live contrast between the qualities of man and woman (vv. 2021-92), the wedding night, which is like that of Solomon and Belqis, the queen of Sheba (vv. 2099-2117). But this time it is the union of “the Moon of China and the Sun of Rome” (mâh-e Chin o khvorshid-e Rum). 8. Alexander's innovations and institutions (verses 2209-2390). His scientific achievements, the invention of the astrolabe by Aristotle, the competition between the Graeco-Roman and Chinese painters, the building of the Pharos to overthrow the Frankish pirates who were disturbing maritime traffic and the merchants from Syria across the Mediterranean Sea. An oration uttered by the chorus of the Chinese glassmakers (vv. 2281-93). The text of the announcement of the painting competition (vv. 2294-99). The denunciation of the pirates expressed by the Syrian merchants (vv. 223045). An inner monologue, Alexander pondering the Pharos stratagem (vv. 2349-56). The text of his edict providing for the navy against the Franks (vv. 2373-76). 9. The burning of the Zoroastrian temples and books (vv. 2443-2523). A powerful ode describing the physical properties of Fire (vv. 2455-82). Alexander consults with his learned men about the Zoroastrian doctrine (from a Muslim point of view, vv. 24842510). The edict concerning the destructive fire of the main Zoroastrian temple (vv. 2512-14). 10. The cataclysm of Greece (vv. 2586-2767). The digging of an isthmus in its strategic promontory provokes the submersion of the earth, the ruin of the population and the disappearance of the atheistic philosophers, except Plato, who escapes the drowning (vv. 2696-2709). Message of Alexander to the leaders of the Greek philosophers (vv. 2600-06) and their reply (vv. 2623-40). Another inner monologue of Alexander meditating on the tactics to choose against the army of the enemy (vv. 2682-84). A war bulletin on the defeat Alexander had suffered previously (vv. 2772-74). An author’s idyll contemplates the seascape, where a submerged town can be seen (vv. 2757-67). 11. The art of ruling by Plato (vv. 2825-3281). His life as a hermit in a cave and the visit of Alexander. A schedule of the Plato adventure (vv. 2826-36). The memorandum of Alexander’s plan with regard to the philosopher and scientist (vv. 284651). Alexander addresses an oral message to Plato, ‘the divine sage’ (hakim-e elâhi, line 2836), who is invited to join the Alexandrine court of learned men. The philosophers’ replies (vv. 2855-56, 2857-65). Grand dialogue between Alexander and Plato (vv. 28832991, 3236-77). The vade mecum of Plato concerning the political doctrine, a concise mirror of princes in 237 lines (2993-3234). Plato will participate in the oceanic expedition.

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Angelo Michele Piemontese 12. Alexander’s oceanic expedition (verses 3347-3603). At first his inquiry into the nature of the ocean and its mysterious abyss. Alexander consults with the oligarchs, the skilled helmsman, the old pearl diver (vv. 3356-3412, 3440-46, 3449-53). On embarking on the risky voyage Alexander dictates his testament (vasiyat, vv. 3464-78). During the navigation he sends an epistle (101 lines) by means of a carrier-eagle to the Crown Prince Eskandarus, Alexander junior. The deeply affected letter relates the navigator's wasting experience (vv. 3502-70). 13. The observation of the unfathomed deep through a glass submarine (verses 3659-3871). Before the immersion Alexander dictates another testament (vv. 3709-15). He holds various dialogues with the luminous angel who was the guardian of the sea (vv. 3691-3701) and his guide in visiting the oceanic abyss (vv. 3738-64, 3774-3803, 382549). 14. Alexander’s last will and his death in the midst of a court plot (verses 38804006). Also the text of this testament is documented (vv. 3935-64). The story of the golden caftan of Alexander and of his premontory vision (vv. 3979-4001). 15. The succession of the first Diadochus (verses 4064-4197). The abdication of Eskandarus, his death, Alexander’s exequies. The message sent by the loyal State officers to the Crown Prince Eskandarus asking for his investiture (vv. 4088-4100). The refusal of Eskandarus (vv. 4101-24). The torturing despair of Alexander’s mother, “the lady enclosed in the haram” (ghidâ-ye parde-neshin), in front of the dead son’s coffin (vv. 4158-69). The mourning ordinance issued by the heads of the army (mehtarân-e sepâh, vv. 4180-82). An author’s interview with “the old men” (pir-e kohan) about the true site of Alexander’s sepulchre, which is stated to be extant in Eskandarun (vv. 4185-91). As the action progresses, Alexander displayed eight types of thrones. They are: I. the royal one (takht-e shâhi), which he inherited from the empire of Rome (Rum, lines 651, 654), and which then became the Alexandrine imperial throne (awrang-e eskandari, line 1068); II. one of ivory (‘âj, line 1503), from Africa, the realm of Candace, as Alexander meanwhile was its ruler, farmânde-ye Rum o Zang (line 3705); III. the golden throne from Persia, established by the mythical king Jamshid (takht-e Jamshid) as a tribute for the Sun (lines 1374, 1445), and the chair of the legendary Kayanid dynasty ruling over the ancient Persian country (sarir-e Kayân, line 1974), but inherited by Alexander (vâres-e molk-e Jâm, line 1521); IV. one ‘of ivory studded with precious stones’, from Asia, a costly tribute imposed on China (lines 1503, 1673); V. a golden one (takht-e zar; line 1870), sepulchral, the proper throne arranged like a coffin according to the testamentary dispositions; VI. a wooden one (takht-e chub, line 3462), the throne placed on the admiral-ship during the oceanic expedition;

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Sources and Art of Amir Khosrou´s `The Alexandrine Mirror` VII. an imperial one (awrang, line 2211), the ancient Persian throne, concealed by Kay Khosrou in his mysterious cave (ghâr) and tested by Alexander, who left it there; VIII. a symbolic one, the flying throne (sarir) of Solomon, instrument of his ruling over “all bird and fish” (lines 2160, 2680, 3126). Thus Alexander is the owner of 6 thrones (I-VI), the same number as the sides of the world (hexahedron), according to the tradition. Moreover he is the usufructuary of one secret throne (VII) and the heir of the astonishing one (VIII). In all they are four thrones for the empires of Rome, Africa, Persia, China, which is to say the three continents of the terra cognita; plus four more, in relation to the primordial elements of nature: Water (the sea, V), Earth (VI), Fire (the beyond, VII), and Air (VIII). Thus Alexander is the emperor of the four horizons and the four elements.7 As a navigator and ruler Alexander “became Solomon and soon he steered the wind that was both a wind and a demon” (line 1172): Solaymân shod o bâde râ rânde zud che bâd-i ke ham div o ham bâde bud The legend of Solomon appears connected to that of Alexander. Both characters are sometimes joined as they represent the sovereign of the universal and monotheist kind.8 Nezâmi’s Eskandar-nâme, a philosophical romance in poetry, surpassed in structural shape, dimension and ideology “The reign of Alexander”, the book deriving from pseudo-Callisthenes that Ferdousi had incorporated into his own poem on the ancient monarchy of Persia (Shâh-nâme, circa 1000 A.D.). Ferdousi qualifies Alexander as the ‘Caesar of Rome (Qaysar-e Rum).’9 Among the early specimens preserved there is

7

The figure 8 represents the perfect constructive number, the octagonal plane of paradise and the symbol of the salvation in “The Eight Paradises” by the same author (701 H./A. D. 1301). Cf. Amir Khousrou Dehlavi, Hasht behesht, ed. Djafar Eftikhar (Mosow: «Nauk», 1972), pp. 34-35, 295; Amir Khusrau da Delhi, Le otto novelle del paradiso, transl. by A. M. Piemontese (Soveria Mannelli: Rubbettino, 1996), pp. 9-10, 78, 159-163. For more details, see my essay, “Gli «Otto Paradisi» di Amir Khusrau da Delhi. Una lezione persiana del «Libro di Sindbad» fonte del «Peregrinaggio» di Cristoforo Armeno,” Atti della Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei. Classe di scienze morali, storiche e filologiche. Memorie, s. IX, vol. VI, fasc. 3, 1995, pp. 313-418. 8 W. Jacob van Bekkum, “Alexander the Great in medieval Hebrew Literature,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes XLIX, 1986, pp. 218-226. F. de Polignac, “Echec de la perfection, perfection de l’inachevé. Le renversement du sens dans la légende arabe d’Alexandre,” Mélanges de l’Ecole Française de Rome. Moyen Âge 112 (2000), pp. 75-84. 9 John Andrew Boyle, “The Alexander Romance in the East and West,” Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library of Manchester 60 (1977), pp. 13-27. Iskandarnamah: A Persian Medieval AlexanderRomance, trans. by M. S. Southgate (New York, 1978), pp. 167-199 (Amir Khosrou's text is not

37

Angelo Michele Piemontese the Persian retelling of the Arabic general history by Tabari (b. Amol 839, d. Baghdad 923), which is ascribed to the minister Bal‘ami (c. 963). A Persian Alexander Romance abounding in archaic features is the voluminous “Darius” (Drb-nme) by Tarsusi, who perhaps was of Hebraic origin (Tarsos, about 12th century). He takes into account the noble achievements of Darius the Navigator, the most illustrious ancestor of Alexander, who at the end of this book is called “the second Solomon.”10 The texts by Tabari-Bal‘ami, Ferdousi, Tarsusi, and Nezâmi were works wellknown to Khosrou, who used them in some passages that can be considered of secondary importance to the plan of his poem. Khosrou presents the plan of an ‘Alexandrine Empire’ (molk-e eskandari, line 385) that includes the first historical phase of the Diadochi and synthesizes several elements of the Alexandrine-Roman Empire civilization. Khosrou borrows from Ferdousi some details concerning Alexander the king of Rome, his troops of blacksmiths, the building of the wall, the invention of the mirror, the diplomatic exchange of missions in China and the catalogue of the gifts to the Chinese emperor. Features deduced from Tabari-Bal‘ami concern the anthropological characterizing of Yâjuj (almost Gog, but a pair of twins, Yâjuj and Mâjuj, in the source), the building of the wall (vallum) and the figure of the vanguard-explorer Khezr, the “wise man dressed in green”, a native of the Caspian forest, says Khosrou (lines 676, 2686, 2695). In Tabari-Bal‘ami we can moreover find Africa as the first conquest of Alexander, some of his titles, King of Rome and Syria, King of Ray, the word ‘Diadochus’. This word that indicates Alexander's ‘successor’ in Greek is distorted in the source: ughus, yughus, dinus.11 It is dughus in Khosrou's text (line 4131) and seems to refer also to ‘Duke’ (Greek genitive inflection doukós). Ducas was the name of the dynasty of the Emperors who reigned in Costantinople from Costantin X (1059-1067) to Johannes Ducas Vatatze (1222-1254). Solomon's regal heritage, the Turkish slave able to seduce the king, the definition of Yjuj as ‘cavernicolous’ people, the iron door of the wall / vallum, the size ‘10×10 m’ of the radar-mirror that was the pharos, the mention of the cataclysm of Greece and the immersion into the abyss, the individuation of Plato as the supreme Greek philosopher and the hidden hermit of the mountain, the impossibility for Alexander to circumnavigate

mentioned at all in this book). Cf. my article “La figura di Alessandro nelle letterature d'area islamica”, in Alessandro Magno storia e mito (Roma: Fondazione Memmo, 1995), pp. 177-183, 385. 10 Cf. my article “Alexandre le «circumnavigateur» dans le roman persan de Tarsusi,” Mélanges de l’Ecole Française de Rome. Moyen Âge 112, 2000, pp. 97-112. 11 Târikhnâme-ye Tabari gardânide-ye mansub be Bal‘ami, ed. M. Roushan (Tehran, Sorush, 1374/1995), I, pp. 342, 485, 491-497, 546-547; II, pp. 965-967. Cf. Tabari, Chronique, French trans. H. Zotenberg, I (Paris, Imprimerie Impériale, 1869), pp. 510-525.

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Sources and Art of Amir Khosrou´s `The Alexandrine Mirror` the world without the support of Plato's knowledge of the seas, all these are elements borrowed from Tarsusi.12 Concerning the submersion by means of the glass submarine, “The Alexandrine Mirror” has common features with Historia de preliis Alexandri Magni, a Latin work by Leo from Naples (about 950), that introduces in the Alexander Romance variations according to Greek-Byzantine manuscripts. The evidence of the connection is based upon a characteristic terminology concerning the hull, to measure the sea-bottom, observing in it wondrous beasts, the figures of various fishes. 13 On the topic of the submersion, Khosrou's work is also in correlation to the fragmentary Mongol Alexander-Romance (1312), deriving from a Turkish version.14 As to the present of the paradisiacal cluster of grapes (angur-e ferdous, line 3718), the oceanic expedition and the three carrier-eagles, the connection can be found with the Ethiopic version of the romance (about 14th-15th century), that is in relation with an old Arabic one.15 The present of the grapes is attested in an Arabic-Persian source from the 7th-8th century. 16 The Arab historian and cosmographer Mas‘udi (d. 946) connected the gift to the exploration of the Nile springs.17 As to the description of the terrestrial itinerary of Alexander's travels and conquests, Khosrou made use of “the story of his rank (qesse-ye shân-e u),” the part of a text that “did not mention Kayomarth and Kay Qobâd at all,” the first mythical king and another one of ancient Persia (line 692). Khosrou seems to bear in mind the similarities with Dinawari, the Persian man of learning who wrote a history in Arabic (second half of the 9th century). Dinawari gave the largest space to Alexander among the kings of ancient times and did not mention Kayomarth.18 Accomplishing his itinerary Alexander conquered the word and turned around it “from Q to Q” (line 684), that is to say from one to the other edge of the mountain chain surrounding the Earth like a belt at the horizon, in the shape of a Q, qâf (Arabic name of the alphabetic letter). This expression seems to be

12

Abu Tâher al-Tarsusi, Dârâb-nâme-ye Tarsusi, ed. by Dh. Saf (Tehran: B. N. T. K, 2536/1977), II, pp. 283, 335, 378, 394, 533, 579-582, 594. 13 Friedrich Pfister, Der Alexanderroman des Archipresbyters Leo (Heidelberg, 1913), pp. 126-127. 14 Francis Woodman Cleaves, “An Early Mongolian Version of the Alexander Romance,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 22, 1959, pp. 1-99. 15 The Life and Exploits of Alexander the Great being a series of translations of the Ethiopic Histories of Alexander by the Pseudo-Callisthenes and other writers, by E. A. Wallis Budge (London,1896), 259263, 280-286. 16 Mark Lidbarski, “Zu den arabischen Alexandergeschichten,” Zeitschift für Assyriologie und Verwandte Gebiete 8 (1893), pp. 263-312, particularly pp. 303-304. 17 Mas‘ûdî, Les prairies d'or, French trans. Charles Pellat, (Paris: Société Asiatique, 1965), I, p. 111. 18 Ab anfa A mad ibn Dwud Dnawr, Akhbr al- uwl, Persian trans. M. Mahdavi Dâmghâni (Tehran: Nay, 1371/1992), pp. 53-65.

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Angelo Michele Piemontese taken from the Persian cosmography by M. Hamadâni (about 1165-1175) who says: “Alexander conquered the world and turned around it from Q to Q”.19 Another source, with regard to the dissertation about the invention of the astrolabe, was perhaps M. Tabari, a Persian scientist, who in his own treatise (about 1110) explains the Greek etymology of the word astrolabe.20 Its explanation would be târâzu-ye khvoršid “Sun balance”, as in ostorâb < ostor`âb: târâzu ‘balance’ is the Persian synonym of ostor, and âftâb ‘sun’ the meaning of lâb (lines 2231-34). When Alexander cuts the strategic mountain of Greece (Yunân), three miles large, thus provoking the flood of the whole Greek land, to punish the atheism of the old thinkers, Khosrou relates the story of an old oracle (râzdân-e kohan, lines 2710-30). The poet seems to have read and then refashioned the legend of the cataclysm of Greece, which is quoted in an anonymous Persian cosmography (1126), noticeable also as text of the ancient world history.21 Old Greek atheists were the Thoes Akrothoikai from Trace (Mount Athos). The small peninsula Aktaia of Mount Athos, nowadays about 2.3 km large, was dangerous to navigation. There the imperial Persian fleet was shipwrecked (482 B. C.). Then Xerxes decided to cut the isthmus in Aktaia (Herodotus VII 22-23). The cataclysm (kataklismós) was related in the Greek tradition of the Stoic philosophical school. The same end of the Earth flooded with water was present in legends of Celtic and Scandinavian peoples.22 Khosrou refers to Nezâmi's poem explicitly; he criticizes, integrates and changes it in order to extend “The Alexandrine Mirror” in a different direction. An example of variation concerns the competition between the Roman and the Chinese painters. Khosrou narrates this episode in a finer fashion than the different versions by Nezâmi and other Persian authors.23 An interesting variation of the same story is introduced by the Turkish polygrapher M. ‘Â. Effendi in his treatise on calligraphy (1587), where Mani, the founder of the Manichean religion (about 215-275 A. D.) is called the inventor of the 19

Mohammad-e Hamadâni, ‘Ajâyeb-nâme, ed. by J. Modarres Sâdeqi (Tehran, Markaz, 1375/1996), p. 196. Definition of Mount Q, p. 366. Submersion of Greece, pp. 43, 58, 89. 20 Mohammad b. Ayyub Tabari, Ma‘refat al-ostorlâb ma‘ruf be shesh fasl, ed. by M. A. Riyâhi (Tehran, 1371/1993), p. 2.t 21 Mojmal al-tavârikh va al-qesas, ed. by Malek al-Sho‘arâ’ Bahâr & M. Ramazâni, (Tehran; Khâvar, 1318/1939), pp. 127-128. The Angelical gift of the paradisiacal bunch of grapes at the head of the Nile, p. 476. The Western Sea, Mediterranean and Atlantic, extended from the land of Rome to Ethiopia, pp. 448, 472. Cf. Mojmal al-tavârikh va al-qesas, facsimile of codex Or. 2371 of the Staatsbibliothek in Berlin, ed. by M. Omidsâlâr & I. Afshâr (Tehran: Talâye, 1379/2001). 22 H. Usener, Die Sintfluthsagen (Bonn: F. Cohen, 1899), p. 39. 23 Cf. my article “La leggenda persiana del contrasto fra pittori greci e cinesi”, in L'arco di fango che rubò la luce alle stelle. Studi in onore di Eugenio Galdieri per il suo settantesimo compleanno, ed. M. Bernardini et alii (Lugano: Edizioni Arte e Moneta, 1995), pp. 293-302.

40

Sources and Art of Amir Khosrou´s `The Alexandrine Mirror` kinetic effects in painting. Mani, the highest painter of the Chinese school according to the Persian literary tradition, won the competition in decorating the imperial gallery Artang in China. He polished one of its four walls like a mirror. When the curtain was opened, the pictures of the three other artists were reflected on it.24 Khosrou's poem introduces the exemplary behavior of the legendary Alexander as a prestigious model of the righteous king. The title “The Alexandrine Mirror” heralds this general aspect of the poem that characterizes itself also as a technical disquisition of various disciplines and arts, particularly the mirror industry. Alexander, a mortal man, is a meditative king, the researcher excogitating stratagems, “the calculator of each work”, called by Plato “the sage (dânâ) who recognizes the wise man” (dânâ-shenâs, lines 3252, 3281). Alexander also represents the great homo sapiens. But he was tormented by a sorrow: he wanted to find the water of life in the Northern Aphotic Zone in order to become eternal or simply to take care of a disease. Alexander was parched with thirst (teshne), perhaps he suffered from polydipsia, a frequent need of drinking healthy, sweet water, available in that arctic zone. Four pairs of basic topics accompany the narration of the poem. They are existence and death, nourishment and hunger, friendship and enmity, sea and abyss. Alexander reached Mount Yâjuj after his failure in the arctic region and having learned the hardest lesson for mankind, i.e., suffering starvation. This is the theme concerning the contrast between hunger and nutrition. Starvation was decimating the army; salvation was in the fresh, perennial fruit of the vine, a paradisiacal gift. The king delivers the grapes to his army, as in a rite of Christian communion. In the following confrontation with Yâjuj, the ravenous consumer of a tasteless berry, the king proved to be a fine connoisseur in gastronomy, ordering “red roast and yellow cake” washed down with the wine, to whet the appetite of the Yâjuj prisoners and to subdue their people. The author himself reveals a connoisseurship in gastronomy, of which this book is full of examples. Khosrou wrote his book with great difficulty because of criticisms addressed by malevolent persons (lines 328, 356). The poet created the poem like a medicine that could take care of his injured heart. The author, who worked at night and rested by day (line 366), conceived his poem like a fragrant table (khvân-e man), an exquisite literary banquet that he prepared in a garden for his faithful and learned friends (dustân, line 306). Friendship, protected from enmity, forms a main topic of this work, reappearing in the lyrical breaks that often close or comment on the narration. Alexander and his fellow soldiers were linked by a close bond of friendship (line 1061, 1210, 3880). A friend in need (sakhti) is a friend indeed, and life without the companionship of dear friends is not

24

Mostafa ‘Ali Effendi, Manâqeb-e honarvarân, Persian transl. by T. H. Sobhâni (Tehran: Sorush, 1369/1991), pp. 108-112.

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Angelo Michele Piemontese worthwhile (lines 1212, 3879). “It is better to die in prison together with friends than to live a long life alone in a nice garden” (line 3873): be zendân darun marg bâ dustân

beh az ‘omr-e sad sâle dar bustân

Through this theme, the author's personal feelings rejoin the adventure of Alexander, the man who succeeds with the help of prodigious personages, like the vanguard Khezr (that is ‘Silvester’), two archangels appointed as guardians of Paradise and the Ocean, the great scientists Aristotle and Plato. Alexander assists his fellow soldiers at night during the war truces, in beautiful scenes that represent the uncertainty of life and death. In the army, the king is attacked by his enemies, envious warriors and rival knights. In one hard battle he could not have saved himself without his friends’ help. For many years the king is distracted from his aspiration for knowledge and exploration. Only on his return from the oceanic expedition does the king, by this time consumed and moribund, remember his home. At last he embraces his son, Eskandarus (Alexander, the junior). Such a restless emperor was anyway an universal civilizer who isolated the invader through the wall (vallum), renewed the customs, invented the balance, the steelyard, the metre, the pharos, and established a new world order (nou â’in-e besât, line 3359) in Asia, Africa and Europe. He chose Alexandria in Egypt as his regal residence (line 3964). But he had to settle accounts with doctrinal matters, concerning the hated Zoroastrian, Indian and pagan worshippers. The Zoroastrians are punished, with the burning of their temples, books, priests and faithful in Âzarâbâdegân, their capital-region. No repressive action is taken against the Indian cult of the Sun, as its worshippers themselves burn to damnation on the piles. The Hellenic immanentism is suppressed, submerging Greece in the artificial flood provoked by the cutting of the isthmus. In the end, the cosmography must be explained, by solving the enigma of the Ocean. The sea is the author's main scientific theme. He declares that he has kept in mind the wave-motion as a model for the composition of his work (be dastur-i tab‘-e daryâneshân, line 386). Among the fundamental elements of nature, sea water required delimitation of its extent and the sounding of its mystery. The king, a scientist, faced death in order to explore the unknown terraqueous space extending into the Western Ocean (Atlantic) and keeping its gloomy and uncontaminated nature at the bottom. The exploration of the Oceanic space requires a very long navigation, seeking out the right place to accomplish the deep submersion. The king's secret purpose was to search for a tunnel under the sea, a passage permitting circumnavigation and a way to come out of the abyss, the escape from death. The exploration of the abyss is the target of the last and greatest Alexandrine expedition, for which a suitable invention is required, a transparent glass box (darafshande sanduq-i, line 3429). It is the submarine named âyene-ye Eskandari, “The

42

Sources and Art of Amir Khosrou´s `The Alexandrine Mirror` Alexandrine Mirror” (line 3785), from which the navigator king will observe the deep nature of the Sea. Among other wonders appear the huge antediluvian whales, the submerged continent (pol-i mostaqim, line 3770) Atlantis and its survivors, who had evolved into aquatic men, “anthropomorphs” (âdami-paykarân, line 3781). Otherwise they are primitive human marine creatures. The exploration of the sea reaches the antipodes of the terrestrial globe (line 3818). The surface of the submarine is simultaneously the screen reflecting the mirabilia of the deep ocean. Due to the author’s constant sense of humor and theatrical perspective, the king becomes the spectator of a puppet performance or a shadow play under the projection of a sensitive light which is the real substance of the guardian angel of the Ocean. The angel, the second passenger in the submarine, is the guide performing the function of a headlamp. With intermittent clicks, the Angel of light (Lucifer) attracts, illumines or scatters the images hidden in the darkness. The images represent the geological and zoological nature of the abyss. Through the glass screen the Angel exposes the nature of the sea, anticipating filming or photography. Then the king navigator takes to the surface what “was an image illustrated in the mirror”: mosavvar khayâl-i dar â’ine bud (line 3857). It was in the guise of a plate ante litteram, to the great surprise of the mates embarked on the ship and waiting for the re-emersion of Alexander, like a modern Jonah. The oceanic mission could not be completed without Plato's help, who reemerged from the sea and resurrected in his mind after the cataclysm. Living in a cave of the mountain, he was the highest expert on the secrets of the Sea, and its effective deepness. As the guardian angel of the Ocean is defined as body of light and examines the king in the submarine, so Plato is defined both as human angel and body of wisdom, and examines the king in the cave. The true Plato deals with the projection of shadows on the enlightened cave in his art of politics (Republic, book 7). The prehistory of Atlantis, that Solon drew from an Egyptian source and that was transmitted to Plato (Plutarch, Solon, 26, 31-32), has been lost. The passages about Atlantis in Plato's dialogues Timaeus and Critias are interrupted or incomplete. Pliny states that if we trust Plato's word, Atlantis was the first of the lands submerged by the sea, and it corresponds to the huge space occupied by the Atlantic Ocean today (Naturalis Historia, II.XCII.1). Khosrou develops with descriptive breadth, conceptual depth and dramatic arrangement the scenes of the oceanic expedition and the exploration of the abyss. The two sequences constitute a textus amplior on this important topic since in no other European or Asiatic text of the Alexander Romance does it form a considerable part of

43

Angelo Michele Piemontese the narrative. European texts offer some glimpse into the submarine and the connected description of the abyss, but they are lacunose, rudimentary and even puerile.25 Khosrou supports his work by documentary quotations from various texts, inserting them among the narrative, dramatic or lyrical episodes. For example he quotes the procedure of a notarial ascertainment of the treasure returned to the Chinese emperor, the inventory of the gifts sent to him by Alexander, the philological explanations of the word astrolabe, the atheistic theory of the Greek philosophers, the interview of an old seaman. The seaman is an eyewitness to the site of Alexander's grave in Eskandarun, Alexandria ad Issum, close to where Alexander defeated Darius III (333 B. C.). The vade mecum of the art of governing, told to Alexander by Plato in the cave, is situated at the true center of Khosrou's book. This long text must be added to the numerous aphorisms and wise sayings ascribed to Plato in Arabic and Persian literature. They date back to Hellenistic sources, in addition to Arabic and Latin ones like the Secretum Secretorum (12th century), a well-known pseudo-Aristotelian work. 26 Plato's traditional life and aphorisms also date back to medieval collections of sayings and facts of renowned sages, on the basis of Arabic sources interrelated with Hellenistic and Latin ones. The story of the golden caftan, joined to the astrological horoscope “Moriturum ipsum in loco cujus coelum, aurum esset, terra ferrum” – that is, the hero “shall die in the same place where gold is the sky and iron the earth” – is related by Sa‘d b. Bitrq (Eutychius, 236-328 H./A.D. 877-940) in his Arabic history Kitb al-ta’rkh al-majm‘.27 A variant of this prediction was written by the Egyptian physician Ab al-Waf’ Mubashshir b. Fatik (d. 445 H./A.D. 1053) in his book Mukhtr al-hikam. 28 It was translated into Spanish, Bocadas de oro (about 1257), and by Johannes à Procida (about 1269-1280) into Latin, Liber Philosophorum moralium antiquorum.29 The Nawdir al-

25

G. Cary, The Medieval Alexander, ed. by D. J. A. Ross (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1956), pp. 31, 179, 222, 237, 321, 340-341. D. J. A. Ross, Alexander Historiatus. A Guide to medieval illustrated Alexander literature (London: Warburg Institute, 1963), pp. 37-41. 26 Ch-H. de Fouchécour, Moralia. Les notions morales dans la littérature persane du 3e/9e au 7e/13e siècle, (Paris: Éditions Recherche sur les civilizations, 1986), pp. 70-82, 463-464. Patrologia Graecae, ed. J-P. Migne, CXI, (Lutetiae Parisiorum, 1863), col. 972. Eutychii Patriarchae Alexandrini Annales, ed. L. Cheicho S. J. (Beryti-Parisiis: C. Poussielgue, 1906), p. 82 (“Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium, Scriptores Arabici”, s. III, t. VI). 28 B. Meissner, “Mubašširs Abâr el-Iskender,” Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 49 (1895), pp. 583-627. 29 H. Knust, “Mitteilungen aus Eskurial,” Bibliothek des Literarischen Vereins in Stuttgart CXLI (Tübingen, 1879), Bocadas de oro, pp. 298-299. E. Franceschini, “Il Liber philosophorum moralium antiquorum,” R. Istituto Veneto di scienze, lettere ed arti. Atti 91 (1931-32), II, pp. 393-597, particularly p. 522, and thereafter “Castigationes Platonis Deum cognosces et time,” pp. 463-488. Cf. The Dicts and Sayings of the Philosophers, ed. by C. F. Bühler (London: Oxford University Press, 1941). 27

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Sources and Art of Amir Khosrou´s `The Alexandrine Mirror` falsifa by unayn b. Is q (b. Hira 808, d. Baghdad 873) was the source of Mubashshir’s work.30 “The Alexandrine Mirror” contains some further evidence of Alexander's memorable actions and his institutional behavior. In fact, there are approximately two dozen verbatim sentences and quotations: twelve oral orders given to subordinates, a halfdozen edicts concerning affairs of state (the surrender of the Chinese, the restitution of booty, the interception of the Franks, the Zoroastrains, the surveillance of the Yâjuj, etc.), four personal messages (to the Chinese emperor, the congregation of the Greek philosophers, to Plato, and to Eskandarus), three testaments (as Alexander leaves on his oceanic expedition, as he is submerged into the abyss, and when he returns to court with death impending) – all this in addition to numerous other orations, dialogues, and monologues. Besides the above range of styles/modes that appear in dramatic description and documentary narration, the poet develops three further forms of elaboration, which are the change of scenes, pauses, and arias. Changes of scene announce a change in dramatic action; for example, the passage from night to day, or the poet’s shift from the heavenly to the terrestrial world are accomplished in a couple of lines or phrases. Khosrou personifies psychophysical elements and points out the interaction between moral and corporal sensations. The psychological perspicacity is peculiar to the author, as well as his exactitude in the measure of buildings and instruments. The pauses, short breaks, and moral interludes are the author's direct interventions on the scene in the course of the narration. The arias modifying the rhythm of the narration open the poem to higher levels of art, as in the scenes representing the battles in China and on Mount Yâjuj (a dramatic picture – the first one naturalistic and the second one satirical), the epithalamium, the Fire, the idyll. Symmetry is “the measure of the work” itself. The poet aimed to establish a balanced connection between reason and speech in order to create harmonious expression. “The Sovereign Prodigy,” a treatise on epistolography in five books (resâle, 1319) dealing with all aspects of the art of speech, was written by Khosrou and revised by Shehâb al-Din, an eminent collaborator in his literary circle at Delhi. Above all, the rule concerning ‘the visual proportion (tanâsob-e ‘ayni)’, the evidence of the correlation between objects and forms and their symmetry, should be steadily respected in any part of the work.31

30

J. Kraemer, “Arabische Homerverse,” Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 106 (1956), pp. 259-316: 292-302. 31 Amir Khosrow Dehlavi, E'jâz-e Khosravi (Lacknaw: Nawalkishore, 1868), I, p. 209.

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II. The Epic Cycle

Rostam and Zoroastrianism Dick Davis Ohio State University

Though it is rarely baldly stated as such, one can find an implicit assumption in much writing about Rostam, which is as follows: “Rostam is the greatest pre-Islamic hero of Iran; pre-Islamic Iran was Zoroastrian; ergo Rostam was a Zoroastrian hero.” Rostam’s strong identification with the defense of Iran, the intertwining of his legend with six generations of Iranian kings in Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh, and the often emphatic identification of the Iranian monarchy and polity with Zoroastrianism by the country’s pre-Islamic dynasties (most emphatically by the Sasanians) have provided the background to this assumption.1 But it is of course the kings identified by Ferdowsi as pre-Zoroastrian, and unknown to the historical record, whose persons and possessions Rostam protects. Zoroaster’s appearance in the Shahnameh, and the royal family’s adoption of Zoroastrianism as its faith, mark the moment when Rostam turns away from the Iranian court, and retreats once and for all to his appanage in Sistan. This fact, together with the striking absence of his name from Zoroastrian sources, suggests that the assumption that Rostam was a Zoroastrian hero may well be an unwarranted one.2 As others3 and I myself4 have suggested elsewhere, the figure of Rostam is, like that of many legendary and mythological figures, in all probability a composite one, combining features from various sources, and from various historical (and prehistoric) periods. There are indications that one source for the Rostam legend was a figure whose legend not only did not identify him with Zoroastrianism but in all likelihood saw him as an anti-Zoroastrian hero, and indeed perhaps as the tragic leader of pre-Zoroastrian Iran’s last stand against the new faith. Although the suggestion is obviously highly speculative, it is not perhaps wholly a coincidence that the leader of the Zoroastrian forces, when their turn for a tragic last stand comes at the end of the Shahnameh, is also called Rostam. It is not unknown for a historical event, particularly one thought of as highly significant for 1

I would like to thank my colleague at Ohio State University Parvaneh Pourshariati for reading through this paper and for making a number of valuable suggestions, almost all of which I have adopted. 2 The implications of Rostam’s absence from the Avesta and of the “traces of initial hostility to him among the (Zoroastrian) priesthood” in the Shahnameh and elsewhere are discussed by Ehsan Yarshater in his article “Iranian National History,” The Cambridge History of Iran, v. 3 (1) (Cambridge, 1983, reprinted 1996), 359-477; see in particular 454. 3 I am thinking particularly of Mehrdd Bahr, who has written eloquently of Rostam’s origins in his Az ostureh t trikh (Tehran, 1376/1998). 4 E.g. in “Rustam-i Dastan”, Iranian Studies 32, 2 (Spring 1999): 231-242.

Dick Davis the fate of the peoples involved, to be presented in terms of a previous event that might be thought to parallel it. For example, the accounts of the flight eastward of the last Achaemenid king before the forces of Alexander, and his death at the hands of his own subjects, are strikingly similar to the literary accounts of the flight eastward of the last Sasanian king before the Arab forces of the 7th century, and his death at the hands of his own subjects.5 That a text was seen by its author and audience as historical does not of course preclude its being written according to such narrative structures. But the fact that Rostam shares his name with the leader of the Sasanian forces defeated by the Arab invasion is hardly sufficient evidence to categorize him as an antiZoroastrian hero. Stronger indications for this also exist, although they are both scattered and scanty. Taken together, however, they are I think suggestive and intriguing, and I wish to examine them in this paper. I shall group the evidence according to three broad considerations. These are: first, Rostam’s provenance, and what this says about him to us and, equally importantly, to the characters with whom he interacts in the Shahnameh; second, his actions in the Shahnameh; and third, the (surprisingly few) remarks made about him by authors previous to, or more or less contemporary with, Ferdowsi. Rostam’s provenance In the Shahnameh, his appanage is Sistan, which lies to the east of the modern province of that name, and is bordered to the north by the River Hirmand (modern Helmand, in Afghanistan). Esfandyar and his son Bahman recognize that by crossing this river they are entering Rostam’s homeland. His territory is thus on the eastern boundary of the Iranian world, and abuts onto what was considered to be, in ethnic and religious terms, Indian territory. His mother, Rudabeh, is from Kabol, and he dies in Kabol, which is always thought of in the Shahnameh as belonging to India culturally. This is particularly so in the legendary section of the poem, but it persists even into the Sasanian period.6 We can say then that his beginning (his mother) and his end (his murder, plotted by Shaghad and the king of Kabol) tie him to India, or, if this is felt to be too extreme a formulation, to the borderland between India and Iran represented by Kabol. Jalal Khaleghi-Motlagh

5

Another example of such literary-historical repetition concerns the suicide of Panthea over the corpse of her husband in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia, the suicide of Cleopatra over Anthony’s body in Plutarch’s Lives, and the suicide of Shirin over her husband’s body in Nezami’s Khosrow o Shirin. The first two of these suicides are presented as historical, and the third as what we may call quasi-historical, and yet they share details and an overall structure which strongly suggest that they are narrated according to the conventions of a shared literary topos. 6 E.g. when the Indian king Shangal visits Bahram Gur he is accompanied by seven of his client kings, one of whom is the “King of Kabol”, Shhnmeh, v. 7, ed. M. Osmanov and A. Nushin (Moscow 1968), 4412, lines 2410-2413.

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Rostam and Zorastrianism has drawn attention to the probable Indian provenance of his “babr-e bayn,” 7 and Mehrdad Bahar has indicated the many similarities between features of Rostam’s legend and those of the Vedic god of war, Indra, suggesting that at least one origin for Rostam is to be found in an epic elaboration of the Indra myth, one which Bahar believed to be traceable to the Sindh valley. Bahar also suggests that a number of Rostam’s exploits parallel, and may be derived from, those of Krishna. 8 Whether or not we accept as significant all the parallels adduced by Bahar between Rostam’s legend and those of Indra and Krishna, it is clear from the Shahnameh itself that Rostam occupies literally and culturally a border area between India and Iran. It also seems likely that parts of Rostam’s legend may well link him with Vedic material. It has been clear for some time that there are close ties between the mythology of pre-Islamic Iran and those of Vedic India, and that they may be regarded as two branches of a shared Indo-European mythology. One noticeable property of the two mythologies, when we compare them, is that shared features tend to reverse their ethical attributes as they shift from the one system to the other. 9 Thus the benign devas of Vedic myth become the malign divs of Iranian myth, Usas the beautiful Vedic goddess of the dawn becomes an Iranian demon, and the Indian lord of the demonic underworld Yama becomes the Iranian bringer of civilization to mankind, Jamshid. Jamshid also has a noticeable demonic side in the Shahnameh, one which Ferdowsi seems to play down but does not eliminate entirely.10 As well as being a subduer of demons, areas of his myth, especially his hubris, link him to the demonic world as a participant in its values rather than as its unequivocal conqueror: his Iranian avatar retains a shadow of his Indian demonic identity. Rostam presents a similar case. He too is a subduer of demons, but his lineage also marks him as a participant in the demonic world, since his mother Rudabeh is a descendant of the demon king Zahhak. Rostam’s demonic ancestry is not to be ignored as a distant irrelevance, nor is it obliterated by his deeds on behalf of the Iranian polity, since Esfandyar explicitly taunts him with it before their fateful duel, saying that he has heard that Zal, Rostam’s father, is “Demon born, of evil lineage.”11 Rostam defends Zal’s lineage, but then in a strange volte-face, which grants Esfandyar the substance of his accusation (that he, Rostam, is descended from demons), claims descent through his 7

See Khaleghi-Motlagh, “Babr-e bayn”, in Gol-e ranjh-ye kohan: bar gozideh-ye maqlt darbreh-ye Shhnmeh-ye Ferdowsi (Tehran 1372/1993), 275-342. 8 Mehrdd Bahr, Az ostureh t trikh, 28 and 236-237. Also, Pazhuheshi dar astir-e Irn (Tehran, 1375/1997), 491. 9 Bahr, Pazhuheshi dar astir-e Irn, 492. 10 I have referred to this in “Interpolations to the Text of the Shahnameh: an Introductory Typology”, Persica 17 (2001): 35-49; see esp. 40. 11 Shhnmeh-ye Ferdowsi, v. 6, ed. M.N. Osmanof and A. Nushin (Moscow, 1967), 255, line 627.

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Dick Davis mother from the demon-king Zahhak, adding that there can be no nobler lineage than this.12 Zabihollah Safa has plausibly suggested that the demonic enemies in the Shahnameh represent the indigenous peoples whom the Iranians were forced to conquer when they entered the Iranian plateau. 13 These demonic creatures are presented as uncivilized, given to practicing magic, and dressed in animal skins. 14 Both these last points are of interest when we consider Rostam. Once we move beyond the generation of Keyumars and those of his immediate descendants, there is only one “Iranian” in the whole Shahnameh who is habitually described as dressed in an animal skin: Rostam. And Rostam and his family, like the divs, are associated with magic. Sudabeh accuses Seyavash of having escaped the fire she hoped would destroy him because of magic arts learned from Zal and Rostam; 15 the accusation is untrue but it is plausible, because Rostam and his father are involved with magic. It is apparently (since he brings it up almost in the same breath) Zal’s association with the magical Simorgh that leads Esfandyar to say that he is of demonic ancestry: this is an association that will, by magical means, encompass Esfandyar’s death. Concerning magic and its practitioners, Safa goes on to say, “The Iranian religion was opposed to magic, and for this reason we see that in the Iranian national epic magic and the black arts are rarely ascribed to Iranians, whereas we everywhere see non-Iranian peoples, and those who did not believe in the Mazdean faith, described as practicing magic.” 16 This is borne out by the early stories of the Shahnameh, which in general 12

Ibid., 257, lines 660-662. Zabih Allh Saf, Hamseh sar’i dar Irn (Tehran, 1369/ 1990), 24. 14 Ibid., 604-605. 15 Shhnmeh-ye Ferdowsi, v. 3, ed. O. Smirnova and A. Nushin (Moscow, 1965), 37, line 540. 16 Op. cit., 604. This ascription of magic to non-Iranians (in particular but not exclusively to Indians; e.g. later in the poem Bahram Gur refers to India as “the soil of magic” [khk-e jdusetn], Shhnmeh, v. 7, ed. M. Osmanof and A. Nushin [Moscow, 1967], 422, line 2069) can be seen as one aspect of a fairly consistent anachronistic religious sense present in a number of the mythological and legendary tales of the Shahnameh. There is a real irony in the fact that in the West, throughout the Classical period, Iran was seen as the home of magic, despite the Zoroastrian condemnation of it, and the very word “magic” comes from a word for a Zoroastrian priest. Realistically, Zoroastrianism cannot enter the Shahnameh until Zoroaster does, but in the same way that the Magian prohibition of magic is transferred to the preZoroastrian era, so the positively presented kings and heroes who live before Zoroaster are often presented as Zoroastrians avant la lettre. References to the Zoroastrian scriptures, and to Zoroastrian concepts like Ahriman, before Zoroaster’s appearance are not uncommon. In the later sections of the poem the implication is that Iran has always been Zoroastrian: for example, when Anushirvan’s son Nushzad abandons Zoroastrianism for Christianity he is accused of abandoning “the faith of Keyumars, Hushang and Tahmures” (i.e., the faith of the earliest kings, who according to the poem itself lived long before the advent of Zoroaster: Shhnmeh, v. 8, ed. Rostam Aleyev and A. Azar [Moscow, 1970], 105, line 893). Further, the poem’s battles (particularly those involving divs) are famously presented in an at 13

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Rostam and Zorastrianism ascribe magic to those fighting against the Iranians, with the exception of Rostam who, with the help of the Simorgh, practices magic both on his own behalf and on behalf of the Persian throne. When Rostam dies (and it is magic that ensures the success of his last major deed before his death - the killing of Esfandyar), magic virtually leaves the poem; the infrequent supernatural events after his death are in general angelic rather than chthonic. Both Rostam’s liminal geographical status (as a denizen of the in-between area of Sistan, and one who seems to have as many ties to India as to Iran), and his quasidemonic heritage, set him apart from the Iranians as such. In so far as demons are identified in the Shahnameh as the evil servants of Ahriman, this latter association also gives him a tangential relationship to Iranian religion, in that he seems to be at least partly implicated in the world of its enemies. The same can be said of his immersion in the world of magic: this is most graphically presented in his confrontation with Esfandyar. The Persian prince is armed with the self-righteousness of the new Zoroastrian faith, while Rostam depends for his success on the magical protection afforded him by the simorgh. Esfandyar has killed a simorgh in the course of his haft khwn, as a representative of a world which his new faith will destroy. Another question of provenance seems to be relevant here, not one concerning the provenance of Rostam himself so much, but rather the route by which his legend reached Ferdowsi. To put the problem at its simplest: we think of Rostam as the greatest hero of pre-Islamic Iran, but he is scandalously absent from pre-Islamic Iranian texts, and especially from explicitly Zoroastrian texts. As Mehrdad Bahar has put it, “In the whole of the Avesta there is no discussion of Rostam, and his battle with Esfandyar is not mentioned. Esfandyar is in the Avesta, but not Rostam...and when we look at Pahlavi texts, at the Zoroastrian literature of the Sasanian period, again, to an incredible extent, Rostam is pushed to one side. Rostam is mentioned perhaps four or five times in Pahlavi texts: twice in non-religious texts which were originally Parthian...”17 Why, if Rostam is the great Zoroastrian hero of ancient Iran, do Zoroastrian texts virtually never mention him? And why do Sasanian texts virtually never mention him? And, incidentally, if Sasanian and Zoroastrian texts do not mention him, where did Ferdowsi get the stories about him from?

least crypto-Zoroastrian light, i.e. as a struggle between good and evil. This last might be thought conventional for an epic, but the ethical dimensions of conflicts in the Shahnameh are much more heavily emphasized than in, say, Homeric epic, and the most obvious explanation of this is the presentation of the material in implicitly Zoroastrian terms, even before the appearance of Zoroaster. It is to this implicit Zoroastrianism that Rostam seems to have a somewhat indirect relationship: when Zoroastrianism becomes explicit, Rostam’s opposition to its proselytizers also becomes explicit. 17 Bahar, Az ostureh t trikh, 227.

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Dick Davis Bahar’s answer18 to this last question is as follows: We have to understand that all our epic stories which Ferdowsi collected and which appear in the Shahnameh, take place in the east. To come at the question another way, did Ferdowsi gather all the narratives in the Shahnameh from among the people of Khorasan, (meaning that) they have no particular connection with the Khodai-nameh, or is it rather that that the Shahnameh is a rewriting in Persian of the Khodai-nameh? In my opinion, the subject matter of the Shahnameh was inspired by the stories of the people of eastern Iran...19 That is, he rejects the notion that Ferdowsi’s principle source, for the mythological and legendary section of the Shahnameh, was the (Sasanian and Zoroastrian) Khodai-nameh, either in its original or in translation. He further comments that the material had been preserved because, “each person recited / sang (mi-sorudeh) a part of it, or committed it to memory.”20 Ferdowsi’s stories then, at least as far as they concern Rostam, were outside of the purview of the official, written, Zoroastrian and courtly literature of Sasanian Iran. In Bahar’s opinion, Rostam’s legend begins in the Sindh valley and enters Iran via the Parthians.21 The stories that make up this legend did not appear in Sasanian literature because they were considered to be Parthian, and the Sasanians tried strenuously to

18

His answer is in effect similar to conclusions I proposed in a paper published in 1996: “The Problem of Ferdowsi's Sources,” Journal of the American Oriental Society, 116, 1 (Jan-March 1996): 48-57. I mention my own article only because its suggestions were greeted with considerable skepticism by some, and I was naturally pleased to find that, quite independently, Bahar essentially agreed with them. 19 Bahar, Az ostureh t trikh, 441. While avoiding the question of whether details of Rostam’s legend point to an Indian origin, Yarshater is in agreement with Bahar as to the Parthian provenance of many of the tales associated with Rostam, seeing it as reasonable to assume “...that Rustam was indeed, as his frequent title Sagzi (the Saka) indicates, a Saka hero, whose legends were brought to Sistan by the invading Saka tribes and which spread to Iran in Parthian times and eventually were combined with the Kayanian cycle as part of the national epic tradition.” Cambridge History of Iran, 3 (1), 455-456. 20 Bahar, Az ostureh t trikh, 443. 21 This supposition seems to be supported by Ma‘sudi’s claim that there were “many tales of Rostam” in a book called “Sakisaran”, a name which appears to be derived from “Saka” (i.e. Parthian): Ma‘sudi adds that the book was translated into Arabic by Ibn Moqaffa’; in Ma‘sudi, Moruj al-Zahhab, translated into Persian by A. Pyandeh, 2nd printing, (Tehran, 1360/1981), 1:221. The derivation of “Sistan”, the name of Rostam’s appanage, from “Saka”, is indicated by, among others, Christensen: “Des tribus sacs, chassées de la Ferghane, envahissaient la Bactriane, l’arachosie...et la Drangiane, pays qui fu appelé des lors la Sacastene, Sakastan, et dont le Sistan de nos jours n'est qu'une partie...”; in Arthur Christensen L'Iran sous les Sassanides (Copenhagen, 1944), 28.

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Rostam and Zorastrianism obliterate Parthian culture from the national memory. 22 They did not appear in Zoroastrian literature because their hero could be considered Zoroastrian only by coopting him to narratives in which his anomalous character remained recalcitrantly visible. Nevertheless they persisted as a folk memory among the people of eastern Iran, and it is from these people that Ferdowsi collected them. In Ferdowsi’s work Khorasan, and Parthian / eastern Iran, reasserted a heritage that Sasanian Iran, centered on Fars, had been at pains to marginalize. Rostam’s actions If Rostam’s provenance, and the provenance of his legend, place him somewhat outside of the main stream of Sasanian and Zoroastrian mythology, what relationship to this mythology do his actions, as they are presented in the Shahnameh, suggest? The opening stories of the Shahnameh represent the emergence of civilization from a surrounding milieu of magic and the demonic. The thrust of the stories is ethical; in general, success depends upon ethical behavior and unethical behavior guarantees ultimate failure, even though it might bring initial triumphs. When we consider the stories of Iraj and Seyavash we see that, according to the ethics advocated by their tales, it is better to be straightforward, righteous, and defeated (to be, that is, a martyr to moral integrity) than to flourish because of unrighteous behavior. Rostam however remains largely outside this morality. Elsewhere 23 I have drawn attention to the “trickster” quality of his legend, which involves a pragmatic, not to say at times piratical, morality, rather than a commitment to the kind of elevated and earnestly espoused ethical principles we find informing the lives of the poems’ self-consciously virtuous characters. Rostam is devious, he lies, he disguises himself, he goes on unauthorized raids, he sleeps with his host’s daughter, he gets drunk and when drunk he can be angry and overbearing, he sulks in his appanage like Achilles in his tent. All these things (except perhaps sleeping with his host’s daughter and getting drunk) are done for the Iranian cause as it were, and this justifies them. But they are not things that would be done by Feraydun, Kaveh, Iraj, Seyavash, or Kay Khosrow, that is by those characters who establish the elevated moral tone of the poem’s mythological and legendary sections. Rostam belongs to a different and coarser moral world from that inhabited by its avant la lettre Zoroastrians24 (one that is closer incidentally to the moral world of heroes of non-Iranian epics: the otherworldly morality of Iraj and Seyavash is quite absent from the Homeric poems, but Odysseus and Achilles would recognize Rostam as one of their own immediately).

22

See for example the remarks of Ehsan Yarshater, The Cambridge History of Iran, v. 3 (1), xx. Dick Davis, “Rustam-i Dastan,” Iranian Studies 32, 2 (Spring 1999): 231-242. 24 See footnote 14 above. 23

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Dick Davis Rostam’s one apparent concession to this more elevated ethical ideal is his solicitude for the young men who cross his path. We see this in his admonishments to the young firebrand Sohrab, in his care for Seyavash, in his anxiety that Esfandyar’s priggish pigheadedness (which is what his behavior seems to Rostam to indicate) not trap him in a situation from which there is no escape. It is perhaps significant that whenever Rostam shows such nobility of purpose it is always unsuccessful: Sohrab, Seyavash and Esfandyar all die violently, despite Rostam’s best efforts. And if we may ascribe Sohrab’s death to fate and his own youthful impetuosity, it is to a considerable degree the moral intransigence of both Seyavash and Esfandyar that leads to their undoing. Moral intransigence is not a quality that Rostam especially understands or has much time for: it is part of the Zoroastrian world view, but not part of Rostam’s. Rostam’s tangential relationship with the poem’s morally driven characters becomes overt with the advent of Zoroastrianism, and it is of course Esfandyar, the Zoroastrian proselytizer par excellence, who is his last victim. The details of their confrontation suggest that this is ultimately a conflict of world views and religions, and perhaps an ethnic one too. As we have seen, Esfandyar taunts Rostam with his demonic lineage, and Rostam, far from denying the demonic element in his past, embraces it by glorying in his mother’s ancestry. Esfandyar’s justification for his actions, to himself, to Pashutan his brother, and to Rostam, is his absolute Zoroastrian duty to obey his king and father. Rostam kills Esfandyar by drawing on the world of magic (in the form of the Simorgh), with which he has retained an intimate connection and which Esfandyar’s religion would finally extirpate from Iran. After Rostam dies, his son Faramarz rises in rebellion, threatening the Persian throne (as Rostam’s other son, Sohrab, had also done), and is killed by Esfandyar’s son Bahman. Each generation of Rostam’s family (Sam, Zal, Rostam, Faramarz) has found loyalty to the Iranian throne to be more difficult than the previous generation had done, but it is only with the advent of Zoroastrianism that this latent and increasing opposition becomes open and irreversible. Rostam in medieval texts other than the Shahnameh But if this is what Esfandyar’s tale tells us, that Rostam and Esfandyar belong in different moral and religious universes, it is not what Ferdowsi himself explicitly tells us: we can glean the opposition I have just described from the tale’s details, but Ferdowsi does not openly state it. Indeed, he seems to go to some pains to mitigate it, or to deflect attention from it. For example, he makes Rostam and Esfandyar into parallel figures (by their haft khwn), and he characterizes the opposition between Rostam and Goshtasp’s court not by religious differences but by Rostam’s objection to the newness of Goshtasp’s dynasty. He prepares us for this by the scene in which Zal makes exactly this objection when Kay

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Rostam and Zorastrianism Khosrow nominates Lohrasb as his successor, and Zal is finally won over.25 But Rostam, it is implied, is not, and he refuses to pay homage to either Lohrasp or Goshtasp. This, Goshtasp says, is the argument between himself and Rostam, that Rostam says “His (i.e. Goshtasp’s) crown is new, mine is ancient.”26 The argument is presented as one about legitimacy rather than religion. Some of the prose historians who touch on this material and who preceded Ferdowsi, or who were his approximate contemporaries, tend to agree with him, or they are silent on the matter. Tha‘alebi (5th century AH / 11th century CE) presents the opposition exactly as Ferdowsi does, but this is not surprising as Tha‘alebi in general sticks very close to Ferdowsi’s version of events. Tabari (3rd century AH / 9th century CE) gives what is basically the same version of events: “Bishtasb (Tabari’s version of Goshtasp) . . .said, ‘This man Rustam is in the very midst of our land, he is disobedient because he claims that Qabus has released him from submission to the empire. Therefore go to him and bring him to me.’ Isfandiyar rode out to Rustam and fought him, but Rustam killed Isfandiyar.”27 Ma‘sudi (4th century AH / 10th century CE) simply says that Rostam killed Esfandyar,28 but does not say why. He also claims that Esfandyar’s son, Bahman, killed Rostam’s father as well as Rostam29 (in the Shahnameh he imprisons Zal but then relents and frees him: Rostam is killed by his brother Shaghad). Hamzeh of Esfahan 30 makes no mention of any confrontation between Rostam and Esfandyar, or Rostam and Goshtasp, and in fact only mentions Rostam once in his whole text. But if Tha‘alebi and Tabari basically agree with Ferdowsi, a number of writers do not. The first historian to mention the encounter is the biographer of the Prophet Mohammad, Ebn Eshaq; I shall come back to his brief and (apparently) non-committal account in a moment. Shortly after Ebn Eshaq’s mention of the story, the 9th century CE historian Dinawari refers to it. His account is significant because, despite the fact that he wrote in Arabic (no-one wrote in Persian in the 9th century), his family background was Persian, and his concerns are often centered on Persia specifically, rather on than the wider Islamic world. Given his milieu and the focus of his interests we may assume that the version he records had some currency in Iran during the 9th century. He unequivocally says that the reason for the conflict between Rostam and Goshtap’s family was Rostam’s violent refusal to accept the religion of Zoroastrianism: “...When he heard news of

25

Shhnmeh-ye Ferdowsi, v. 5, ed. R. Alyef and A. Nushin (Moscow, 1346 /1967), 406-408. Shhnmeh-ye Ferdowsi, v. 6, ed. M. Osmanov and A. Nushin, 224, line109. 27 Moshe Perlmann, trans,, The History of al-Tabari, v. 6, The Ancient Kingdoms (New York, 1987), 76. 28 Ma‘sudi, Moruj al-Zahhab, Persian trans. by A. Pyandeh, l:221. 29 Ibid., 221, 225. 30 Hamzeh ebn Hasan Esfahni, Trikh seni moluk al-arz wa al-anbia translated into Persian by Dr. Ja‘far She‘r as Trikh–e Paymbarn o Shhn (Tehran, 1367 / 1988). 26

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Dick Davis Boshtasef’s (i.e. Gostasp’s) becoming a Zoroastrian, and that he had left the faith of his fathers, he (Rostam) became extremely angry about this matter and said, ‘He has abandoned the faith of our fathers, which has come down to us as an inheritance from former times, and turned to a new faith’ And he collected the men of Sistan together and recommended that Boshtasef be dethroned, and openly incited them against Boshtasef, who summoned his son Esfandyad (Esfandyar), the strongest man of his time, and said to him, ‘I shall soon give you the throne, and there will be no more tasks for you, except that you kill Rostam...’”31 Of particular interest is the relatively obscure Arab history Nihayat al-irab fi akhbar al-Furs wa al-‘Arab,32 partially translated by E.G. Browne, assigned by him to the same approximate period as Dinawari’s Tarikh, and sharing a number of sentences with this work. The text is perhaps especially noteworthy since it specifically claims that it takes its account of the Esfandyar – Rostam conflict from the works of Ibn Moqaffa‘, the great 8th century translator of Pahlavi texts into Arabic, and because of the detailed and circumstantial nature of its account. Even if we regard its claim of ibn Moqaffa‘ as a source with scepticism, the details of the conflict, which are close to those given by

31

Dinawari, Al-akhbr al-tiwal (Cairo, 1960), 25. See also the Persian translation of the Akhbr al-tiwal by Dr. Mahmud Mahdavi-Dmghni (Tehran, 1364 / 1985), 50. 32 E.G.Browne, “Some Account of the Arabic Work entitled ‘Nihayatu’l-irab fi akhbari’l- Furs wa’l-‘Arab’, particularly of that part which treats of the Persian Kings”, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, n.s. 32, (1900): 195-259. The relevant passage in Browne’s translation is as follows: “Says ‘Abdu’llah ibnu’l Muqaffa’ : ‘I find in the books of the Persians the conflict of Rustam and Isfandiyad: and that the cause of this was that Bushtasf...when King (sic) Zaradusht came to him saying, “I am an Apostle from the Lord of Worlds unto thee...to invite thee unto the Religion of the Magians”...he (Bushtasf) went over to the religion of the Magians, and induced the people of his country to do the same, so that, willing or no, they acquiesced.…And...Bushtasf...crowned Rustam with a crown, and made him king over Khurasan and Sajistan, and permitted him to sit on a throne of gold...and so he (i.e Rostam) returned to Sajistan. But when it came to his ears that Bushtasf had abandoned the religion of his forefathers, and had agreed to that whereunto Zoroaster invited him of the Magian religion, he was angered thereat with a great anger, and said, “He hath left the faith of our forefathers, which the last of us have inherited from the first, and hath inclined towards the religion of Zoroaster, the infidel”.’” Rostam then rises in rebellion against Goshtasp, and Esfandyar is sent to quell the rebellion. When he and Rostam meet face to face, Rostam repeats his charge against Goshtasp, “I am displeased at what he hath done in abandoning his faith and the faith of his forefathers, and in following Zoroaster in the religion of the Magians...neither will I return to his allegiance until he renounces the religion of the Magians and returns to the faith of our fathers.” Regarding its relationship with Dinawari’s text, Browne writes, “I do not think...that its materials were derived directly therefore (ie from Dinawari), but rather that both books were drawn from a common source. In some cases…when D. has some expression like ‘concerning this the Persians relate many stories,’ the Nihayat gives in full narratives which are presumably the stories in question. In other cases it contains incidents otherwise known to us only from single sources...,” op. cit., 258.

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Rostam and Zorastrianism Dinawari, make it a fascinating document. Like Dinawari, this text makes Goshtasp’s acceptance of Zoroastrianism the cause of Rostam’s disaffection.33 The Tarikh-e Sistan (5th century AH / 11th century CE) gives a similar if much briefer account: “The reason for the battle between Rostam and Esfandyar was because when Zardosht appeared, and brought the Mazdean religion, Rostam repudiated it (n-r monker shod), and did not accept it, and for this reason turned away from King Goshtasb, and never paid homage to his throne. And since Jamasb had said to Goshtasb that Esfandyar’s death would be at Rostam’s hands, and he was afraid of Esfandyar, he sent him to fight against Rostam, so that Esfandyar was killed.”34 Goshtasp’s difference with his son Esfandyar is presented more or less as in the Shahnameh, but Rostam’s turning away from the court is given a specifically religious, and anti-Zoroastrian, cause. A slightly later, rather populist compendium of knowledge, the ‘Ajayeb nameh (6th century AH / 12th century CE), by Mohammad ebn Mohammad Hamadani, relates the following anecdote: “It is said that when Zaradosht first appeared, he did conjuring tricks (hoqeh bzi kardi). They brought him before Rostam the son of Zal, and he did some astonishing tricks. Rostam gave him something (as payment). As he became more successful, he made claims of being a prophet, and instituted fire-worship. Kings became his followers. But not Rostam the son of Zal. He said, ‘I saw that he started out doing conjuring tricks, and sleights of hand (mosh‘abedi). I will not accept that he is a prophet’.”35 Hamadani’s strong anti-Zoroastrian bias, which is evident elsewhere in his book, 36 should make us cautious in using it as a source about anything to do with Zoroastrianism, but it does confirm that at a popular level, and by some people at least, Rostam was seen as having rejected Zoroastrianism, as the less sensationalist Tarikh-e Sistan also claims. The story of Rostam’s opposition to Zoroastrianism appears then to have survived at a local and folk level, to surface in regional or relatively marginal texts that existed outside the mainstream of the historical record. Tabari, Ferdowsi, and Tha‘alebi, seem to be reproducing an “official” version, deriving from Sasanian sources, which, in tune with 33

The text has been edited by Mohammad Taqi Dneshpazhuh, Nehyat al-arab fi akhbr al-fors wa al‘arab (Tehran, 1375 / 1996). The editor briefly discusses the work’s probable date, assigning it, despite the preference of some scholars for dating it to the 11th century C.E (5th century A.H.), to the 7th-8th centuries C.E. (1st century A.H.). The uncertainty of the text’s date has obvious implications for its relationship to Dinawari’s text, but this relationship does not affect the fact that the two histories agree on describing the cause of Rostam’s quarrel with Goshtasp as the latter’s turning away from the land’s ancestral faith in order to adopt the new religion of Zoroastrianism. 34 Trikh-e Sistn, ed. Ja‘far Modarres Sdeqi (Tehran, 1373 / 1994), 12. 35 Op. cit., 47. 36 E.g., op. cit, 121, where Hamadani describes fake miracles by Zoroaster and concludes, “There is no religion more shameful (rosvtar) than the Magian religion”.

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Dick Davis the Zoroastrianism avant la lettre of some parts of the Shahnameh, sought to homogenize the national history, and to make the conflict between Rostam and Goshtasp’s court not a religious or ethnic one, but something more personal (and thus less indicative of divisions within the polity as a whole). Ferdowsi may well, as Bahar suggests, have returned Rostam, who had been marginalized in Sasanian texts, to the center of Persian legendary history, but he also, faute de mieux, had to work with whatever materials were available, most of which must have been overwhelmingly Sasanian in orientation. Nevertheless, details of the conflict as it is presented in the Shahnameh, especially the way that Rostam’s links to the demonic and the world of magic are emphasized throughout his encounter with the new faith’s most ardent representative, suggest that this homogenized Sasanian version was not the whole story, and this is confirmed by the more “marginal” texts that present the conflict as a religious one. If we accept the above analysis, two other texts may also be of interest. A moment ago I mentioned the earliest extant life of the Prophet Mohammad, by Ebn Eshaq (died 767 CE). In this text we find the story of how one Nazr ebn Hareth scoffed at the Prophet’s claims, and in particular how he would “...begin the story of Rostam and Esfandyar, and tell stories of the kings of Persia (‘ajam), and men would gather round him, and then he would say to them, ‘Aren’t my words better than those of Mohammad? By God, isn’t this story finer than what he is saying?’”37 Narrated in this unadorned way there seems no especial reason why Ebn Eshaq should single out the tale of Esfandyar and Rostam as his example of stories used by Ebn Hareth to make fun of the Prophet’s claims. But if the story was known as one that embodied a clash of religions and cultures, one that was concerned with the appearance of a new religion, and that ended with the death of the man who proselytized for it, the singling out of this story with which to mock Mohammad’s words takes on a specific meaning. Ebn Hareth is presenting a historical parallel to the Prophet’s claims; he is pointing out that those who introduce new religions and go around actively proselytizing for them, and irritating others in the process, can come to a sticky end. He is both devaluing the prophet’s claims (we, or the Persians at least, have heard all this before) and obliquely warning him of unpleasant consequences. A detail that otherwise seemed meaningless (why this story rather than another?) becomes the most significant feature of the anecdote. Modern folk versions of the Rostam-Esfandyar tale sometimes incorporate a curious detail which perhaps points to the same conclusion, that the tale has been known at the popular level as one that involved a clash of faiths. In the three volumes of his Ferdowsi Nameh, Anjavi-Shirazi records a number of folk versions of the Esfandyar-

37

Sirat Rasul Allh, (the medieval Persian translation of the Sirat of Ebn Eshaq), ed. Ja‘far ModarresSdeqi (Tehran, 1373 / 1994), 141.

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Rostam and Zorastrianism Rostam story,38 three of which end in the same way, and one that is quite different from the end of the story in the Shahnameh. In these versions Rostam’s arrow blinds Esfandyar but does not kill him. Esfandyar, who is now completely dependent on Rostam, asks Rostam to build him a stone house (or “kiosk”) with a single central supporting pillar, and to lead him to this pillar so that he can touch it. When Rostam does so, Esfandyar exerts his strength to bring down the pillar, so that the whole stone house will fall on himself and Rostam, and kill them both. Rostam has however foreseen what he intends to do and flees in time, so that when the house comes down only Esfandyar is killed. The intended strategy is essentially that of Samson in the Bible (Judges 16), but why should Samson’s strategy against the Philistines turn up in the story of Esfandyar and Rostam? The appearance of the motif may of course be serendipitous, but it may also be connected with a perception that both stories are about the same thing – a clash of faiths, ethnicities, and world-views, and the death of a religious hero in the process. Interestingly, these folk versions of the story seem to be told from Rostam’s point of view, in that, as is typical of the trickster hero, he sees through his enemy’s stratagem and escapes to tell the tale. The evidence for Rostam’s tangential relationship to both the Iranian polity and its culture, and to the religion which became most strongly identified with Iran, is diffuse but I believe pervasive in the Shahnameh. Although mainstream “universal history” texts like Tabari’s tend to support the view of the conflict between Rostam and Esfandyar as one that was largely to do with lineage and royal amour propre, more marginal texts suggest that the clash was also seen as a specifically religious one, provoked by Rostam’s rejection of Zoroastrianism. Cumulatively, there seems to be strong evidence that Rostam was not in origin a Zoroastrian hero, and that, despite Sasanian efforts to co-opt him to the cause, he continued to be perceived by many as a figure who emphatically rejected Zoroastrianism. It is not perhaps an exaggeration to see in him the Shahnameh’s last shadowy representative of a magical and animist pre-Zoroastrian world, one which disappears forever with his death.

38

Seyyed Abu al-Qsem Anjavi-Shirzi, Ferdowsi Nmeh: Mardom o Shhnmeh (Tehran, 1363 / 1984), v. 2, 3-27. The versions that include the detail of the pillar in the stone house are, revyat-e avval (23), revyat-e dovom (23-25), and revyat-e chahrom (25-27).

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Reflections on Re-reading the Iliad and the Shahnameh Amin Banani University of California at Los Angeles

Weakening eyesight in the last few years had robbed me of the pleasure of reading books. A happy consequence of going on dialysis in recent months has been the welcome acquaintance with audio books. I can relieve the boredom of twelve hours of immobile confinement a week by listening to books. More than forty years ago in an introduction to an English translation of the Shahnameh, in the hope of making that book familiar to the western reader, I made some comparisons between the epic of Ferdowsi and the Iliad of Homer. In that comparison I drew upon the generic similarities of the two works, pointing to the outer features of the two poems as celebrations of martial virtues. The inevitable formulaic repetitions, the detailed and personalized descriptions of weapons and armor, the crucial role of the heroes’ horses, the attachment and loyalty of younger acolytes to their older masters, the superb poetic descriptions of sunrise, and the imaginative similes drawn from the world of nature to depict the dying of heroes were noted as the uncanny affinities between the Shahnameh and the Iliad, affinities that point to the remote origins of both in oral epics. Recently I listened to the Iliad in the magnificent translation of Robert Fitzgerald and was struck anew by comparisons with the Shahnameh, but this time by the stark dissimilarities of the inner dimensions and the intellectual core of the two poems. Lest the reader take issue with comparison of a work versified in the 10th century of the C.E. clearly based upon a prose written source of only decades earlier with a work composed nearly two millennia earlier, I should hasten to point out that the basic subject of the early mythological episodes of the Shahnameh belong roughly to the same preantiquity as the Iliad. They are rooted in the Avesta and are the reflections of Mazdean and Zoroastrian creation myths. They constitute for the Iranian people the same attempt at self-recognition and identity as the Iliad does for the Greeks. And as I had noted in my essay of forty years ago, it is that mythological part of the Shahnameh that evokes valid comparisons. Underlying the narrative of Shahnameh is a cosmic scheme that reflects a paradigm shift in man’s coping with the enormity and ubiquity of evil in the universe, in distinguishing good from evil, and in the moral responsibility of making a choice between the two. The same ethical concerns underlie the kindred Indian epics of Mahabarata and Ramayana in roughly the same time frame. This is the same shift that in the form of divine law had come to the children of Israel about a thousand years earlier

Amin Banani and, through subsequent centuries of metaphysical refractions, ended with the crisp rational formulation of Kant’s moral imperative. In the Iliad this moral dimension is totally absent. When it arises in Greek thought some three hundred years after the Iliad – suddenly and without precedent – with Socrates and Plato, it has a brilliant but brief life. Although Socrates, Plato and Aristotle left a deep impact on philosophy and ethics of classical Islamic East (IX to XIII centuries, C.E.) and on Medieval and Renaissance periods of the Christian West, their notions of justice, duty, citizenship, responsibility and ethics were trumped by the deeply ingrained Homeric traits in Greek public behavior and personal relations. Socrates was deemed to be a subversive and corrupting influence and was put to death. Every one of the dramatists of the Attic golden age tried to shock the Athenian citizens into realization of their self-destructive behavior, with no success. The bitter sarcasm of Aristophanes is the best exposition of the failure of ethics in Greek polity and the Peloponnesian Wars of Thucydides is a historical re-enactment of the Iliad’s myths. The gamut of motivations depicted in the Iliad is a virtual catalog of human depravity. Anger, vanity, greed, revenge, violence, arrogance, aggression, deceit, perfidy, treachery, lust and thievery are unrelieved by any trace of compassion, mercy and forgiveness. Except for two brief instances of display of human sensitivity by the Trojan women, Hecuba and Andromache, the rest is an interminable tale of testosterone-driven mayhem and strife. Honor is talked about but it is strictly in the context of encroached upon sexual possessiveness, the same notion of honor that survives in primitive patriarchal societies and is the basis for justification of murder of women. The actions arising from these base motives are recounted without any compunction. The tediously long muster call of the Achaean fleet and identities of the invading coalition under the command of Agamemnon not only tells us of the number of ships in each flotilla with the number of men in each ship and the land of their origin, but it also identifies their leaders with a list of their priors. Sheep stealing, cattle rustling, horse thieving, barn burning, kidnapping, rape, murder and usurpation are remembered and glorified as the distinguished legacy of the past. If the mortal heroes of the Iliad are to emulate the heroic ideals and actions of their gods, they find nothing but magnified examples of their own foibles. The Olympian family strongly resembles the structure and dynamics of a mafia clan. Godfather Zeus is acrimoniously obeyed, but resented by his younger brother Poseidon. His wife Hera, ever resentful of her husband’s philandering, seeks every opportunity to undermine his will. His favorite daughter, Athena, ever since her birth has been the cause of a splitting headache for him. She is by far the most treacherous and vengeful of the gods who secretly disobeys Zeus and advances her own agenda. Yet on the surface none of the gods dares to openly oppose Zeus, perhaps because Zeus knows when to relent or look elsewhere before things come to an open revolt.

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Reflections on Re-reading the Iliad and the Shahnameh It is in the realm of interaction of gods and mortals that the Iliad removes all need for humans to shoulder responsibility for their actions. At every crucial moment of the struggle when the mortal hero acts to resolve the battle by dint of his own valor, the capricious gods interfere to reduce him to a mere pawn. By pulling of the not-so-invisible strings the gods reduce the epic struggle to a mere puppet show. No wonder then that no one in the Iliad is willing to admit to a mistake and to accept responsibility for it. At the moment of reconciliation between Agamemnon and Achilles when admission of the wrongful first act that led to the shedding of so much blood is required of Agamemnon, he says flatly, “It wasn’t my fault, Zeus made me do it.” Except for Hector, the counter hero of the Iliad, who arouses the reader’s sympathy, the rest are not appealing figures. Achilles, the prime hero, is a singularly unlikable person. Only in the dragged-out, anticlimactic funeral games for Patroklos does he show some signs of mellowing and magnanimity. And Hector who has displayed all the signs of manliness throughout the war is humiliated in the end by running scared of Achilles four times around the walls of Troy before he makes a fatal stand. Of Brisseis, the captive girl, whose possession is the heart of Iliad’s plot, hardly a word is said. In contrast with the chaotic and capricious order of things in the Iliad, there is a grand governing principle in the cosmic struggle between good and evil in the Shahnameh. The battle lines between the forces of light and darkness, good and evil, Ahuramazda and Ahriman are sharp and unmistakable. It is a war of humans – with Iranians as the standard-bearers for the human race – against demons (divs), i.e. the multiple gods (devas) of Indo-Iranian myths, who were demoted and demonized by Zoroaster. But the demons do not remain the sole possessors of evil. In an elegant pattern of tri-generational tragic martyrdom, triumphant revenge and restoration the gradual process of internalization of evil is demonstrated. In the tales of Kayumars, Siamak and Tahmures; Fereydun, Iraj and Manuchehr; Kaykavus, Siavash and Keykhosrow; Goshtasp, Esfandiar and Bahman, we witness first a pure encounter between humans and demons, then envy leading to fratricide, then alienation of an innocent son by a foolish father and finally the willful dispatching to death of an ambitious son by a scheming and fearful father. Step by step evil is internalized and the ethical dimension of the epic is broadened and deepened. Siamak is slain by the divs and Tahmures defeats the divs and restores the primacy of the humans (i.e. Iranians); Salm and Tur are envious of their younger brother, Iraj, and murder him in cold blood and are in turn hunted and defeated by Iraj’s grandson Manuchehr, thus giving birth to centuries of blood feud between nephew and uncles, grandsons and grandfathers. Ferdowsi, reflecting the realities of his own time, depicts this as a struggle between Iranians and Turks, but in fact it is an allIranian family quarrel. Through the paramount Zoroastrian sins of envy and greed, further compounded by hubris, overreaching ambition, pride and fear, innocent and

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Amin Banani guileless youths are slain, kings are disgraced, heroes compromised, leaving no doubt that the grand struggle against evil has shifted from an outer battlefield into the breast of men. In the Iliad there is nothing as profound and ethically compelling as the design of the Shahnameh. The closest thing in the Iliad, which imparts a sense of reaching for a panorama of the universe around us and of our place in it, is when Thetis, the mother of Achilles, using her Olympian connections, asks Haiphestos to hurriedly make a shield for Achilles. The cosmic panorama depicted on that shield is meant to help Achilles overcome his anger and realize the wider dimensions of his predicament. But Achilles shows little aptitude for grasping the lesson. Like Agamemnon, there are many kings in the Shahnameh as infected by folly, greed and pride, like Jamshid, Kaykavus and Goshtasp. Their folly, however, results in the loss of their divine aura of kingship, and brings on horrendous tragedies and long periods of darkness and cruelty. But there are no righteous and blessed kings like Fereydun and Keykhosrow in the Iliad. Nor are there such tragic, lovable and piteous heroes as Iraj, Siavash and Sohrab, whose tragic deaths crush the reader with an inconsolable grief that comes from triumph of evil over good, and leaves one with the most painful and unresolved paradox of human existence. These reflections and comparisons between the Iliad and the Shahnameh give rise to other related subjects. I am reminded of the pervasive message of the early nineteenth century European Romantic philhellenism, born in the context of the Greek struggle for independence from the decaying Ottoman Empire, but engendered and propagated by the ideals of European Enlightenment, the French Revolution’s cry of liberty and Romantic, rebellious antiauthoritarianism. It gave birth to an idealized, illusionary recreation of a democratic ancient Greece. A necessary counter-ploy to this idealized Greek democracy was a servile oriental despotism represented by Persia. The fundamental contrast was between the free upstanding Greek individual looking down on the prostrate Persian hordes before the great King of Kings. So oft-repeated and widely propagated has been this comparison in the last two hundred years, and so little has been done to expose the exaggerations and the untruths of this illusion, that it is generally accepted as the proof of distinction and superiority of Western civilization. Western civilization has achieved a number of superior distinctions in the past four hundred years, but they do not arise out of the Romantic image of ancient Greece. The ideals of Greek democracy and individual freedom are crystallized in the oration of Pericles, made to contrast the Athenian polis not with despotic Persia, but with oligarchic and militarist Sparta. It is helpful to remember that the Athenian state had arrived at a fragile and ephemeral quasi-democratic stage by the mid-fifth century B.C.E., not through an enlightened progress toward democratic goals. There were no cries for equality of rights of all citizens or respect for freedoms of fellow-citizens, nor of

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Reflections on Re-reading the Iliad and the Shahnameh willingness to abide by the will of the majority, full protection of the rights of the minority and tolerance for civil opposition. It was, rather, an unsettled and acrimonious state of coexistence among competing persons and factions. For an Athenian citizen of the “golden age” the idea of equality can best be stated as, ‘if I cannot be superior to you, I reconcile myself to equality.’ The oration of Pericles, with all its glowing praise of Athenian virtues, can also be interpreted as a psychological device to urge on the Athenian citizens precisely what they critically lacked, and to shame them into abandoning their self-destructive political behavior. Moreover, in the thousands of college and high school text books which for the last two centuries have implanted this ideal image of Athenian democracy in the minds of students, there is hardly ever a word about slavery in Athens. Students were not made aware that a polis of ten thousand free citizens lived on the labor of twenty thousand slaves. And very few scholars – except in places like ante-bellum Athens, Georgia, where it was used as justification for slavery in the cotton plantations of the South – spent any time researching the subject. That fragile and precarious moment of Athenian democracy, lasting hardly three decades, was ultimately destroyed not by Spartan force of arms but by the Athenians’ own tyrannical exploitation of their allies and, above all, by a display of all the Homeric vices chronicled in the Iliad. In the end the Athenians’ political behavior resulted in the loss of their cherished elutheria (liberty.) It is perhaps time for us in the West to re-examine the Romantic dream of Greek democracy and Persian despotism. I can think of no better way than to invite the Western reader to embark upon a thoughtful reading of the Shahnameh. Along with the breathtaking beauty of its overall design and structure, the compelling profundity of its ethical message, and the heart-breaking fates of its guileless youthful heroes, the Shahnameh informs the code of Persian kingship. The alert reader will soon discover that legitimacy of authority and rulership is conditional. The king must rule with justice. If he does not he loses his right to rule. It is an honest assessment of the human condition and a cause for sorrowful reflection that there are so many kings in the Shahnameh who lose their farrah (divine aura of rightful kingship), and so few who reach a happy end. That the model of behavior of Homer’s heroes in the Iliad could not but have dire consequences for the men of Hellas cannot be disputed. The question that arises– especially for the Persian reader—is why, with the elegant pattern of ethical behavior and tragic consequences of departing from good thoughts, good deeds and good words that are enshrined in the Shahnameh, there are so few episodes of good rule and justice in the two and half millennia of Persian political history? It would be foolish of me to pretend to know the whole answer. But, in so far as the Shahnameh and its impact is concerned, I can venture only a few observations. Perhaps nothing is more revealing than the selfmocking popular Persian saying, “Shahnameh akharesh khoshe” (The sweet part of

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Amin Banani Shahnameh is its end), remembering that that the end of the epic is the tragic demise of all that glory and the triumph of the desert Arabs over the Sasanian Empire. On a superficial level this may be like throwing up of one’s hands at the operation of inscrutable fate and admission of human impotence on this plain of existence. But a deeper examination makes it clear that, indeed, the final parts of the Shahnameh are a far cry from the early mythic parts. The sunny cosmos of Mazdean and Zoroastrian ethical order and responsibility, where humans had the choice of fighting on the side of Ahuramazda against Ahriman, gives way to a gloomy and debilitating pessimistic Zurvan (a school of the priestly caste that dominated late Zoroastrianism) world view where a tyrannical Time dooms everything to a tragic fate. Is this not the fountainhead of the deep divide that exists in the mentality, the sense of identity, and ultimately the experience of being a Persian? Irreconcilable opposites that forever vex the mind and rob one of resolute action. A culture that can produce a Sadi with his most humane view of interdependence of the human family, his courageous condemnation of tyranny and misrule of kings who, at the same, time approves of expedient lies, of pandering to the king at all times lest one lose one’s head, and of killing the non-Muslim without hesitation and compunction. For a Persian today the choice is either to give in to the same fatalistic outlook that allows the contradictions in his historical experience to condemn him to recurrent failure, or to look for a healing, whole-making remedy which is certainly not lacking in the best of his inherent values.

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Shrn and Other Female Archetypes in Firdaus’s Shhnmah Kinga Ilona Markus-Takeshita Japan Dite-moi où, n’en quel pays, Est Flora la belle Romaine, Archipiades, ne Thaïs, Qui fut sa cousine germaine, Écho parlant quand bruit on mène Dessus rivière ou sur étang, Qui beauté eut trop plus qu’humaine Mais où sont les neiges d’antan? (François Villon, Ballade des Dames du Temps Jadis)

As has been asserted by some scholars, the major theme of the Shhnmah is the struggle for the possession of the farr (royal glory). 1 Shrn, the widow of Khusrau Parvz, proclaimed in front of the new shah, her stepson Shr yah, that she was “the head of the ladies (sar-i bnuvn) and the glory of the king (farr-i shh).” She also boasted about her virtues when her stepson harshly accused her of witchcraft. In her speech before the chosen nobles of Iran, she tried to rebut, as Helen had once done in front of all the Trojans, accusations against her honor and showed her illustrious beauty to the Iranian nobles who once so strongly opposed her marriage to Khusrau. First, she recounted all virtues a married woman may have: Three things make / The worth of women that bedeck the throne Of greatness: one is modesty and wealth Wherewith her husband may adorn his house; The next is bearing blessed sons, that she May e’en exceed her spouse in happiness; The third is having beauty and fine form, Joined with the love of a sequestered life. When I was mated to Khusrau Parviz, And entered on seclusion, he had come Weak and dispirited from Rum to live

1

F.W. Buckler, Firdausi’s Shahnamah and the Genealogia Regni Dei. Supplement to the Journal of the American Oriental Society 1 (September 1935): 1-21.

Kinga Ilona Markus-Takeshita Within our land, but after reached such power As none had heard of or had looked upon. Moreover I have had four sons by him To his great joy—Nastur, Shahriar, Farud, And Mardanshah, blue heaven’s coronal. Jamshid and Faridun had not such sons;2 When the great Kayanian king of mythical times, Kay Khusrau, reminisced at the end of his reign about the ideal women of the past, he evoked the memory of four women, namely, the two sisters of Jamshd: Mhfard, the daughter of T r, and his own mother, Farangs, the daughter of Afrsiyb. Shahrnz and Arnavz, the sisters of Jamshd, were forced after the fall of their brother to marry the tyrant Zahhk who corrupted them through his evil magic. They were rescued by the young hero Fard n who defeated Zahhk and married them. To Fard n they bore three sons, Salm, T r and raj, the ancestors of the three big nations of the world. Not much is known, on the other hand, about Mhfard, though a namesake of hers also became an ancestress of the Pishdadian dynasty. Mhfard was the wife of raj and the mother of a girl who was later married to Pashang, a relative of her grandfather, Fard n, and bore Man chihr, the future shah of Iran. Chronologically it is not impossible that she is identical with the daughter of T r, as Iranians often practiced next-of kin marriages in antiquity. An earlier royal ancestress is Farnak, the mother of Fard n. She brought up her son in hiding from the vengeance of Zahhk who had killed her husband, Abtin. The miraculous cow Birmaye acted as a nurse for Fard n. The story of persecuted mother and son is repeated later, during the Kayanian epoch, in the fate of Farangs, the widow of the innocently murdered Siyvush, and her son Kay Khusrau, who were saved from the wrath of the cruel grandfather Afrsiyb by the intercession of the wise Prn. Jarrah, the daughter of Prn, the chief counselor of Afrasiyb, was the mother of Fur d, the elder son of Siyvush. She lived with her son in the castle of the White Mountain (Sifdkh) which was besieged by the army of T s. When Fur d was killed, she set fire to the fortress and committed suicide over her son’s dead body. Katy n, the daughter of the Roman emperor chooses her own husband, Gushtsp (whom she had seen previously in a dream), in a bold act of svayamvara, against the wish of her father. She supports her husband by selling her jewels until Gushtsp proves his worth in the court of his father-in-law and can return triumphantly to Iran.

2

The Shahnama of Firdausi, done into English by A. G. Warner and E. Warner (London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner, 1925), vol. 9, p. 39, corresponding to SN (Moscow ed.) vol. 9, ll. 529-539.

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Shrn and Other Female Archetypes in Firdaus’s Shhnmah Humy, the daughter of King Bahman, was espoused to her father, and after the death of her father she threw her new-born child in the waters of the river Firt (the Euphrates) and ruled alone until her son Drb – who was brought up by a washerman –returned as a hero to save her kingdom from an attack by the army of Rum. Nhd, the daughter of Faylaq s, the Emperor of Rum, was married briefly to Drb but was disgraced because of her foul smell. She bore their son, Sikandar (Alexander the Great), in the house of her father. Her foul smell is perhaps a trace of the demonic nature in her ancestry. Olympias, the historical mother of Alexander, kept snakes around her, and there are legends concerning Nectanebos, the fugitive king of Egypt, who approached Olympias in the form of a dragon. In this version Nhd may be an aquatic ill-smelling avatar of the goddess Anahita, and she is here incarnating the monstrous aspect of Alexander’s ancestry. Zl, the father of Rustam had a totemistic foster-mother, the wondrous bird smurgh. Exposed as a child because of his unusual white hair, he was brought by the mother bird to her nest and reared together with her children until his father, Sam, fetched him home again. The romance of Rustam with Tahmnah, the princess of Samangan, who meet while Rustam searches for his lost horse, Rakhsh, is a typical genealogical legend which has its parallel in the legend of Hercules, who fathered Scythes, ancestor of the Scythians, in similar circumstances. The heroines of the love romances – Rudbah, the daughter of Mihrb, king of Kabul, and Manzhah, the daughter of Afrsiyb – show steadfastness and devotion to their lovers against paternal opposition. Qaydafa, the queen of Andalus from the chapter of Sikandar, is one of the few independent female rulers of the Shhnmah. With her wisdom and diplomatic sense she makes the world-conqueror Sikandar her ally. She is called N shbah in Nizm’s romance, and her Amazon-like nature is probably a topos for the historic Queen Ada, a Carian ruling lady who developed friendly ties with the young Macedonian conqueror. In the Sasanian cycle, Ardashr, the founder of the new dynasty, comes to power through the help of Gulnr, the favorite of his sovereign, Ardavn. She eloped with Ardashr taking along treasures from Ardavn, and they rode away on swift horses from the king’s stable. The royal glory (farr-i kayn) accompanied them on their flight, so that Ardavn was unable to capture them. Soon Ardashr succeeded in his revolt against his overlord and founded a new empire after slaying Ardavn. Both in the episode of the daughter of Ardavn and in the episode of the daughter of Mihrak, the brides of the kings are from a vanquished royal family. The daughter of Ardavn is caught in a conflict between her role as a dutiful daughter and sister on the one hand, and as spouse on the other, when her two fugitive brothers call on her to poison her husband, Ardashr. Through divine intervention, Ardashr foils her attempt and condemns her to death. She confesses that she is pregnant, and the mubid who was supposed to put her to death conceals her in his own home and brings up her son in secrecy, eventually winning a

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Kinga Ilona Markus-Takeshita pardon for them, but at the cost of his own bodily mutilation. Other Sasanian leading ladies fall into the stereotyped category of helpers of heroes, like the maidens connected with the legend of Shp r Dh al-Aktf, or they are mere decorative figures, as in the love-exploits of Bahrm G r. In the legend of Bahrm Ch bn, the mighty general has two women as the pole stars of his fate. The first, the sorceress in the forest – his bakht, or fate – encourages him to rise against his own king, and the other, his own sister Gurdiyah – a veritable virago in her own right – embodies moderation and submission toward the rightful king, Khusrau Parvz. The narrative of the reign of Khusrau Parvz (590-628 AD) is the second longest chapter of the Sasanian part of the epic, extending to 4083 verses (as compared to the 4468 verses on his grandfather, Khusrau An shrvn). His youth is described in the chapter of Hurmuzd, his father, and his downfall and execution in the chapter of his son, Shruyah. His celebrated love-affair with Shrn is narrated toward the end of his reign (verses 3368 to 3518, approximately) extending thematically also into the next chapter, that of Shruyah, where it actually reaches its climax. As compared to the 6500 couplets of Nizm’s epic, or even to the other similar love stories of the Shhnmah, like the amorous exploits of Bahrm G r, or the romances of Zl and R dbah, Bzhan and Manzhah or Gushtsp and Katy n, it is sober in tone and gives little details of their love. Unlike Nizm, Firdaus does not describe her beauty in its usual details, except that once he calls her “the sun” (khrshd), and compares her figure to a “silver pillar” (smn sutn in verse 3024). Her beauty is indicated only, as in the case of Helen in the Iliad, by the astonishment of the onlookers, when she takes off her veil in front of Shr yah and the nobles (Reign of Shr yah, verses 539-545). It is narrated that their love began when Khusrau was still young, and his father still alive. “He did not care for anyone from among the beauties and the daughters of the grandees, but for her [Shrn]” (verse 3385). Later, however, because of the war with Bahrm Ch bn, they got separated, and Shrn was left to grieve alone (3388). In the earlier parts of the narratives, we hear about Khusrau’s marriage to the Roman princess Mariam, and afterwards to Gurdiyah, the sister of Bahrm Ch bn. These two highborn women are the rivals of Shrn, and the probable cause of her abandonment. In an earlier chapter Shrn tries to verbally challenge Gurdiyah in front of Khusrau, but she is unable to prevent her endearment to the king, and her elevation to a high position in the royal harem (3033-3047). Shrn wins back her husband with feminine subtlety, appearing in front of him with sweet words and tears, decked in splendid attire and jewelry, to remind him of their old love when he ventures out in great pomp on the royal hunt (3410-3425). While Nizm depicts Shrn as an Armenian princess, in the Shhnmah nothing is told of her background, except that she is not considered worthy of the position of the royal consort by the priests and the nobles. One final question remains, whether this lovely and

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Shrn and Other Female Archetypes in Firdaus’s Shhnmah trusted and proud wife of Khusrau was indeed a Christian or not. The Shahnmah does not mention her religion, but talks of great opposition preceding her entrance into the king’s household. When Khusrau must answer the clerical and popular opposition to her elevated station (verses 3437-3483), he demonstrates to his priests and nobles his love and esteem for Shrn, his beloved and now official consort, by showing them a vessel full of fresh blood, and then slowly purifying it with water, earth (khk), wine (nabd), rose-water and musk. In this way he indicates clearly to his courtiers that she is a mere vessel for noble procreation, not a source of impurity. There are no objections among the courtiers to her other than her lowly origin. She is later charged with murdering her rival by poison in the Shhnmah and in other sources as well, though Noeldeke dismisses the notion.3 Contemporary Christian sources (of the early Middle Ages) also emphasized her religion and charity toward her creed, as she was a Monophysite Christian from the Southwest of Iran, namely Beth Khuzaye, the modern Khuzestan. She was an Aramaic-speaking Christian according to these sources. Shrn also had another mighty rival in the person of the Parthian princess Gurdiyah, who was the sister of Bahrm Ch bn, the rebel general of both Khusrau and his equally ill-fated father, Hurmuzd. Both Mariam and Gurdiyah were supposed to have children from Khusrau. Mariam bore the crown-prince Kavd, alias Shr yah (Shr yah was the name whispered into the baby's ear by his father when he was born (3172-3173), and also the future wise and beautiful queen, Burn. Altogether Khusrau had sixteen or more sons, all slain by the crown prince Kavd Shr yah after, or at the same time, as the execution of his ill-fated father, Khusrau Parvz, the Invincible. In her farewell speech to the great assembly of fifty wise elders of various orders, Shrn claimed that she had four sons. After two months of mourning for her royal husband had passed, Shr yah actually proposed marriage to her, and she set her own condition to the new master of the royal throne. First she proudly rejected charges of witchcraft (jd’) that had previously been brought against her by her stepson, the son of her bitter Byzantine rival, Mariam (Shr yah, 515-590). In a majestic funerary sermon before entering the mausoleum (dakhmah) and taking the deadly poison (halhil)4 at her own hand, she glorifies herself as follows:

3 4

Noeldeke, Geschichte, 283-284. The poison called halhil is the same type which the brothers of Ardavn’s daughter sent to their sister to poison the king during the reign of Ardashr. Halahil is a Sanskrit word, which was the original poison of the world-snake, and also appeared in later Iranian popular lore (it is used, for example, against the Imam Hasan in the Rauzat al-shuhad, and in the folktale Bulbul-i sargashtah). Tha‘lab also knows of Shrn’s suicide by poison, and the corresponding story of her sin of poisoning the Emperor’s daughter. It sounds like some type of poetical justice rather than an actual event, perhaps influenced by the similar legend of Cleopatra of Egypt.

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Kinga Ilona Markus-Takeshita I was many years the mistress (bnu) of Iran I was in every cause behind the brave nobles (dilrn) The grandees acknowledged in the presence of Khusrau that from Shrn came right guidance… There is no other woman in the world, neither hidden, nor a public figure, like she. Shrn was called in church history Sire (Syra in Greek), meaning a Syriac- (rather than Aramaic-) speaking woman. It is Nizm who takes her for an Armenian, probably because of Parthian connotations in their story: the name of Farhd, the sculptor (sangtarsh) and her alleged lover (or relative?), appears on the list of the Parthian-Armenian royal names (Phraates). The Shhnmah does not speak of Farhd’s existence, but the contemporary Mujmal al-tavrkh does. In the Persian translation of Tabar's world chronicle, the so-called Chronicle of Bal‘am, Shrn is a mere kanzak, or slave-girl, though an epitome of beauty, listed together with the other treasures of her master Khusrau Parvz, alias Kisr. In that version, she died much before Khusrau. There are of course, the persistent rumors about the religion of the late Sasanians, as the last king, Yazdagird, was called by the Christian Catholicos (jthiliq) a grandchild of the godfearing (tars) Shrn, through the father Shahriyr. The accusation that she was a murderess and a shrewd dowager queen like Cleopatra were already disproved by Noeldeke, who doubted the historicity of her arch-rival, the Byzantine Mariam, the daughter of Emperor Mauricius, who was born himself as an Armenian commoner in a village called Madaura.5 History is complex, and defies literary analysis. Probably Shrn’s dramatic suicide in Khusrau’s mausoleum, as depicted by early Neo-Persian poets and writers, has no historical basis. Kisr, the king, always remains an epitome of vainglory, while the other tragic hero, the young and innocently slain Farhd, and their queen, Shrn, continue to live in the modern folklore of the Middle East and Central Asia.

5

The Cambridge History of Iran, 3 (1): 322-323.

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Shrn and Other Female Archetypes in Firdaus’s Shhnmah Works Cited ‘dil, Muhammad Riz, Farhang-i jmi‘-i nmh-yi Shhnmah (Tehran: Chpkhnahyi Akhtar, 1372/1993). Bal‘ami, Trikh, ed. Malik al-Shu‘ar Bahr (Tehran: Zavvr, 1353/1974). Christensen, A. L’Iran sous les les Sassanides (Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1944). Coyajee, J.C. Studies in Shahnameh (Bombay: D. B. Taraporevala Sons. & Co, n.d.). Dihkhud, Al-Akbar. Lughatnmah (Tehran: University of Tehran Press, 1349/1970). Firdausi, Shah-name. Kriticheskij tekst. Sost. teksta A.E. Bertel`s. Pod. red. A. Nushin (Moscow: Nauka, 1971). Mu’ayyad, Hishmat. “Maryam va Shrn dar shir-i Firdaus va Nizm,” Irnshensi 3, 3 (1991): 526-539. Nizm Ganjav, Kulliyt-i Khamsa. ed. Shiblñ Numn (Tehran: Jvidn, 1377/1998). Noeldeke, Theodor, Geshichte der Perser und Araber zur Zeit der Sasaniden. Aus den arabischen Chronik des Tabari. Ubersetzt von Th. Noeldeke. Photomechanischer Nachdruck. (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1973). Shahd Mzandarn, Husayn (Bzhan), Farhang-i Shhnmah. Persons & Places (Tehran: Nashr-i Balkh, v-bastah ba Bunyd-i Nshb r, 1377/1998). Sukhanrnih-yi nakhustin dawrah-i jalast-i sukhanrn va bahs dar brah-yi Shhnmah-yi Firdaus (Tehran: Farhang va Hunar, 1350). Yarshater, Ehsan, ed. The Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 3 (1-2). The Seleucid, Parthian and Sasanian periods (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983).

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Editing the Shhnma: The Interface between Literary and Textual Criticism Mahmoud Omidsalar John F. Kennedy Memorial Library California State University, Los Angeles

All authors communicate in the intangible medium of language. Old authors, whose works have survived as manuscripts, present special problems of communication. Although the exact works of these authors may not be recoverable, documentary texts of their works, that is versions that have survived in manuscripts, may be studied and manipulated in order to reconstruct a reasonable approximation of them.1 This enterprise, although by nature inexact, is by no means so uncertain as to allow total confusion. Furthermore, although one cannot be always certain that one has re-established the exact words of a Virgil, a Shakespeare, or a Sa‘di from the surviving textual evidence of their works, this absence of certainty should neither lead to despair nor to doubt as far as the essential validity of the enterprise is concerned. Textual criticism of classical texts, as I have pointed out elsewhere, is much like paleontology. 2 One may not be able to reconstruct the precise form of a dinosaur or an early primate from scant fossil evidence, but one can make a pretty good guess about the form based on that evidence. Therefore, the uncertain nature of the fossil evidence invalidates neither the inferences drawn from it, nor for that matter the discipline of paleontology. By the same token, although we may not always be able to determine the exact form of a classical Persian poem from its manuscript evidence, it is not true that we can therefore say nothing worthwhile about it. As textual scholars, we are more fortunate than the paleontologist. Those who work with fossils of flora and fauna know that one tyrannosaurus rex is anatomically pretty much like another. But those of us who work with the creative activity of literary geniuses, by contrast, have the luxury of knowing that the object of our study is unique. No other poet’s words are quite like those of a Ferdowsi or a Hfez. Our task therefore, is

1

For a discussion of the distinction between “work” and “text” see G. Thomas Tanselle, “Texts of Documents and Texts of Works,” in Textual Criticism and Scholarly Editing, ed. G. Thomas Tanselle (Charlottesville/London: for the Bibliographical Society of the University of Virginia by the University Press of Virginia, 1990), 3-24, and also his A Rationale of Textual Criticism (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1989). 2 Mahmoud Omidsalar, “Editing the Garshaspnama in the Light of Shakespearean Scholarship,” Iranian Studies 33, 3-4 (2000): 403-410.

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easier than the mission of paleontologists because it is more confined. We know for example that Ferdowsi describes a certain dark night in these words:3 {1 "<  <* } ;    # 7 *  & * +! / 0! 2 0! A lesser poet, describing the same scene, writes (Kshnma, 6122): "  "/ @/ "   "  *

"  = >  2 ? 0!

A third, far less skillful poet, (Shahrirnma, p. 75), expresses the same landscape as: ! "#* ;   "  "#* ;  & > #  *  " ; > E! "K >   = > / " Q " F0G > /  +* H No one who understands Persian in the marrow of his bones could possibly confuse the diction of these three poets. Ferdowsi, by virtue of his poetic genius, stands apart and above all who came before or after him. Consider, for instance, his description of the hero Sm’s reaction to seeing a picture of the infant Rostam: {1497 2 } W/ – W[ –   Y #R    W @   *  X > 7  R*R The same image in the hand of a lesser poet (Shahrirnma, p. 155) is expressed as follows:  W/ ! Y > Y; * ` Such examples may be multiplied ad infinitum.

/  ;  ] \ ^0* _ +*

The textual critic who aspires to approximating Ferdowsi’s words has thus the luxury of tuning his ears to Ferdowsi’s unique voice, which like a beacon calls him out of the wilderness. All he has to do is to learn to listen. Jacob Bronowski was aware of the special quality of a genius’s voice when he wrote: Christopher Columbus discovered the West Indies, and Alexander Graham Bell invented the telephone. We do not call their achievements creations because they are not personal enough. The West Indies were there all the 3

All references to the Shhnma are from Djalal Khaleghi-Motlagh’s critical edition of the Persian text, 6 of the 8 volumes of which have appeared (New York: Bibliotheca Persica, 1988- ), along with two further volumes of notes on the edited text, Dj. Khaleghi-Motlagh, Yd-dshth-yi Shhnma, 2 vol. (New York: Persian Heritage Foundation and Bibliotheca Persica, 2001 and 2006). However, the full eight volumes of the Khaleghi-Motlagh edition (v. 6, ed. Mahmoud Omidsalar; v.7, ed. Abol-Fazl Khatibi) has now appeared in an Iranian edition (Tehran: Center for the Great Islamic Encyclopedia, 2007). I refer to verses by putting the name of the story followed by the verse number in parenthesis. This way, regardless of what edition of the Shhnma may be available to the reader, he will be directed to the general vicinity of the verse in question. I will not translate my examples because the distinctions will only make sense in Persian, which I assume most readers of this volume on Persian studies will possess.

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time; and as for the telephone, we feel that Bell’s ingenious thought was somehow not fundamental. The groundwork was there, and if not Bell then someone else would have stumbled on the telephone almost as accidentally as on the West Indies. By contrast, we feel that Othello is genuinely a creation. This is not because Othello came out of a clear sky; it did not. There were Elizabethan dramatists before William Shakespeare, and without them he could not have written as well as he did. Yet within their tradition Othello remains profoundly personal; and though every element in the play has been a theme of other poets, we know that the amalgam of these elements is Shakespeare’s; we feel the presence of this single mind. The Elizabethan drama would have gone on without Shakespeare, but no one else would have written Othello.4 Consider for example, the motif of “Recognition of son by gushing up of milk in mother’s breasts.” This is a common motif in the folklore of many peoples around the world, and is listed as motif number H175.1 in Thompson’s Motif Index of Folk Literature. However, it takes Ferdowsi to put such a common motif into verse in a manner that touches every Persian speaker quite deeply: j q "/K *  * jW > q * "# >  Y ! ! | x* /  > +  {143-140  ^} ! W/ > q *\ * Y  = ! Y#*

 *  b  * # / d/ 2 W   W! ^ +[ ; wx| ~" 2  * K # 2 W €  / Y: W[ # x*

There can be no doubt of Ferdowsi’s unique voice and manner of expression here. Similarly, the tales of Oedipus (tale type 931) and that of King Lear existed, independent of the genius of the authors who made them famous, long before Sophocles or Shakespeare were born. It was these two geniuses’ “telling” that transformed tale type 931 or the motif M21 into the tragic masterpieces that they are. Understanding this fact is especially important in these days of politically correct if mindless enthusiasm about the artistic activity of “bards” or “scribes,” whose bucolic ditties or slips of the pen are valued as much as the carefully crafted verse of literary masters. The reason the story of Lear that was told by Geoffrey of Monmouth—no mean storyteller himself—in the early twelfth century CE, had to await the ministrations of Shakespeare before achieving its present prominence has to do with Shakespeare’s special way of telling with his exact words, just as the reason for the triumph of 4

Jacob Bronowski, “The Creative Process,” in A Sense of the Future: Essays in Natural Philosophy, ed. Piero E. Ariotti and Rita Bronowski (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 1977), 7.

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Ferdowsi’s literary telling of Iranian epic tales is Ferdowsi’s unique way of putting them into verse. The exact words of Shakespeare and Ferdowsi, therefore, matter. That is why attempts at reconstructing or at least approximating the exact words of literary geniuses are important. As far as the Shhnma is concerned, unlike medieval European epic literature, which may be understood or analyzed in the context of the obscure troubadour culture that was instrumental in its creation and perpetuation, Ferdowsi’s verse may only be approached in terms of its poet’s individuality and exceptional creativity. In other words, we may not meaningfully speak of a faceless “epic tradition” behind the Shhnma as though we are discussing Beowulf, or El Cid. These poems may be products of impersonal “traditions,” but Ferdowsi’s voice and presence are too specific, too compelling to be classified as traditional in the same sense. It is with these points in mind that we should approach the problem of the interface between textual and literary criticism of the Shhnma. However, before getting to the meat of the matter, allow me a few words on the background of the problem. Literary analysts, most of whom are neither trained in textual criticism nor have a clear idea of its aims and limitations, regularly confuse their own literary preferences with what is attributable to Ferdowsi. They take it for granted that all textual evidence may be weighed in a literary scale, and be accepted or rejected according to whether or not it agrees with some idiosyncratic standard of literary taste. To them, the “essential value” of the work of art does not at all depend on the kind of minutiae on which textual critics spend life-times. But the details matter. The British texts of Ernest Hemingway that according to Bruccoli were often subjected to textual fumigations in order to make them more palatable for English consumption are full of dashes, deletions, asterisks and outright interferences. For instance, in Hemingway’s “A Very Short Story,” published in the Cape edition of In Our Time in 1926, “the word enema is purged to enemy, thereby ruining the point of the sentence: ‘When they operated on him she prepared him for the operating table; and they had a joke about friend or enema’.”5 Those who have loftier concerns than the difference between enemy and enema might believe that such textual interference doesn’t matter; and that the “essential value” of literary monuments remain unaffected regardless of whether the text is Hemingway’s, Shakespeare’s, Ferdowsi’s, or some typesetter’s bowdlerized version. Fredson Bowers, using the text of Hamlet as an example, takes the “essential value” school of literary analysis to task with typical panache and penetration. He asks:

5

Matthew J. Bruccoli, “Some Transatlantic Texts: West to East,” in Bibliography and Textual Criticism, ed. O. M. Brack, Jr. and Warner Barnes (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press), 247.

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How many conventional readings in the text of Hamlet—one, two five, ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred, two hundred?—must be proven unsound before the “total values” of the play are affected and the literary critic should begin to grow uneasy about the evidence on which he is formulating his hypothesis for the whole?6 One can pose the same question with respect to the Shhnma with the same relevance. The first 296 verses of the story of Rostam and Sohrb in Khaleghi-Motlagh’s new critical edition records 735 textual variants and 193 interpolated verses. At what point can a reasonable person surmise that the “essential value” of Ferdowsi’s art has been compromised by these errors and interpolations? How many errors should be dismissed as insignificant before we reach a text that cannot be said to be Ferdowsi’s? Small change in wording, at least in Persian literature, not only separates great verse from ordinary verse, but also implies great change in meaning. Consider verse 356 in the story of Rostam and Sohrb: W ‚ Y *   W  2 W   " ! /K _Q@ 2 The first hemistich of this verse has been recorded in all other editions of the epic as follows ( ...7/K _Q@ 2 ), recording 2 (“when”) instead of 2 (“why”), and 7/K (1st person sing.) instead of /K (3rd person sing.). These apparently small changes transform the meaning of the verse, and what’s more, turn the relationship between the crown and the hero on its head. Critics who are not careful of the purity of their texts, are apt to muse meaninglessly on misprints or scribal errors. F. O. Matthiessen’s pointless pondering of a phrase in Melville’s White-Jacket, as reported by Bowers, is instructive:

6

Fredson Bowers, “Textual Criticism and the Literary Critic,” in Textual and Literary Criticism, ed. F. Bowers (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), 2. The error begins from the very title page. Greg, the father of the “copy text” theory in modern textual criticism asks: “How many readers of Dickens, for instance, know that The Adventures of Oliver Twist: or The Parish Boy’s Progress is the title which the author gave his novel”? W. W. Greg, “The Rationale of Copy Text,” in Art and Error: Modern Textual Editing, ed. R. Gottesman and S. Bennett (Bloomington: Indiana University Press), 39. In addition to correcting many textual errors that have led a host of literary critics astray, the authorized edition of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby restores some 1,100 punctuation marks and four space breaks, by which Fitzgerald signaled shifts in time or narrative. The Fitzgerald scholar, Matthew J. Bruccoli writes: “Punctuation is not decoration: A few commas more or less do not matter much in a novel, but more than a thousand punctuation interferences alter the overall rhythm of the prose—a serious matter in reading a stylist whose sense for the sound and movement of the American language has been compared to perfect pitch.” See M. J. Bruccoli, “The Text of the Great Gatsby,” in F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby, The Authorized Text, ed. M. J. Bruccoli (New York: Scribner, 1992), 194.

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Melville is describing his fall into the sea from the yard-arm of the U.S. frigate Neversink. In the Constable Standard Edition of Melville’s Works we read the following description of his feelings as he floats under water in an almost trance-like state:

I wondere whether I was yet dead or still dying. But of a sudden some fashionless form brushed my side—some inert, soiled fish of the sea; the thrill of being alive again tingled in my nerves, and the strong shunning of death shocked me through. Commenting on these lines Matthiessen writes: But then this second trance is shattered by a twist of imagery of the sort that was to become peculiarly Melville’s. He is startled back into the sense of being alive by grazing an inert form; hardly anyone but Melville could have created the shudder that results from calling this frightening vagueness some ‘soiled fish of the sea.’ The discordia concors, the unexpected linking of the medium of cleanliness with filth, could only have sprung from an imagination that had apprehended the terrors of the deep, of the immaterial deep as well as the physical.7 Bowers, who can be ruthless in his criticism of the gullible critic’s total trust in the printed page, comments: The only difficulty with this critical frisson about Melville’s imagination, and undemonstrable generalizations such as ‘nobody but Melville could have created the shudder,’ and so on, is the cruel fact that an unimaginative typesetter inadvertently created it, not Melville; for what Melville wrote, as is demonstrated in both the English and American first editions, was coiled fish of the sea.8 It is true that avoiding errors of impure texts helps one avoid making meaningless forays into critical analysis, and thereby making himself look foolish. However, I believe there is a more compelling reason to insist on working with authentic texts: namely, it is immoral to do otherwise. The artist who labored to craft a work of art deserves to have his work presented as accurately as possible. This is no more than saying that one should 7 8

Bowers, Textual and Literary Criticism, 29-30. Ibid., 30.

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strive toward accuracy even in the face of certain knowledge that absolute accuracy is impossible. That knowledge does not automatically obviate striving for the highest degree of accuracy possible. I realize that my use of words such as “impure” and “authentic”—to say nothing of “immoral”—raises more than a few postmodernist eyebrows. However, I am also unable to disabuse myself of the gnawing notion that all those who find insistence on accuracy and precision anachronistic, would not be willing to publish a book or a paper without proof-reading it first. In other words, qua authors, they insist on the integrity of their work and the accurate reporting of their words. All textual critics say is: let us extend the favor to all authors, dead or alive. It is not difficult to find evidence in favor of this proposed honesty of reportage in the work or correspondence of literary figures. One of the better examples of interference in spite of the author’s explicit wishes is Owen Wister’s duel with the proofreaders at the Harper’s Magazine, which he relates in the preface to a volume of his stories: Once in an early tale I sought to make our poor alphabet express the sound of cow-bells, and I wrote that they tankled on the hillside. In the margin I stated my spelling to be intentional. Back it came in the galleys, tinkled. A revised proof being necessary, I restored, the word with emphasis—and lo, tinkle was returned me again.9 Mark Twain’s objection to his typesetters’ tampering with his punctuation marks is a bit more vehement than Wister’s. On Sunday, July 25, 1897, Twain (1835-1910) wrote the following letter to his publishers, Chatto & Windus: Dear C & W: I give it up. These printers pay no attention to my punctuation. Nine-tenths of the labor & vexation put upon me by Messrs. Spottiswoode & Co consists in annihilating their ignorant & purposeless punctuation & restoring my own. This latest batch, beginning with page 145 & running to page 192 starts out like all that went before it—with my punctuation ignored & their insanities substituted for it. I have read two pages of it—I can’t stand any more. If they will restore my punctuation themselves & then send the purified pages to me I will read it for errors of grammar & construction— that is enough to require of an author who writes as legible a hand as I do,

9

Owen Wister, Members Of The Family (London: MacMillan, 1911), 20.

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& who knows more about punctuation in two minutes than any damned bastard of a proof-reader can learn in two centuries. Conceive of this tumble-bug interesting himself in my punctuation— which is none of his business & with which he has nothing to do—& then instead of correcting misspelling, which is in his degraded line, striking a mark under the word & silently confessing that he doesn’t know what the hell to do with it! The damned half-developed foetus! But this is the Sabbath Day, & I must not continue in this worldly vein.10 A similar concern with accuracy is expressed in a poetic message exchanged between two giants of classical Persian poetry. When San’i-ye Ghaznavi (d. 525/1131) inadvertently mingled verse of other poets with the poetry of Mas‘ud-e Sa‘d-e Salmn (d. 515/1121) in the course of his collection of the latter’s verse, Mas‘ud, who had seen a copy of the collection, privately criticized San’i’s poor editorial ability. San’i, embarrassed by this development, composed the following verse apology, addressed to Mas‘ud-e Sa‘d:   +* 2 W;/G  †  / Y`ƒ  *  #^„  …  Š ^‹„ "#` / 0Œ 2  ; > ‡! W/ Y   ˆ^‰  ŠŠ q‰ ˆ0‚ >   XŽ„ # ; > ‡! * ‰ > | 2      _  2 ŠŠ / ^€* /  ‡! …   0  *  > `€„   W@  /Œ  2    Œ*  W[ + H ‰@ W[* ‰@ > ] ? ‘ Y  ‚   b‚ > ““ ˆ^‰ 0Œ * X‰ >   ’  /K: W[   Q  K   ˆ^‰ +!/  / "  @  b/Œ   # * * ^ 2  ‰ H / +!  * /    + ”G  #! €@ W\/ jW[* Y 2  ‚ ‰@    ‘ †  ‡! > `€‡   HK  / /w‡ H| … W@   *   _ 2 Y j  b‘ > • / @ HK 11   ^ > #‡ > ‡ > — #K H  W[*  ‡! 2 – 10

“An Unpublished Letter: Mark Twain to Chatto & Windus, 25 July 1897,” CEAA Newsletter (An Occasional Publication of the Center for Edition of American Authors, Modern Language Association of America), no. 1 (March 1968), 1. 11 Divn-e Hakim Abu al-Majd Majdud b. dam San’i-ye Ghaznavi. Ed. Modarres-e Razavi, 3rd printing (Tehran, 1361), 1060-61. Note the word pas in the last line quoted may be a corruption for bas used adverbially in the sense of “often.” [For a discussion and translation of the relevant lines of this poem,

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Textual critics’ persistent pursuit of unblemished and correct texts is thus neither mere moping about minutiae, nor as one particularly tasteless critic alleges, connected to the Nazis’ notions of racial hygiene or patriarchal anxiety about legitimacy of descent or notions of property and inheritance. 12 Textual scholarship is not out to celebrate patriarchy, promote racism, or perpetuate some objectionable set of political or economic relationships. Its project, I’m afraid, is far less ambitious. It seeks only to eradicate as much error from literary monuments as humanly or realistically possible. This, it seems to me, is a rather modest mission compared to the demolition derby that has of late been deconstructing everything in sight. Bowers explained the mission of the textual scholars in the following words: The most important concern of the textual bibliographer is to guard the purity of the important basic documents of our literature and culture. This is a matter of principle on which there can be no compromise. One can no more permit ‘just a little corruption’ to pass unheeded in the transmission of our literary heritage than ‘just a little sin’ was possible in Eden.13 Aside from the fact that literary analysts care more about the quality of the wine served at departmental parties than about the quality or accuracy of texts that they consult, while textual critics are hell-bent on making sure that their texts are as “clean” as possible, the most important difference between textual and literary criticism is that literary analysis is more subjective and intuitive,14 while textual criticism, although by no means devoid of subjectivity, is relatively more objective and bound by method. It is relatively more objective because it functions within limits that are imposed on it by the nature and authority of the textual variants, and by the established canon of a discipline that traces its lineage to Alexandrian scholarship of the 3rd century BCE. There is wisdom in Alfred E. see Franklin D. Lewis, “Reading, Writing and Recitation: San’i and the Origins of the Persian Ghazal,” Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Chicago, 1995, 130-36. – Ed.] 12 In a discussion that best represents the excesses of the kind of modernist free association that passes for scholarship these days, Bowers’ pleas for pure texts and Hitler’s demands for racial purity are connected to the cleansing powers of Clorox in an attempt, not to “discredit Bowers as a person” (26), but to “show how the textual-critical strategies of eclectic editing were strongly influenced by the residue of eugenic ideology surviving in the discourse of mid-century idealism.” See Joseph Grigley, Textualterity (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 1995), 20-27. 13 Bowers, Textual and Literary Criticism, 8. 14 W. W. Greg, "The Function of Bibliography in Literary Criticism Illustrated in a Study of the Text of King Lear," in W. W. Gregg; Collected Papers, ed. J. C. Maxwell (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1966), 26798.

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Housman’s definition of it: “Textual criticism is a science, and, since it comprises recension and emendation, it is also an art. It is the science of discovering error in texts and the art of removing it.”15 Aside from being less subjective, textual criticism is also a relatively more scientific area of literary scholarship. I do not mean to imply that it is “scientific” in the same sense as the physical sciences; but only that it is systematic, methodical, and scholarly as distinct from whimsical or arbitrary. In other words, it is scientific in that it shares with the natural and physical sciences a rigor of systematic investigation, or as D. F. McKenzie observes: “an honesty of method.”16 Thus, when available textual variants point to a certain reading, and when no compelling external factors militate against this reading, the textual critic is not free to disregard it in favor of one that he prefers in a literary sense. He can not just go with his whim, and disregard the sensible dictum that “what is best is not what seems best to the critic, but what is attributable to the author.”17 In spite of all this, I do not believe that texts are sacrosanct. Nor do I favor total surrender to the tyranny of textual witnesses. In the final analysis it is the critic who should evaluate, sift, sort, adopt, or reject the testimony of these witnesses. 18 Good textual critics, like good judges, don’t believe every witness. They must be temperamentally distrustful; indeed the whole enterprise of textual scholarship is informed by what David Greetham calls a “hermeneutics of suspicion.”19 Sometimes an educated guess is the only way out of a textual labyrinth. These educated guesses, called conjectural emendations, though an important tool in editing, should not be attempted haphazardly, but according to rules that govern their exercise. One of the most important of these is that the emendation should be able to account for the form of all received readings. That is, it must be a reasonable explanation of the received MS variants in terms of their orthography.20 Let me provide an example from 15

A. E. Housman, “The Application of Thought to Textual Criticism,” in Art and Error, op. cit., 2. Tanselle, Textual Criticism and Scholarly Editing, 326-28. 17 G. Kane, “Conjectural Emendation,” in Medieval Manuscripts and Textual Criticism, ed. Ch. Kleinhenz (Chapel Hill: UNC Dept. of Romance Languages, 1976), 211ff. See also E. Vinaver, “Principles of Textual Emendation (with an appendix: Lancelot’s Two Steps),” also in Medieval Manuscripts and Textual Criticism, 139-167; and E. Vinaver, The Works of Sir Thomas Malory, 3 vol. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1948), 1: xcii-xciii. 18 Naturally, this process involves the exercise of considerable personal (some might say subjective) judgment. However, all subjective judgments are not the same. Many are justified and supported by years of experience. It is this fact that seems to have escaped the notice of those who rail against the very possibility of “objectivity” in textual editing. 19 See D. Greetham, “Interweave 5: A Suspicion of Texts,” in Textual Transgressions: Essays Toward the Construction of a Bibliography, ed. David Greetham (New York and London: Garland, 1998), 198-219. 20 Kane, “Conjectural Emendation,” op. cit., 215; A.J. Wyatt, Beowulf With the Finnsburg Fragment, revised ed. by R. W. Chambers (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1948), xxvi. 16

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the kingship of Ardashir-e Bbakn in volume 6 of Khaleghi-Motlagh’s critical edition of the Shhnma. Verse 371 of Ardashir’s rule reads: ( `  @ YŒ*     2 ). The form ( YŒ*  ) appears in three corrupt forms: ( Y#* – YR;  – –  ). The orthography of all three of these received forms may be explained by the correct reading ( YŒ*  ), which has been maintained in the older Istanbul manuscript, and adopted in this edition. This brings us to the topic of “scribal errors,” which is used as a scapegoat more often than it should be. Attributing an annoying variant to “scribal error” as a means of explaining away thorny problems of the text, or bringing it into harmony with personally held views, is unfortunately too common. It is often better to have the patience of allowing the text to communicate its message, even when it appears corrupt at first glance. Housman wrote of Bently’s hasty and tyrannical emendations in his edition of Manilius (1793): He corrupts sound verses which he will not wait to understand, alters what offends his taste without staying to ask about the taste of Manilius, plies his desperate hook upon corruptions which do not yield at once to gentler measures, and treats the MSS much as if they were fellows of Trinity. 21 Responsible adherence to the canon of textual criticism however, neither means that the critic should be a slave to his sources, nor that he should take leave of his senses. It only means that he should be mindful of making hasty emendations, and keep within limits that are dictated by the nature of his material and the collective experience of the generations before his. In addition to being able to explain the orthographic variation of the received readings, all emendation must be philologically feasible. Emendation against philology invariably leads to absurdity. For instance, a recent suggestion that the Iranian name Hojir in the Shhnma may be a corruption of the Greek name Helen is preposterous from a philological point of view, and hence untenable. 22 It would be equally fruitless to emend against rules that govern the path of textual corruption. Thus the suggestion that in one Shhnma verse, the more archaic form ( Œ* ), “tall,” be emended to the simpler word (  Œ* ), “tower,”23 may not be realistically entertained not only because it flies in the face of the age-old and generally valid dictum difficilior lectio probior “the harder reading is the most sincere,”24 but also because there is no textual or 21

A.E. Housman (ed.), M. Manilii Astronomicon, 5 vol. (London,1937), 1: xvii-xviii. Dick Davis, “In the Enemy’s Camp: Homer’s Helen and Ferdowsi’s Hojir,” Iranian Studies 25, 3-4 (1992), 24. 23 Davis, loc. cit., 23-4. 24 M.L. West, Textual Criticism and Editorial Technique (Stuttgart: Teubner, 1973), 51; S. Timpanaro, La genesi del metodo del Lachmann (Firenze: F.L. Monnier, 1963), 21 n.1 22

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art historical support for it. In this case, (  Œ* ) is not only a more difficult word than (  Œ* ), but in addition the proposed (  Œ* ) is not recorded in any manuscript. That is, not a single witness among all existing witnesses has preserved the suggested emendation of (  Œ* ) in this place. The editorial choice is not between (  Œ* ) and (  * ) but rather between ( Œ* ) and ( #Œ; ), “steep”; and what’s more, the correct reading is in fact the more archaic ( #; ), as the text of Khaleghi-Motlagh’s edition has clearly established (Rostam and Sohrb, 493). This is especially important because textual critics who work on the Shhnma soon find out two lessons by experience: that conjectural emendation is rarely called for; and that when such interference is required, the form of the corruption in one or more codices provides very good orthographic support for it. For instance, verse 1822 of the story of Alexander in all of the commonly used editions of the Shhnma is as follows: 25 W@/ /q +   K #! W #  †* ; ; >  I have restored the second hemistich as: W@/   +   K #! The available manuscript variants for this word are:  :(d jK j2Y| j j  j2Ÿ ` ) 2 j2? jž jŸ j j?  :Y|

    :3?  :|

As it can be seen in this example, the orthography of the Leiden MS, namely ( / 0* ) is almost identical—with the exception of diacritical marks—with the restored form. Here the editor is on solid ground because 1. The restored form (   ), “dear, beloved,” when compared to the mutilated reading of ( / 0* ), “fruit bearing,” in the Leiden MS is both more difficult and more meaningful in the context. It is obvious to most people that a dead person— Alexander in this case—can hardly be described as “a fruit-bearing tree.” Therefore, ( / 0* ) may be ruled out without any troubling pangs of conscience. 2. The form (   ) is more complex than ( / 0* ), and thus in accordance with the rule of “the more difficult reading is more trustworthy,” it is more likely to be the true reading. 3. Ferdowsi has used the word in a literary formula in verse 518 of the story of Fereydun. That is, we have analogical evidence in favor of (   ) in the text of the Shhnma: W@/   +   K #! W; "@  " ]‰ ; "@ 

25

The verse numbers refer to Khaleghi-Motlagh’s new critical edition except where specifically stated otherwise.

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4. Other early poets, such as the author of Vis o Rmin (5th century AH) and Mokhtri (6th century AH), have used this archaic form in their verse: (48/214 

) #  "Œ#  ¡/   2 !  : W[ #*/  0! (3/507 / +)   "# 2 / !  

 W| 2 / W^ 

5. The emendation is further supported by the rule utrum in alterum abiturum erat?, “which would have [been more likely] to change into the other?”26 In other words, one should always ask: Of the variant readings available—assuming that one is correct and the rest are incorrect—which is more likely to have been tampered with in order to produce the others? In this instance for example, we should ask: are scribes likely to change the straightforward words (/q ) or (  Œ@ ) into the archaic word (   ) as the reading of the Leiden codex (minus its dots) indicates, or are they more likely to have changed the archaic form (   ) of their exemplar to the simpler forms (/q ) or (  Œ@ ) by the process known as trivialization? It has been my experience that more often than not the correct reading is preserved in at least one of the Shhnma manuscripts. For instance, verse 12 of the rule of Shpur-e Zolaktf in Khaleghi-Motlagh’s new critical edition reads:  > _@ 2 #! @ * Y2 | > _*  –  Y2 # +* The word ( | ) in the first hemistich of this verse has been recorded as (  ) in the Moscow and Tehran editions. The Mohl edition has totally trivialized the verse as: d +!   2 #! @ * ^ dK > _*  –  Y2 # +* Manuscript variants for this verse are:27  :(d jK j2Y| j3? j| j2Ÿ jY| `) 2? jž j j?  : (Initial undotted ductus)  :  :Ÿ I have followed the reading of the first Cairo MS (Ÿ), namely ( | ), meaning “inflicting blows, striking,” a variant spelling of which (in the form of –ŒŠ| ) has been maintained in

26

For a short but excellent and to the point discussion of the general rules of editorial decision-making see P. Kyle McCarter, Jr. Textual Criticism: Recovering the Text of the Hebrew Bible (Philadelphia: Fortress Press), 62-76. 27 Fifteen manuscripts, 6 primary and 9 secondary, have been collated for Khaleghi-Motlagh’s new critical edition of the Shhnma. The manuscript sigla and the grouping of the codices into the primary and secondary groups has been discussed in the introduction to the 5th volume. The readings of secondary codices are given in parenthesis according to this editions rules of presentation.

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(Mowlavi) Rumi’s Fihe m Fih.28 In this example, only one of the primary codices has kept the true reading; and that is quite adequate. One should not count one’s witnesses, but weigh them. Since I have repeatedly referred to the rule of the more difficult reading, which is traditionally expressed in western textual criticism by the formulas, lectio difficilior praeferenda est, or alternatively, Difficilior lectio potior, I will take this opportunity to further clarify the application of this rule to the editing of classical Persian texts. The rule of the more difficult reading, although generally sensible and quite useful, may not be applied mechanistically. The main objections against it are as follows:29 1. The more difficult reading may be more difficult not because it is an archaic word, but because it is a slip of the pen. In other words, scribal errors may take on the appearance of the lectio difficilior. For instance, in verse 45 of the kingship of Ardashir-e Bbakn, reads (W "  * 2 ), “What punishment is suitable,” in all manuscripts except the optimus codex and the second Leningrad manuscript. These have recorded the meaningless form ( W  * 2 ). The Vatican codex’s reading, ( W+!  2 ), is, in my opinion, a trivialization. 2. The rule may be applied subjectively. That is, what is a difficult reading to Tom may not be one to Dick or Harry. For instance, I consider the reading of the Vatican manuscript in this verse to be a simple reading. Another critic may look at the form and argue that compared to the standard Persian (   ), the form ( W!  ) is archaic. I may respond that it is true that ( W!  ) is attested in some early classical Persian texts, but since it also exists in vernacular Persian, and since some illiterate folks in Iran may end the word by a final “t” in order to achieve a “fancier” speaking effect, I don’t think the form ( W!  ) really qualifies as lectio difficilior, and round and round we go. Here, those who might agree with me or with my imaginary opponent, do so either based on their personal experience of having heard ( W!  ) used by an illiterate Persian speaker, or because they decide to favor me by giving me the benefit of their doubt. In either case, the grounds on which they agree or disagree with this reading is not firm enough to constitute a canon of textual criticism. 28

For references see M. Omidsalar, “Some notes on the [sic] Khaleghi Motlagh’s Edition of the Shhnma,” in Nme-ye Irn-e Bstn: The International Journal of Ancient Iranian Studies, 1, 2 (2002), 10-11. 29 For a discussion of the objections against this rule in Old Testament textual studies see Emanuel Tov, Textual Criticism of the Hebrew Bible, 2nd rev. ed. (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2001), 303-304. B. Alberektson has also discussed the problems of this rule in an article called “Difficilior Lectio Probabilior—A Rule of Textual Criticism and its Use in OT Studies,” in Oudtestamentische Studiën 21 (1981): 5-18.

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3. Two variant readings may be equally difficult or easy. In that case making a choice between them often depends on subjective criteria. 4. What may be a lectio difficilior in one period may end up as a lectio facilior in another period of the text’s history.30 Of these objections, the first three are certainly applicable to Classical Persian. However, I am not aware of a single instance of the transformation of the lectio difficilior to lectio facilior in the textual tradition of classical Persian.31 This rule, developed by classicists on the basis of dead European languages or Biblical Hebrew, may not be applied to a living language such as Persian that continues to produce poets who compose in the meter and style of the classical tradition in which Ferdowsi composed. In other words, whereas scholars of Homer, Virgil, or the Old Testament can only draw on purely scholarly tools to resolve difficult textual problems, Iranian text critics can add their own native-speaker intuition and their living literary poetic tradition to their arsenal of purely scholastic tools. Therefore, until an adequate number of changes of lectio difficilior to lectio facilior are catalogued, I remain skeptical of its applicability to the Persian textual tradition. A more interesting problem in the Shhnma textual tradition is the following: A number of our Shhnma MSS tend toward a certain degree of archaizing. However, this archaizing tendency always involves simple forms. The oldest complete manuscript of the epic, namely the London manuscript of 675/1276 almost always changes the reading asp ( £ ) to the reading bra ( "/ * ) when it is metrically possible to do so. In other words, often where all of our primary and secondary codices have recorded asp, the London manuscript alone reads bra. For instance, in verse 380 in the rule of the Ashknin, all manuscripts that have kept the verse read: #` 2 2 #K /# £  #/ #0x / * ]^Q2 2 Both the Moscow and the Tehran editions have blindly followed the reading of their optimus codex, and have printed the second hemistich as: #` 2 2 #K / "/ * 

30

This dictum is most closely associated with Giorgio Pasquali. See his Storia della tradizione e critica del testo, 2nd ed. (Firenze: Felice Le Monnier, 1952), 121-122. 31 This objection is usually sounded by people with no first-hand experience of editing in any language, and chiefly by followers of what I’ve dubbed Harvard’s Tribal Religion. See my “Narrating Epics in Iran,” (with Teresa P. Omidsalar) in Traditional Storytelling Today: An International Sourcebook, ed. Margaret Read MacDonald (Chicago/London: Fitzroy Dearborn Publishers, 1999), 326, and also my paper, “Orality, Mouvance, and Editorial Theory in Shhnma Studies,” in Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 27 (2002): 245-283..

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They have thus further simplified the more archaic verb ( #K /# ) to ( #K / ). Now, the reading bra may appear more archaic than asp to hasty and inexperienced eyes; but in fact it is not. There is no doubt that the forms bra and asp existed side by side almost from the beginning of classical Persian literature; and at least etymologically the word asp in the sense of “horse” is more ancient than the form bra (“mount”), which is a derivative of compounds that had the sense of “rider, one who is borne by mounts,” and the like (cf. Old Iranian assa-bara-). Dismissing the variant bra thus falls under the rule eliminatio lectionum singularium, and is completely justified. Changes such as these are instances of pseudo-archaism, found in a number of Persian manuscripts; and have nothing to do with the claim that lectio difficilior and lectio facilior may go back and forth through the ages. The problem of the more difficult reading in Persian and Arabic is, I think, more interesting than the choice between two different and distinct readings. It often involves either inaccurate dotting or complete lack of dotting. Many Persian words that may have opposite meanings are spelled exactly the same without their dots. Many scribes tend to leave dots out altogether, or place only some of the dots of the word. Words such as (# 0* / # 0), “one must / one must not”, or (## / ##*) “he saw; he did not see,” are written without dots: ( and  ) in many classical Persian manuscripts. What’s more, many of these words are metrically equal. Therefore, whether the editor chooses to read one or the other, his choice of reading fundamentally changes the sense of the verse or sentence in which the un-dotted word occurs. An example: Verse 79 of Ardashir-e Bbakn’s rule in both the Moscow and Tehran editions reads: !/ ~" 2 / dK ##*  # * /  #Œ* 2 None of these editions bother to tell us in their criticus apparatus that the form ( ##* ) is in fact spelled without some of its dots in their manuscripts. The editors have simply read the imperfectly written word as ( ##* ) rather than ( ## ), and that’s that. The sense of the verse has thus been changed to: “One day the vizier came and found tears [rolling down] Ardashir’s face.” But if we consider the actual spelling of this word in our manuscripts, this is what we find: (Only the fourth letter is pointed)  :? (The third letter is unpointed)  :(Y| `) ž j   :( d jK j  j3? j| ` )2 ({Unpointed}  : 2Ÿ) (2 Y| j `) 2? jŸ = Y+

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manuscript, as well as one of their Leningrad codices, have recorded ( ## ) instead of ( ##* ). Therefore, there is no textual justification for their choice of ( ##* ) over ( ## ). Both ( ##* ) and ( ## ) are quite simple. The problem is that by choosing ( ##* ), the Moscow and Tehran editors have missed the opportunity to restore the more archaic sense of the verse that is restorable only if we take the next word, b, in its more archaic meaning of “luster, brightness.” Here we are dealing with a more difficult reading that has been masked by the fact that our witnesses have not preserved the original dotting of the word, and have thus confused the meaning of the entire hemistich. Lest it be said that my suggestion that the better reading is ( ## ) rather than ( ##* ) is purely conjectural, let me point out that many classical Persian and Arabic sources that have kept versions of this tale report that the vizier found the king “sad” (which would be in agreement with !/  " 2 / dK ## ), rather than “crying” (which would support the reading …" 2 / dK ##* ).32 We can now pose this question: which is the lectio difficilior, ( ## dK ) or ( ##* dK ), in Ardashir’s face? The important point is that the word b in this verse does not mean “water,” and by extension “tears,” but rather “luster, brightness.” Compounds (such as bru), and names (such as Rudbeh, Mehrb, Sohrb), maintain the old sense of the word. Thus, the sense of the verse is that the vizier finds the king depressed and looking pale. For this reason, the reading ( ## dK ) is the more difficult, and therefore the better reading. Whereas in this instance deciding between what is an archaic reading and what is not is rather simple, one is occasionally faced with situations in which the lack of dots, or their inaccurate placement, makes it difficult to decide between what is right and what is not. For instance, verse 99 of the story of Ashknin in both the Moscow and Tehran editions reads: d@ * ]/ Y!/ # 2 d  > H* * #Œ* +[@ 0! Although ( d  ) might be understood as “quick witted, clever” and the like, because some manuscripts record ( d / ) rather than ( d  ) in this verse, I took ( d / ) to mean “one who wants to beget a child,” and restored the text as: d / > H* * #Œ* +[@ 0! In so doing I was following the archaic meaning of ( / ) in the sense of “child, son.” The translation of the History of Qom, the Arabic text of which was composed in 378 AH, during the era of Ferdowsi’s literary activity, glosses the word as follows: rd ba zabân-e ajam kudak bshad (Dehkhod, s.v., Rud). According to Dehkhod, the word has been used in the verse of Sa‘di, Hfez, and other poets. Here, although ( d / ) is 32

For instance, Tabari, Bal‘ami, Ebn Athir, Dinawari, all relate the story, writing that the vizier found Ardashir depressed; or as Bal‘ami puts it:  r ghamgin yft. For quotations from these sources see Krnmeh-ye Ardashir-e Bbakn, ed. Bahrm Farrah-vashi (Tehran: Dneshgh-e Tehrn), 257, 265, 270 and 273.

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the lectio difficilior as far as its first part (rud) is concerned, (d  ) might be viewed as lectio difficilior as a compound. In other words, ( d  ) as a compound meaning “clever, quick of mind” is both archaic and more difficult than it would appear in the first glance. This confusion is exclusively created by the dotting of letters. There can be no doubt that Ferdowsi wrote either one or the other. There is only one rule that absolutely and always applies to textual criticism across the board, and that is the old dictum that “every case is a special case.” I have already quoted Housman’s observation that textual criticism is both an art and a science. Here, I would like to end by observing that it is more of an art than it is science, and conclude with another quotation from Housman: A textual critic engaged upon his business is not at all like Newton investigating the motions of the planets: he is much more like a dog hunting for fleas. If a dog hunted for fleas on mathematical principles, basing his researches on statistics of area and population, he would never catch a flea except by accident. They require to be treated as individuals; and every problem which presents itself to the textual critic must be regarded as possibly unique.33

33

A. E. Housman, Collected Poems and Selected Prose. Edited with an Introduction and Notes by Christopher Ricks (London: The Penguin Press, 1988), 326.

94

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K ] ^Q2  wEK  — ^ ;  Y;Y/ / #[ 2   ¦/ / ^! * ‡* 

# / 

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+ ?¤‰

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96

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103

III. Religious Texts and Contexts

The Creative Compiler: The Art of Rewriting in ‘Ar’s Takirat al-awly’ Paul E. Losensky Indiana University, Bloomington

‘Ar’s Takirat al-awly’ (composed first quarter 7th/13th century) is both a memorial to God’s friends and a remembrance of previous texts. Scholars have recognized a wide range of works in Arabic and Persian1 that provided the substance of ‘Ar’s collection of the lives and sayings of Sufis and other pious exemplars. Identifying these sources, however, raises other, more crucial issues: How did ‘Ar frame, arrange, and revise this disparate material and to what purpose? Helmut Ritter makes a few general observations: ‘Ar has handled his sources, which he almost never names, very freely, has translated them very freely, combined several anecdotes into a longer narrative, reinterpreted many, and so forth.2 These passing comments take on greater significance in light of recent trends in literary criticism, such as the study of intertextuality and imitation, that are concerned less with the identity of the source than with what is done with it. Of particular relevance here is the concept of “rewriting” proposed by the late André Lefevere. He argues that rewriters—translators, editors, biographers, and compilers—create images of their sources that often reach a larger audience and exercise a greater power than the source itself. 3 Rewriters are responsible for popularizing, propagating, and interpreting the written tradition, assuring its on-going relevance and significance. Few texts illustrate the creative potential of rewriting better than the Takirat al-awly’. As Ritter’s remarks indicate, ‘Ar employs various techniques—imitation, free quotation, translation—in compiling and revising his sources. Analyzing ‘Ar’s methods of rewriting in detail will help show how he made the spiritual saga of early Islam available in a new language and 1

In addition to the works discussed in this article, see Bad%‘ al-Zam$n Fur¿z$nfar, Shar -i a vl va naqd va ta ll-i shr-i Shaykh Fard al-Dn Mu ammad ‘A

r-i Nshpr (Tehran: Anjuman-i Ás$r-i Mill%, 1340/1961), 86-89; and Far%d al-D%n ‘A$r, Takirat al-awly’, ed. Mu ammad Isti‘l$m%, 2nd ed. (Tehran: Zavv$r, 1363/1984), davzdah-bst va yak for full lists of ‘A$r's sources. 2 Helmut Ritter, “Philologika XIV: Far%dudd%n ‘A$r, II,” Oriens 11 (1958): 63: ‘A$r hat seine quellen, die er so gut wie niemals nennt, sehr frei behandelt, hat sehr frei übersetzt, mehrere anekdoten zu einer längeren erzählung kombiniert, manches umgedeutet usw. 3 André Lefevere, Translation, Rewriting and the Manipulation of Literary Fame (New York: Routledge, 1992), 1-10.

Paul E. Losensky

how he exploited the imaginative appeal of biographical form to win the attention and sympathy of a broad, popular audience. To simplify the problem of identifying sources, we can turn to the brief “memorial” of the ascetic and scholar formally known as Ab al-asan ‘Al ibn Sahl alI bahn (d. 280/893). The first problem in translation arises with the name itself. ‘Ar not only omits the kunya Ab al-asan, but also gives a thoroughly Persianized version of the name: ‘Al-yi Sahl-i I fahn. The Arabic ibn is replaced by the Persian e fa-yi nasab, the definite article is dropped from the nisba, and the Arabicized “I bahn” reappears in its native Persian garb, “I fahnñ.” Although such changes are not unusual in moving between Arabic and Persian, they nevertheless represent a conscious decision to translate and naturalize a proper noun. An English translator faces similar problems. One might retain the “canonical” Arabic form of the name on the grounds that this is how this individual was known to his contemporaries and is officially recognized by the scholarly community. On the other hand, one might simply transliterate ‘Ar’s Persian version of the name, arguing that this practice best reflects ‘Ar’s work as a translator and his goal of fully “Persianizing” the Arabic sources. Finally, one might offer up an Anglicized rendition of the name, such as ‘Ali son of Sahl from Isfahan; this alternative extends ‘Ar’s method of full translation into English. Each of these arguments has a certain validity, and the choice between them will depend on the translator’s overall strategies and goals. Like all the biographies in the Takirat, that of ‘Al-yi Sahl begins with a series of epithets in rhymed prose. This rhetorical scheme was probably inspired by one of two earlier works: Ab Nu‘aym’s voluminous collection of Sufi lives in Arabic, ilyat alawly’ (ca. 430/1038), or Hujvr’s general treatise on Sufism in Persian, Kashf alma jýb (ca. 460/1068). Hujvr, for example, begins his account of ‘Al-yi Sahl (or Ab al-asan ‘Al ibn-i Mu ammad, as he calls him) with a simple and barely perceptible rhyme between two plural suffixes: shhid-i mu aqqiqn va dall-i murdn (“exemplar for seekers of truth and guide of disciples”).4 Ab Nu‘aym extends a single rhyme over three phrases including the subject’s name: al-mu abbar bi'l-wal, al-ma f bi'l-fa l, Ab al-asan ‘Al ibn al-Sahl (“adorned with union, safeguarded by divine favor”).5 In adapting this introductory device, however, ‘Ar goes well beyond either of his possible models. Not only does he fully integrate his subject’s name into the pattern, but he deploys three independent rhymes (in bold type), each consisting of two phrases, and includes an additional internal rhyme (underlined) for good measure: 4

‘Al% ibn ‘Usm$n Hujv%r%, Kashf al-ma jb, ed. V. A. Zhukovskii (Leningrad, 1926; Tehran: Kit$bkh$nayi ah¿r%, 1376/1997), 181. 5 Ab¿ Nu‘aym A mad ibn ‘Abd All$h, ilyat al-awly’, 10 vols., reprint (Beirut: D$r al-Fikr, 1416/1996) 10: 404.

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n khvja-yi darvsh, n ir-i b-khvsh, n dnanda-yi ghuyb, n bnanda-yi ‘uyb, n ganjna-yi daq’iq va ma‘n, Shaykh ‘Al-yi Sahl-i Ifahn.6 To mimic this effect in English, this passage might be translated the poor man of wealth, present without self, the knower of realms invisible, the seer of human foible, the treasury of ideas and subtlety, Sheikh ‘Ali-ye Sahl-e Isfahni. With this elaborate and freely imitative rewriting, ‘Ar transforms the structural technique of his sources almost past recognition. The parallelism, antithesis, and verbal play of this heading reflect the rhetorical sophistication of such works as Maqmt-i amd by Q Ab Bakr amd al-Dn Balkh (ca. 548/1153) and Kalla va Dimna by Ab al-Ma‘l Na r Allh (ca. 559/1165). By matching the highest rhetorical standards of sixth/twelfth-century rhymed prose, ‘Ar provides a yardstick by which to measure his “modernity” and brings his work into line with contemporary literary values. This introduction, however, is more than a piece of stylistic showmanship. The rhyme words serve to lay out the major traits of ‘Al-yi Sahl’s character. As the editor of the Takirat, Mu ammad Isti‘lm, observes, “In those few rhymed phrases [saj‘] at the beginning of each section, ‘Ar strove to reveal the personality of the gnostic of whom he is speaking.”7 The themes of disinterested wealth, presence in the Lord, and most importantly, the contrast between an often deceptive surface (“foible”) and its hidden meaning (“invisible”) recur at key points throughout the stories and sayings that make up the account of ‘Al-yi Sahl. In a composite text like the Takirat, such a unifying feature helps to mute the potentially disruptive dissonance of the competing voices of earlier writings. Unlike the rhymed chapter headings, most of the Takirat is written with a plain and simple diction that looks back to stylistic standards of a century or two earlier. The reasons for this lie in a form of intertextuality that is at the opposite end of the spectrum from free imitation—quotation and paraphrase. Immediately following the rhymed heading, ‘Ar summarizes ‘Al-yi Sahl’s life and works: He was very great and well respected. He was one of the eminent sheikhs, and Junayd maintained a subtle correspondence with him. He was a companion of Ab Turb, and his sayings regarding spiritual realities are

6 7

‘A$r, Takirat, 543. Ibid., bst va si.

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very lofty. His conduct and austerities were perfect, and he had a proper exposition of the path. ‘Amr ibn ‘Usmn of Mecca came to visit him in Isfahan; he had a debt of thirty thousand dirhams, and ‘Al ibn Sahl paid it all off.8 Almost this entire passage comes from earlier works: the words and sentences in plain italics are taken from Hujvr’s Kashf al-ma jýb, and those in bold italics paraphrase the Persian translation of Qushayr’s Risla (ca. 440/1048). Closer examination reveals not only ‘Ar’s indebtedness, but also the subtlety of his rewriting. The Persian text of ‘Ar’s concluding sentences reads ‘Amr ibn-i ‘Usmn-i Makk bi-ziyrat-i  mad bi-Ifahn, va s hazr diram vm dsht. ‘Al ibn-i Sahl hama biguzrd. Here is how the first of these sentences appears in Hujvr’s text: ‘Amr ibn-i ‘Usmn bi-ziyrat-i vay bi-Ifahn shud.9 The change from vay to  probably represents a free variation between two equivalent forms of the third-person singular pronoun. The revision of the verb phrase seems to reflect changing linguistic usage: ‘Ar reverses direction and replaces shud in its increasingly archaic sense of “went” with the less-ambiguous mad, “came.” Moving the prepositional phrase of destination after the verb likely follows an informal speech pattern that persists in modern colloquial Persian.10 The most striking change from the source, however, is contextual. Hujvr’s sentence occurs between the statements regarding Junayd and Ab Turb as part of a passage relating ‘Al to his better-known contemporaries. 11 By moving the sentence, ‘Ar makes it the beginning of a short narrative that he fills out with a free quotation from his other major source, the Persian translation of Qushayr’s Risla:

8

Ibid., 543. Hujv%r%, Kashf, 181. 10 Further examples of ‘A$r's “updating” of Hujv%r%'s language can be found in Mu ammad Taq% Bah$r, Sabk-shins, 3 vols., 2nd ed. (Tehran: Am%r-i Kab%r, 1347/1968) 2: 209. 11 As the passage appears in Nicholson's translation, “Junayd and he wrote exquisite letters to one another, and ‘Amr b. ‘Uthmán Makkí went to Isfahán to visit him. He consorted with Abú Turáb and Junayd”: ‘Al% ibn Usm$n Hujv%r%, The Kashf al-ma jb: the Oldest Persian Treatise on fism, trans. Reynold A. Nicholson (Leyden, 1911; Karachi: Darul-Ishaat, 1990), 143. 9

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The Creative Compiler

‘Amr ibn-i ‘Usmn al-Makk nazdk-i  shud, bi-sabab-i vm ka vay-r bar mada bd va s hazr diram bd va vm-i vay biguzrd.12 Although ‘Ar’s source is unmistakable, he simplifies and smoothes out its phrasing, allowing the context to carry the sense of the connective bi-sabab-i (“because of”) and eliminating the clumsy relative clause beginning vm ka (“a debt that had overwhelmed him and was thirty thousand dirhams”). Taken together, ‘Ar’s quotations and revisions result in an elegant, concise, and well-organized biographical précis. By modern standards, ‘Ar is a blatant plagiarist: he quotes and paraphrases without citing his sources. Our notion of plagiarism, however, assumes that knowledge is a commodity and authorship is a form of ownership, assumptions that grow out of print culture and capitalist economics. Neither ‘Ar nor his readers shared this sense of proprietary authorship and its ethics. ‘Ar, after all, is explicit about what he is doing. In the introduction to the Takirat, he uses the term jam‘ kardan—to collect or gather—to describe his process of composition. 13 Leaving aside the problem of attribution, this process is similar to what happens in a modern anthology or encyclopedia entry, forms of rewriting that are essential to education and the formation of a canonical body of knowledge. ‘Ar selects key passages from texts that were well over a century old at the time he was writing, and he makes them accessible and attractive to a contemporary audience in a single, convenient volume. He brings great skill to bear on this task. He clinches his introduction with a concise narrative that aptly illustrates the opening phrase of the chapter heading, “the poor man of wealth.” Although well-to-do, ‘Al was not attached to his riches and parted with his money freely when others were in need. Even the individual words that ‘Ar borrows from Hujvr add to this cohesiveness. “Spiritual truths” ( aqyiq) reinforces ‘Al’s knowledge of the “invisible,” and “proper exposition” (bayn shfi) points to the preponderantly expository and didactic content of the rest of the entry. ‘Ar frames, arranges, and revises his sources in a way that serves to integrate them into a comprehensive whole. In the longer biographies in the Takirat, the opening epithets and introductory summary are followed by a series of anecdotes illustrating the subject’s adventures on the spiritual path. However, few such stories about ‘Al-yi Sahl were preserved in the earlier literature, and accurately reflecting the state of his sources, ‘Ar proceeds directly to ‘Al’s sayings and aphorisms. These are introduced with the brief, transitional statement “These are his words”:

12

Ab¿ al-Q$sim Qushayr%, Tarjuma-yi Risla-yi Qushayrya, ed. Bad%‘ al-Zam$n Fur¿z$nfar (Tehran: ‘Ilm% va Farhang%, 1340/1961), 64. 13 ‘A$r, Takirat, 6.

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(1) Rushing to devotions is one of the signs of success. Refraining from transgressions is one of the signs of God’s protection. Watching over the innermost self is one of the signs of wakefulness. Coming out with our pretense is part of the pride of humanity. Anyone who has not made his intention right in the beginning will not attain prosperity and well-being in the end. (2) They asked ‘Al-yi Sahl, “Say a few words about the idea of perception.” “Whoever fancies that he is closer is in reality further away. When the sunlight falls through the window, children want to grab a hold of the dust motes. They close their hands. They fancy they have something in their grasp. When they open their hands, they see nothing.” (3) Being present in the Real is preferable to being certain of the Real, because presence is in the heart and negligence is not admissible there. Certainty is a passing thought that sometimes comes and sometimes goes. Those who are present sit at the head of the table, while those who are certain wait at the threshold. (4) The negligent live according to the decree of the Lord most High. Those who remember Him live in the compassion of the Lord. The gnostics live in the proximity of the Lord. (5) It is forbidden for a person to call on Him and know Him and to take comfort in anything else. (6) May you take heed to avoid pride in the beauty of your good works, leading to the hidden corruption of the innermost self. (That is to say, Satan was like this.) (7) I asked for wealth; I found it in learning. I asked for glory; I found it in poverty. I asked for well-being; I found it in renunciation. I asked for a light reckoning; I found it in silence. I asked for ease; I found it in despair. (8) From the time of Adam (peace be upon him) forward, until the hour of the resurrection, people have been talking about the heart and still are. I want someone who will counsel me on what the heart is or how it is, but I have not found him. (9) They asked ‘Al-yi Sahl about the truth of unity. “It is near to where there are speculations, but it is distant in realities.”14

14

Ibid., 543-44. In the Persian, each aphorism is preceded by guft, “he said.” In the “wrap-around” lineation of a manuscript, this verb serves to separate the aphorisms and takes the place of quotation

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‘Ar’s primary source for the sayings of ‘Al-yi Sahl is the abaqt al-fya composed by Ab ‘Abd al-Ra mn Mu ammad al-Sulam in about 390/1000. In selecting from the seventeen aphorisms recorded by Sulam, ‘Ar unfolds the themes introduced in the rhymed epithets. Wealth and poverty in aphorism (7), for example, again recall the paradoxical opening phrase. The discussion of “presence in the Real” ( ur bi- aqq) in aphorism (3) develops the characterization of ‘Al as “present without self” ( ir-i bkhvsh). The opposition between ‘uyb (“foibles, shortcomings”) and ghuyb (“invisible, transcendental things”) runs through several of the sayings. It is implicit in the contrasts between pride and innermost self in aphorism (6) and between speculations and realities of aphorism (9). Even the ideas of sign (1) and perception (2) are based on the relationship between sensible appearance and abstract meaning and point up the contrast between two modes of apprehension. Although the sayings are not ordered in a strict logical sequence, they resonate with one another around a well-defined set of themes. Though all the aphorisms come from a single source, each takes a slightly different route from Sulam’s Arabic to ‘Ar’s Persian. Three of the aphorisms had been previously translated into Persian. ‘Ar quotes aphorism (1) directly from the Persian translation of Qushayr’s Risla. The minor changes in wording again seem designed to bring the source into line with current linguistic usage.15 ‘Ar faced a choice between two earlier translations of aphorism (3) and opted for the version from Hujvr’s Kashf alma jýb. 16 This translation intermixes a word-for-word gloss of the Arabic with an explanatory commentary; Hujvr is able to maintain a clear distinction between translation and explication by including the Arabic text alongside his translation for a presumably bilingual readership. This distinction is blurred when ‘Ar omits the Arabic text: translation and commentary are merged in a monolingual Persian, amplifying ‘Al-yi Sahl’s laconic dictum without changing its basic content. 17 However, ‘Ar does not marks. Since line spacing and numbering play those roles here, I have deleted the redundant “he said”s in my translation. 15 Qushayr%, Tarjuma-yi Risla, 64. ‘A$r follows the syntax of his source exactly, and none of the changes in wording substantially alter the meaning. Bz dshtan replaces the nearly synonymous bz stdan (“refraining,” Arabic taq‘ud ‘an). ‘A$r writes ra‘n’-yi basharyat (“the pride of humanity”) for ru‘nat-i bashar (“human egotism”) in Qushayr%; both make an abstract noun out of al-Sulam%'s plural ru‘nt al-basharya, though ‘A$r more correctly reads the Arabic construct. Compare Ab¿ ‘Abd alRa m$n Mu ammad al-Sulam%, Kitb abaqt al-fya, ed. Johannes Pedersen (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1960), 229-230. 16 Hujv%r%, Kashf, 181. This saying is also translated in Qushayr%, Tarjuma-yi Risla, 275. 17 Barbara von Schlegell translates the aphorism from the Arabic: “Being in the presence [of God] is preferable to certainty because being in the presence [of God] is actual and certainty is conceptual” (alQushayri, Principles of Sufism, trans. B. R. von Schlegell (Berkeley: Mizan Press, 1990), 144). “Actual” is a translation of the word wa ant, more literally “things that reside.” This term is progressively internalized in the Persian renditions: Hujv%r% writes, andar dil muva

an bshad, “is residing in the

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adopt earlier Persian translations just because they are at hand. Hujvr offers a close translation of aphorism (8) immediately following the Arabic text. ‘Ar nonetheless ignores Hujvr’s version and offers his own freer rendition. 18 As in the summary of ‘Al’s career, ‘Ar’s willingness to deviate from his sources is as clear as his indebtedness to them. For most of the sayings of ‘Al-yi Sahl, ‘Ar had no Persian precedents to work from and apparently translated directly from Sulam’s Arabic. In many cases, these translations follow the original closely. For example, the first portion of Sulam’s text of aphorism (7) reads: iltamastu al-ghan’ fa-wajadtu-hu fi'l-‘ilm wa-ltamastu al-fakhr fawajadtu-hu fi'l-faqr.19 Since many of these words had been absorbed into the Persian lexicon, ‘Ar is able to mimic the Arabic precisely while employing a thoroughly Persian syntax: tavngar iltims kardam; dar ‘ilm yftam, va fakhr iltims kardam; dar faqr yftam. For all intents and purposes, English translations of the Arabic and Persian are indistinguishable: “I asked for wealth; I found it in learning. I asked for glory; I found it in poverty.” ‘Ar, of course, does not always adhere so closely to the literal sense of the Arabic. For example, Sulam’s version of aphorism (5) goes arm ‘alá man ‘arifa Allh an yaskunu ilá shay’ ghayrihi It is forbidden to a person who knows God to rely on anything besides Him.20 While remaining generally faithful to the sense and syntax of the source text, ‘Ar’s rendition introduces some small deviations in wording:

heart,” which ‘A$r further simplifies to dar dil buvad, “is in the heart,” eliminating any trace of the original Arabic root (w--n). 18 Hujv%r%, Kashf, 181 and Sulam%, abaqt, 230. Compare Hujv%r%'s and ‘A$r's rendering of the first clause: the Arabic text reads, al-ns yaqlna al-qalb al-qalb (“people say, 'The heart, the heart'“). Hujv%r%'s translation is literal: mardum mgyand dil dil. ‘A$r elaborates on the verbal tense and avoids direct speech: damiyn az dil mguftand va mgyand (“people have been talking about the heart and still are”). 19 Sulam%, abaqt, 232. 20 Ibid., 230.

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arm ast kas-r ka -r mkhvnad va mdnad va b chz dgar rm mgrad It is forbidden for a person to call on Him and know Him and to take comfort in anything else. 21 ‘Ar replaces the explicit naming of the divinity with the more deferential and reverential third-person pronoun. rm giriftan (to take comfort) translates the basic sense of sakana, but misses the more idiomatic meaning of sakana ilá (to rely on, trust to). The addition of the verb mkhvnad (call on) goes beyond immediate lexical concerns and seems linked to the larger thematics of the biography. From the rhyme between bnanda and dnanda in the opening epithets, ‘Ar’s account of ‘Al dwells on the problem of understanding the unseen and transcendent through fallible human means. In this context, the outward action of summoning God logically proceeds inward knowledge of Him. Recognizing such small departures from the source text and their broader implications is possible only because, as B. Reinert observes, ‘Ar “translated sayings of his Sufis, which had come down in Arabic, very faithfully into Persian.”22 ‘Ar, however, sometimes allows himself a freedom that would make a literalminded translator blanch. Sulam closes his chapter on ‘Al ibn Sahl with a saying that can be rendered into English as follows: ‘Al was asked about the reality of unity. He said, “It is close to speculations, distant in realities,” and he recited this verse to some of them: I said to my companions, “It is the sun. Its light is near, but grasping it [tanwulih] a remote possibility.”23 Appropriating his model fully, ‘Ar also concludes his selection of ‘Al’s aphorisms (9) with the first part of Sulam’s text. Aside from adding a couple of particles to clarify the syntax, ‘Ar’s Persian follows the Arabic word for word: Su’ila ‘Al ‘an aqqat al-taw id, fa-qla qarb min al- unn ba‘d f al aq’iq. 21

Persian text is here taken from Far%d al-D%n ‘A$r, Takirat al-awly’, ed. Reynold A. Nicholson, 2 vols. (London, 1905-07; Tehran: Duny$-yi Kit$b, [1982]) 2:110. Isti‘l$m%'s edition omits the direct object r. If this omission is not a typesetter's error, it suggests that an understanding of ‘A$r's translation practice may help in ascertaining the correct reading of the Persian text. 22 Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. “‘A$r, Shaikh Far%d al-D%n.” 23 Sulam%, abaqt, 232.

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Pursdand az aqqat-i taw id, guft nazdk ast az nj ka gumn'h-st amm dr ast dar aqyiq. ‘Ar seems to have dropped the verse that rounds out Sulam’s account, until we look back to aphorism (2), which has no immediate precedent in Sulam (or any other source). Here ‘Al is asked about the meaning or idea of yft. The use of yft in the somewhat unusual sense of knowing, recognition, or perception was apparently inspired by the key verb in the verse Sulam cites, tanwul. Like the English “to grasp,” both the Persian and Arabic words can indicate either physical or mental apprehension. This lexical link points up the similarity of the images. Grasping the sun is, of course, a patent impossibility, but ‘Ar brings it closer to reality by introducing what Shaf‘ Kadkan calls “one of the most prevalent motifs for the idea of the unity of being in ‘Ar’s poetry”—the dust mote. 24 Like children, we vainly attempt to take hold of the transcendent through its myriad material manifestations, yet another example of human foible in the face of the invisible divine. ‘Ar in this case translates as a poet, exercising full license in recreating his source in a new language and context. Taken together, ‘Ar’s renditions of ‘Al-yi Sahl’s aphorisms encompass the full range of rewriting—from borrowing earlier translations to glossing word-for-word to freely interpreting the sense. However, ‘Ar’s most significant departure from his sources does not involve translation, but the presumably straightforward act of quotation. Like most of the biographies in the Takirat, that of ‘Al-yi Sahl ends with the story of his death: It is related that he said, “Do you imagine that my death will be like your death when you fall ill and people visit you on your sickbed? Let them summon me, and I will answer.” One day, when he was walking along, he said, “I am at Your service” and laid his head down. Sheikh Ab al-asan-i Muzayyan stated, “At that moment, I said to him, ‘Say, “There is no god but God.”’ He smiled and said, ‘Are you telling me to say something? By His majesty, there is nothing between me and Him but the veil of His majesty!’ and he died.” After that, Ab al-asan-i Muzayyan would take hold of his mustache and say, “How can a phlebotomist like me instruct the friends of the Lord in how to die? What a disgrace!” and he would weep.25

24

Mu ammad Shaf%‘% Kadkan%, Zabr-i Prs: nigh bi-zindag va ghazal'h-yi ‘A

r (Tehran: Ág$h, 1378/1999-2000), 263. 25 ‘A$r, Takirat, 544. In the first sentence, Isti‘l$m% reads khvham bd; as Nicholson's edition (2:111) suggests, this must be read khvhad bd to agree with the grammatical subject marg-i man. The italicized phrases in the translation are in Arabic in the original.

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‘Ar clearly derived the substance of this anecdote from the Persian translation of Qushayr’s Risla. In a chapter entitled “The Circumstances of this Clan when Departing this World,” Qushayr gives accounts of the deaths of some forty Sufis and pious folk. Setting aside Qushayr’s thematic structure, ‘Ar extracts the story of ‘Al’s death from this chapter and integrates it into a biographical context. The recontextualization leads to stylistic revisions. For example, ‘Ar has no need to mention ‘Al’s name at the start of the anecdote, and removing the redundant material from Qushayr’s final sentence places greater emphasis on the final verb and gives a solid closure to ‘Al’s biography in the Takirat. But ‘Ar’s transformation of his source goes far beyond stylistic concerns. The relevant portion of the Persian translation of the Risla deals in fact with the deaths of two pious men: Concerning ‘Al ibn-i Sahl-i I fahn, they relate that he said, “Do you imagine that my death will be like the death of others who fall ill and who people visit on their sickbeds? Let them summon me, and I will answer.” One day, he was walking along and he said, “I am at Your service” and received God’s command. Ab al-asan-i Muzayyan states, “When Ab Ya‘q b-i Nahraj r fell mortally ill, I said to him, ‘Say, “There is no god but God.”’ He smiled and said, ‘Are you talking to me? By the majesty of the One on Whom death has no hold, there is no veil between me and Him but His majesty!’ and at that moment he passed away.” After that, Muzayyan would take hold of his mustache and say, “How is it a phlebotomist like me can instruct the friends of the Lord in how to die? What a disgrace!” and when he would tell the story about him, he would weep.26 By omitting the phrase “When Ab Ya‘q b Nahraj r fell mortally ill,” ‘Ar conflates the story of his death with that of ‘Al-yi Sahl. Although we might attribute this omission to accident or oversight, the seamless integration of the two stories suggests an intentional hand. By changing the third person (“the death of others”) into the second (“your death”) in ‘Al’s opening statement, ‘Ar not only engages the reader directly, but also hints at a narrative addressee, a role that will be filled by Ab al-asan Muzayyan. Rewriting Qushayr’s “received God’s command” (that is, died) as “laid his head down” provides the pause needed for ‘Al’s brief exchange with Ab al-asan. Whether serendipitous or deliberate, the combination of the two anecdotes is rhetorically and thematically effective. The key moment of ‘Al’s death is framed by prospective and 26

Qushayr%, Tarjuma, 525-26.

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retrospective comments, setting up a sharp contrast between the deceased’s confident repose and the survivor’s confused despair. At the moment of his death, ‘Al rejects human language as utterly inadequate to the immediacy of his encounter with the divine, thus reiterating the theme of God’s “presence” introduced in the biography’s opening rhymes. Finally, as a phlebotomist, Ab al-asan is an expert in the physical, mechanical causes of death, but unable to fathom its spiritual dimensions. ‘Ar’s rewriting of the death scene manifests one last time the error of external knowledge compared to the transcendent insight into “realms invisible” possessed by friends of God like ‘Al-yi Sahl. Although the “memorial” to ‘Al-yi Sahl is one of the shortest biographies in the Takirat al-awly’, it amply demonstrates ‘Ar’s creative mastery of the complex art of rewriting. Imitation, quotation, paraphrase, literal and free translation, rearrangement, and even selective omission, all play a role in ‘Ar’s amalgamation and re-creation of his sources. Extending this analysis to longer biographies, with their more open structure and greater anecdotal content, would not only further our appreciation of the workings of such techniques, but also reveal additional forms of narrative revision.27 But even this brief analysis indicates the overall approach and purpose that inform the Takirat. Biography, as Catherine Parke has recently suggested, is situated in a tug-of-war between history and fiction, between the solid satisfaction of facts and an imaginative appeal to the emotions and to basic dilemmas of human existence. 28 Not unlike a modern researcher, ‘Ar draws on earlier, reliable sources, but he sometimes utilizes them in ways that our present-day secular skepticism and standards of positivist accuracy find naive or deceptive. Part of the reason for this is that ‘Ar is not addressing a scholarly audience: the Takirat was written to make the lives and sayings of the early exemplars of Islamic spirituality available to “his family and friends” so that “everyone could be included,” even those who were unable to master Arabic. 29 ‘Ar’s purposes were educational and homiletic, and this work belongs to the rich tradition of public teaching and preaching characteristic of Khorasanian Sufism and its literature. Rhetorical persuasiveness often takes precedence over what we would consider historiographic accuracy. “Rewriting manipulates, and it is effective.”30 ‘Ar gathers and re-creates the historical material found in previous Arabic biographies and Sufi manuals in order to

27

One might, for example, take as a starting point Schimmel's impressionistic comment that “‘A$r's biography [of ‘Ab¿ al-usayn N¿r%] elaborates romantically on otherwise briefly mentioned details”: “Ab¿'l-usayn al-N¿r%: ‘The Qibla of Lights,’” in The Heritage of Sufism, ed. Leonard Lewisohn, 3 vols. (Oxford: Oneworld, 1999) 1: 60. 28 Catherine N. Parke, Biography: Writing Lives (New York: Routledge, 2002), xiii-xvi. 29 ‘A$r, Takirat, 5 and 7. 30 Lefevere, Translation, 9.

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draw his popular audience into an imaginative identification with exemplary characters, ideal values, and typological situations, the significance of which supercedes the factual particulars of time and place. Perhaps no modern scholar can better assess the continuing effectiveness of ‘Ar’s creative rewriting than Shaf‘ Kadkan. The Takirat al-awly’ is, he writes, the choicest of all the works of mystical prose literature. The like cannot be found in either Persian or Arabic for its alluring prose, every page of which is a brilliant collection of the most beautiful prose-poetry in the world.31 The analysis of ‘Ar’s techniques allows us to appreciate the type and extent of the artistry that went into this work. In the brief biography of ‘Al-yi Sahl, ‘Ar not only draws a verbal portrait of a minor figure that is far more cohesive and convincing than any of its sources, but also offers a short meditation on one of the fundamental problems of mystical epistemology. Like the patches on a Sufi’s frock, ‘Ar’s manipulation of his sources not only shows his indebtedness to his mentors, but also signals his own achievement.

31

Shaf‘ Kadkan, Zabr-i Prs, 42.

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Shahriyr b. al-asan: A Persian Ism‘l d‘ of the Fatimid age Wilferd Madelung Oxford University

Ever since the rise and expansion of the Ism‘l missionary movement throughout the Islamic world in the 3rd/9th century, Iran has been intimately connected with its religious and philosophical thought. The origins of the movement, though much obscured by legendary tale, are commonly sought in western Iran. Investigating its roots, the early critical historian al-Mas‘ d (d. 345/956) asserted that it was founded in the year 260/874 in Isfahan. Anti-Ism‘l polemicists imagined a plot of Persian Shu‘ bs active in Kh zistn out to destroy Arab Islam. Whilst political success of the movement came in Bahrain, Yemen, and most spectacularly, with the rise of the Fatimid caliphate, in the Maghrib and Egypt, Iran continued to contribute many of the d‘s who profoundly shaped its spiritual identity. As numerous works of early Ism‘l literature have become accessible to modern scholarship, the names of Ab Ya‘q b al-Sijistn, amd al-Dn alKirmn, al-Mu’ayyad f al-Dn al-Shrz and N ir-i Khusrau stand out among the chief representatives of Ism‘l religious thought. There were others whose works, although much more modest and conventional, were significant enough to be preserved and treasured by the tradition of the Ism‘l da‘wa. Shahriyr b. al-asan is known as a d‘ of Frs and Kirmn, later active in Yemen, in the time of the Fatimid caliph al-Mustan ir bi Allh (427-487/1035-1094).1 Given the lack of concrete data, the story of his life can only vaguely be reconstructed. He was presumably somewhat younger than his illustrious fellow countryman alMu’ayyad f al-Dn al-Shrz, who was born before 390/1000 and succeeded his own father as head of the Fatimid Ism‘l da‘wa in Frs. Shahriyr and al-Mu’ayyad must certainly have been known to each other, but there is no evidence of a close relationship between them at that time. In his autobiography al-Mu’ayyad does not mention Shahriyr or any other d‘ in Frs. It was, no doubt, al-Mu’ayyad f al-Dn’s fall from grace of the B yid ruler Ab Kljr under ‘Abbasid pressure and the subsequent persecution of Ism‘ls in Frs which also compelled Shahriyr to leave his homeland after 435/1043. He found a secure refuge in Yemen, where the ulay ids had recently succeeded in

1

Brief biographical notes on Shahriyr b. al-asan are provided by . F. al-Hamdn, al-ulay iyyn wa al- araka al-F imiyya f al-Yaman (Cairo, 1955), 266, 272; I. Poonawala, Biobibliography of Ism‘l Literature (Malibu, 1977), 125-6; and idem, EI 2, s.v.

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founding a Fatimid vassal state. Al-Mukarram A mad, the son and successor of the founder, in particular patronized him. An official letter (sijill) of the caliph al-Mustan ir to al-Mukarram dated 15 Raman 461/8 July 1069 mentions that the latter had made a request in respect to the “faithful” (waf) Shahriyr b. asan and that the chief d‘, alMu’ayyad f al-Dn, would take charge of the matter.2 On the basis of this note it has been assumed that Shahriyr was actually sent by al-Mukarram with a delegation to Cairo. 3 This seems reasonable, but not certain. It may be that al-Mukarram merely requested a promotion for Shahriyr in the ranks of the da‘wa in Yemen. Shahriyr’s prestige in the da‘wa was, in any case, secured by the intervention of al-Mukarram and the chief d‘ in Cairo. Perhaps a decade or two later, he was present at a session of the court of the Queen al-Sayyida Arw4 when Ab al-Mundhir ‘mir b. Sulaymn al-Zaw  (d. 492/1099), a dignitary prestigious in the da‘wa and influential with the queen, put forward a question to the assembled learned men about the Qur’an, verse 68:1: “We have given you a manifest victory, so that God shall forgive you your sin that preceded and that has been delayed.” What, he asked, was the sense of the ascription of sin to the Prophet? Are not the prophets impeccable and protected from all sin? All the scholars present, both adherents of the da‘wa and opponents, offered answers which, on consideration, merely added to the astonishment and confusion of the audience. Finally Shahriyr gave his explanation with words that came to his mind at the moment. His answer was evidently judged to be satisfactory, and he later recorded it in writing and sent it to al-Zaw . Thus it was preserved. Shahriyr’s known works include, besides the letter to al-Zaw , a treatise in refutation of those who deny the spiritual world and a qada poem beginning with the words: “What is love of the world and its people to me?”5 The poem, which might throw some light on his ascetic world view, unfortunately is not accessible at present. The treatise countering the denial of the spiritual world was included by the Yemenite d‘ Mu ammad b. hir al-rith in his Majm‘ al-tarbiya, a popular chrestomathy of basic Ism‘l texts chosen for educational purposes. II The Risla f al-radd ‘al man yunkir al-‘lam al-r n reflects primarily the philosophical cosmology adopted by the Ism‘ls. Apart from the reference to the 2

A.M. Mjid (Magued), al-Sijillt al-Mustaniriyya (Cairo, 1954), 202. So both . al-Hamdn, al-ulay iyyn, 272, and Poonawala, Biobibliography, 125, and EI2, s.v. “Shahriyr b. al-asan.” 4 The queen is not named in the introduction to Shahriyr’s letter to ‘mir al-Zaw . The use of the feminine pronoun in the formula of blessings, however, indicates that her court is meant. 5 See Poonawala, Biobibliography, 126. 3

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Prophets, Legatees and Imams as the recipients and transmitters of divine spiritual assistance (ta’yd), little in it is characteristic of Ism‘l gnostic thought. The adversaries are the narrow-minded materialist believers who fail to recognize the spiritual dimension intervening between God and the physical world. The treatise begins with the question of an imaginary interlocutor: “You claim that the world consists of two worlds, the corporeal and the spiritual. The corporeal world we know, and do not deny it. It consists of this immense visible structure of a raised sky, shining stars, complementary elements and successive realms of nature. Beyond that we see or perceive nothing. So prove to us its existence with an irrefutable argument whose truth is witnessed by the hearts.” The author replies by pointing to his and his interlocutor’s agreement concerning the corporeal world, its limits and design. From this world, he asserts, the reality of the spiritual world is revealed without difficulty, for whatever is hidden can be deduced from what is apparent. If that were not the case, there would be no way to comprehend what we witness. This visible world may be divided into three domains. The first of them is the world of spheres and stars in which there is no increase or decrease in either its whole or its particulars. If there were any increase, it would have to seek an empty space for itself, but, according to the consensus among the sages, there is absolutely no empty space in the world. Moreover, the celestial world has been observed throughout all ages, yet no spatial expansion or contraction has ever been witnessed. Rather, it is changeless in its sound structure and stable composition, so that corruption has no path to enter it at all. The second domain of this world is the four elements, earth, water, air and fire. They undergo change in their particulars, but not in their collectivity, by mutual exchange and mixture. Whatever enters being by mixture will return to its original state by corruption. Yet if the change in the elements were collective, there would be no stable being upon which to rest for the realms of nature. The third domain consists of the three realms of nature, the minerals, plants and animals. They are subject to change in their collectivity and in their particulars, as each of their bodies goes through its three stages of coming into being, transformation (isti la), and corruption. Shahriyr goes on to affirm that man, being “the first in thought, the last in creation, and the ultimate end of existents,” must partake of every genus of the lower world in himself and possess a portion of every substance (jawhar) of the upper world. Because of the breadth of his base, the multitude of his powers and the expanse of his margins ( awsh), man seeks to attract material (mdda) from all of them. As a consequence, opposites meet in him which hold back the material from freely reaching him. He therefore needs to maximize the noble power that the material may reach him in order to progress from the state of potentiality to actuality and from his state of weakness to the state of noble elevation. This noble power becomes fluent in him and aids him to acquire the knowledge and cognition through which he reaches salvation in the abode of the hereafter. As portions of all existents are assembled in him, the whole of creation

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becomes subservient to him. He rules over it as he puts each thing in its proper place. Thereby he earns permanent being and his transfer from the abode of perdition to the abode of life, which is the Garden of Refuge and the abode of simple substances (bas’i ), where he is no longer in need of seeking these material benefits as his own substance reaches perfection. All this is lacking in the body since its substance is confined, its basis narrow and its margins close. Thus it draws its material only from whatever is nearby, not from what is remote, and does not deserve to be transferred to the abode of the hereafter and to acquire permanence. It is no equal to man, and any analogy between them is disproportionate. Increase, decrease, transformation and spatial transfer in bodies are all by nature and compulsion. Yet we may find in them another motion which is not derived from their substance or their kind. That is the motion of choice and will. When bodies are single by themselves, they lack that choice and that motion. The condition for the motion of choice is that the agent has the power to act and to desist. In constrained action, the body by its nature is unable to desist from it. Thus we know that the producer of this motion is not the body. Among the voluntary acts are those which attract the useful and which ward off harm. The body by itself does not repel defects and is unable to attract benefit. Rather, it is prepared to receive accidentals and the impact of effects, whether they are good or bad. The agent in it thus is able to do with it whatever he wishes. At one time he turns it from its elementary being of earth, water, air and fire into flesh, blood, bones and nerves and all for which the body is prepared. By thus being raised from stage to stage it becomes suited for the purposes of the agent without resistance. At another time he lowers it from its noble state by exposing it to corruption and allows it to disintegrate. The agent thus takes the body for some purpose and when he has reached his aim, discards it and dispenses with it. It then continues to decline until it returns to its original condition from which it began. It remains then unable to lift itself a single degree until another agent utilizes it and does with it as the first one had done. Thus we know that with the body there must be another substance that attracts the useful and wards off the harmful. This substance, the author proposes, possesses innumerable virtues, but there is a limit to what this chapter of his treatise can contain. Among these virtues is the cognition of things absent in time and space and the expansion of this substance through its information into times past and future. Past and future thus become combined in a single particle (juz’) without resistance, while they resist the body, which is unable to control them both. The classes of mankind, however, differ in that respect. There are those who view these two times for the sake of their worldly livelihood. They view in their minds the ways for gaining benefit and the proper moment to reach their aims, scheming to attain them by various means. Rarely a benefit escapes them in most matters. Others look for the governance of others and seek to conquer and rule over their fellow men. They

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ever employ their minds to set up helpers for those who will tomorrow curb the violence and evil of the enemy and will uproot those expected to assault their kingdom or revolt against it. All this requires proper foresight and understanding of the past in order to plan for the future. The one who is most able to imagine the future will be recognized as the most excellent among them. Is there any physical body which is capable of that? If that ability were founded in the structure of bodies, the excellent and the base, the intelligent and the ignorant would all be equal. The utmost degree and highest rank of this virtue is attained by the elect of mankind who receive the divine support (ta’yd) through which they tread creation under their feet, yet spread the cover of their kindness and mercy over it. They warn humans about the ultimate outcome in this world and the hereafter, caution them by the prediction of horrific events long before they occur, give them good tidings of bounties and the descent of blessings on them and of good fortune, inform them of where they are going and from where they originated, and explain to them their path between beginning and end. Through their preaching, humans gain knowledge. Those who do this are the veracious prophets, the most noble legatees, and the rightly guided Imams. Someone may object that this divine support does not depend on any body or anything else. Shahriyr suggests that if the questioner investigated what he said the answer would occur to him from his own words. For this divine support which both he and the questioner acknowledge must be either Creator or created. Since the Creator does not exist in anything created, it must be created. Yet it is obviously part of that spiritual world whose reality Shahriyr is seeking to demonstrate. From that spiritual world everyone receives support in accordance with his capacity, the extent of his substance and the purity of his soul. The one whose substance is most lucid is worthy of being singled out by God for support and revelation (tanzl) and that He should make him an intermediary between Himself and His creation. Through him God thus will lead humans from the darkness of ignorance to the light of knowledge, and through his mediation He will revive them for everlasting life. As for those whose substance is opaque and whose hearts are blind, God indicates to them through the tongue of these intermediaries how to purify their substance, to soften their hearts and to transform their morals, so that if they obey their leaders, they attain what God has prepared for them. God has, furthermore, made His creation dependent on each other, such that each one takes guidance from his companion who is next to him. The chain in which they are suspended and by which they rise up is emanated upon them from the lights of the spiritual world whose reality is denied by the opponent. The author next argues that the power of each body extends only as far as its limits. If there is any influence by a body on another, it is only by touching it. Otherwise there is absolutely no effect of one body inside another. Yet we find a different substance that reaches to all regions of the earth and to remote places in less than a blink of the eye.

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Anyone endowed with a will is able to imagine India or China or any other far-off region without needing to go there, finding them represented in himself. Likewise he may engage the vision of his heart and the thought of his mind in comprehending the structure of the heavens, the stars, their orbits, their elevation relative to others, the power of their influence in ascent and its decline in descent. He is able to imagine all this in the shortest time possible, in which the body is unable to perceive and realize it. He may further employ his mind in imagining the totality of the universe as if it were a ball before him and can quickly penetrate into any part of it and their movements. God has alerted us to this meaning in His words (Qur’an 55:33): “O assembly of Jinn and men, if you are capable of passing through the regions of the heavens and the earth, pass through; but you will not pass through without authority (sul n).” That authority consists in the simple spiritual powers which attract everything to their essence and substance and hold the corporeal world in their horizon. We find that a single seed, when sown in the earth, will attract to itself many parts from the elements, and these parts will increase manifold. Then they will bring forth numerous seeds, each one of them endowed with the same shape and power as the first one. If there were not a noble power and an active substance in that seed, it could not have this effect. The same is true of animals and humans as they reproduce themselves innumerably. We also say, Shahriyr continues, that the spiritual world is not obscure to us because of its intrinsic obscurity, but rather because of our inability to perceive it. In this respect it is like speech composed of letters that contains noble meanings. It escapes children and fools, not because it is obscure in itself, but because of the weakness of their faculties in comprehending it. Similarly, the bat becomes weak in vision when the sun rises. As its sight is darkened, it is unable to fly, and directions are closed to it. Yet when night obscures it, it sets out to fly in search of its food. Likewise, the people who draw least benefit from their spirituality are those who possess least knowledge of it. According to the extent of their recognition of spiritual matters will be their connection with them, their nobility and their capability to seek everlasting life. Further evidence is that we find the composite body holding together its parts and soundly constructed for some time. Then, as time advances, its parts fall apart and disperse, and it has no power to control itself. If its hold on these parts were by the body itself, it would never break apart. Thus we know that there is something else that is itself hidden and appears to us only by the power of its effect. God has made it a bond for the composite parts and it holds them together and preserves their order. When it departs, the body is unable to hold on to its parts and falls into ruin until it disintegrates. The treatise ends with an appeal to the denier of the spiritual world to consider and meditate all that in order to realize the power of God in his creation of the world, the subtle as well as the massive, the apparent as well as the concealed. By that he will

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recognize the unicity of God, as His Messenger has said: “The most cognizant of himself is also the most cognizant of his Lord.” III Shahriyr’s other treatise, on the offenses committed by the prophets, is more specifically Ism‘l in motivation. The Qur’an mentions various offenses of the major prophets and alludes to those of Mu ammad in S rat al-Fat (48:1-2). This created a problem for many Muslim theologians who, to various degrees, upheld belief in ‘ima, the impeccability of prophets, and much was written to interpret the relevant passages of the Qur’an accordingly. Shahriyr’s opponents are here the literalists, the ahl al- hir, who accept the Qur’anic text at face value and concede that the prophets may commit sins like ordinary human beings. For Shahriyr the offenses of the prophets are purely spiritual, a temporary failure to recognize the proper order of ranking in the spiritual hierarchy. This is a theme well known in gnostic thought. One may be reminded of its archetypal representation in the tragic fall of the Third Intellect from its rank in the luminous World of Origination because of its failure to recognize the precedence of the Second Intellect which resulted in the constitution of this physical world of darkness. This mythical representation, so prominent in the literature of the later Yemenite Ism‘l da‘wa, was probably still unknown. Shahriyr, in any case, does not refer to it. The treatise opens with due praise to God, who is beyond all comprehension, to His Messenger Mu ammad, to the Legatee ‘Al and to the Imams, the lords of the people of their age and rescuers of their followers from the fire and perdition. The author then affirms that the Qur’an mentions mistakes of all the prophets and Messengers, but this does not lower their ranks and their perfection. Thus God said about Adam (20:121-2): “Adam disobeyed his Lord and went astray; then his Lord chose him and turned to him and gave him guidance.” The reason for this was that when Adam recognized the station of the Q’im (of the era preceding him) and the majesty of his rank, he desired it for himself. This was evidently before Adam reached his own rank as the first Messenger of our present era. Similarly the Qur’an (11:45) reports that Noah said: “Surely, my son is of my family.” This referred to a man from whom Noah had taken the oath of initiation before he was trained by complete and effective breaking (kasr) of his false convictions.6 When Noah pleaded with him (11:42), “O my son, embark with us and do not be with the unbelievers,” he answered (11:43), “I will seek refuge on a mountain which will protect me from the water.” He meant that he would return to his tutor (murabb) with whom he could attain perfection, and that he had no need of the rank of inspired interpretation 6

Kasr refers to the early stage in the initiation when the false beliefs of the neophyte are “broken” by critical questioning. Among the ranks of the da‘wa there is mention of the muksir.

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(ta’wl). Noah now realized that the man was not properly trained. When told (XI 46): “Do not ask me that of which you have no knowledge,” he thus answered: “Surely, I seek refuge with You lest I should ask You for that of which I have no knowledge. If You do not forgive me and have mercy on me, I will be among the losers.” The literalists (ahl al- hir) understand Qur’an 6:75-79 to mean that Abraham, actually seeing a star, said about it: “This is my Lord”, and that he said the same about the moon and the sun. God forbid that Abraham could have been on such a level as they imagine. Rather, the star which he saw was a licentiate (ma’dhn) left over from the cycle of Noah. When Abraham at the beginning of his own cycle met him, he thought he was suited to be his tutor (murabb), but as he found the licentiate deficient in that regard, he turned away from him. He then relied on the one above the ma’dhn in rank, the summoner (d‘). When he found him also falling short of his expectations, he turned away and sought the help of the proof ( ujja), who was above the d‘, as the rank of the imamate was empty at the time. When Abraham heard his discourse, however, his heart was not impressed by it. For although Abraham was then merely at the beginning of his mission, his soul was pure and perfect. Then when he had taken in their speech about a religion abrogated by his own mission and he received revelation about his imposition (taklf) of a new law, he addressed his people (6:80): “Will you dispute with me about God when He had guided me?” He meant that revelation had come to him and he had been ordered to impose a religious law. From this day he would command and forbid, dispensing with the people of his time. As for Moses, he learned before his own mission from Shu‘ayb. Then he said to him, “My Lord, let me see You that I look upon You. He said: You shall not see me.” The literalists imagine that he asked that God appear to him and show Himself to him so that he would look at Him with his eyes. This would have been the gravest of sins if Moses had asked for it. In reality Moses asked Shu‘ayb for permission to manifest his own mission before its proper time. His lord, that is Shu‘ayb, told him: “You shall not see me, but look at the mountain. If it rests in its place, you shall see me. When his Lord appeared in his glory to the mountain, He crushed it to dust, and Moses fell down as if thunderstruck. When he recovered, he said: ‘Glory be to you, surely, I turn in repentence to you and I am the first of the believers.’” The Qur’an meant by this that Shu‘ayb told Moses that the time of his appearance had not yet come. Shu‘ayb would, however, extend his protective wing over him. Moses should go to the people of his kingdom, and if he found them submissive, he might give Moses permission to manifest his mission at that time. When Moses asked the king for help and the latter instructed his people accordingly, they refused to obey. They rose up against the king, crushed his kingdom and devastated his lands. Moses realized that what his tutor Shu‘ayb had told him was the truth and submitted to his command and prohibition. This is when he said: “Glory be to you, surely I turn in repentance to you and am the first of the believers.”

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Jesus was at first raised spiritually by his mother, that is his tutor (murabb). With him was a companion in the same state, but Jesus had accumulated more of the rank of perfection than his companion, and he wished to honor his tutor. Therefore he said to his companion, “Do you know that I am stronger than anyone in all our rank?” Yet there was no third one in that rank. The companion told his tutor, “Surely, he has claimed perfection after you and that all the people of your cycle are deficient.” The tutor asked Jesus (5:116): “Have you said to the people: Take me and my mother as two gods apart from God?” When the tutor then suggested that all the people of the time had become perplexed about the rank of perfection of the tutor, he answered (5:117): “I did not tell them but what you commanded me: that I worship God, my Lord and Your Lord.” He meant that what he had said was merely the word and testimony of the tutor which he repeated. Similarly the Prophet Mu ammad knew that he inevitably needed a legatee who could take his place during his lifetime and in his absence. Thus he observed the state of his companions and drew close to each of them, testing them and seeking to win over their hearts. He imagined the best in them until revelation came to him and he was told (2:144): “We see you turning your face to heaven. Now we shall appoint for you a qibla that will satisfy you. So turn your face in the direction of the Sacred Mosque.” That was a hidden indication to the Commander of the Faithful (‘Al). The Prophet realized that his effort to draw close to the other people until that time had been a mistake and he also understood what would occur on their part after him because of this mistake. Thus when the revelation came (48:1-2): “We have granted you a manifest victory, so that God will forgive you your sin which has preceded and that which was delayed,” it referred to his undue closeness and intimate familiarity with them. Mu ammad’s fault was to draw close to some people of whom God knew that they would deviate, seek the ruler’s hat (qalansuwa), seize his pulpit and lay their hands on his off-spring. They would thus repudiate God’s right of which his legatee, the Commander of the Faithful, was most worthy and after him the Imams of his cycle, al-asan and al-usayn and his descendants, until God cleared away their misfortunes. These then were the acts of the Messengers, which resemble slips and which the literalists imagine to be sins, acts of disobedience and seduction. God forbid that the prophets would commit such violation of the forbidden as the literalists fancy. Since Mu ammad knew what had happened to the former Messengers, he was aware that the like of it would happen in his own cycle, although he could not be certain what exactly might occur in his time. The most astonishing statement in the discourse of the Qur’an addressed to all the prophets, their legatees, the Imams of their cycles and all their followers is the warning (19:71-2): “There is none among you who shall not reach it (hellfire). That is with your Lord a decided decree. Then We shall save those who feared God and leave the evildoers

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in it kneeling.” If this verse were taken at the literal level, it would mean that prophets, legatees, Imams, their followers and all others would enter the fire. The Qur’an likewise states (11:119): “Certainly I shall fill hell with Jinn and humankind altogether.” At the literal level this would also imply that no one escapes hellfire, especially if the term Jinn refers to angels as the exegetes hold. Our Masters of the Family of the Prophet, however, have imparted some of their knowledge to us so that we realize what is satisfactory in that respect and have removed us from the mass of the ignorant who fabricate lies about God, His prophets and His friends. They have told us that in the above verse the fire signifies ignorance in the sense of the absence of all objects of knowledge from the mind. It thus is in consonance with God’s word (16:78): “And God has brought you forth from the wombs of your mothers not knowing anything.” Thus we understand the verse to signify that the prophets and Imams pass through the stage of bareness of their minds from all knowledge, not that they reach the fire of hell which is the abode of the unbelievers and the hypocrites. Rather, they are the intercessors for the offenders and the guides of the obedient. Through them God raises the ranks of the righteous, the believers and the sincere.

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“In Praise of One of the Deeply Learned ‘Ulam”: A Mysterious Poem by Qjr Court Poet Mrz abb Allh Shrz “Q’n” Alyssa Gabbay Univeristy of Chicago I. Introduction With the accession to the throne of Ágh$ Mu ammad Kh$n in 1788/9, the advent of the Q$j$r period in Iran ushered in an era of uneasy flux and transition in the political, economic, social, cultural, and religious arenas of that country. 1 Whether it was the taking hold of Western influence, thanks to increased travel, commerce, and communication between Iran and Europe; the increasing pressure for political reform that ultimately gave rise to the Constitutional Revolution; or the millennial expectations that culminated in the declaration of a young Sh%r$z% merchant, Sayyid ‘Al% Mu ammad, to be the Mahd% (rightly-guided one) foretold by Twelver Shi‘% prophecies, and his subsequent execution, Iran bubbled in ferment even as its fundamental institutions remained entrenched in a miry medievalism that successfully withstood any real change. 2 This strange admixture of medieval and modern, of repose and reform, was to remain in place until Riz$ Sh$h Pahlav%’s arrival to power thrust Iran abruptly into contemporary twentieth-century life. To a large extent, Q$j$r-era poetry reflects the ambivalent nature of the period. Despite a growing willingness among poets – particularly those of the latter half of the nineteenth century – to confront topical issues and to use their work to promote political and social agendas, poetry of this time for the most part remains true to its bz gasht, or Revivalist, roots, with poets employing traditional imagery to laud the exploits of kings and viziers while (for the most part) ignoring the changes and discontents sweeping the country. Jan Rypka complains that “[o]n the whole the poetry of the 13th/19th century cannot be said to have attained a profound harmony with the life of the nation and of the country,” and remarks upon the dearth of a “powerful voice of national consciousness, a voice that might have been regarded as a real reaction to actual life and not merely as a 1

For an explanation of the dating of the beginning of the Qjr reign to 1788/9, see Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. “g Mo…ammad Khan Qjr.” q Mu…ammad Khn was not actually crowned until 1796. 2 Decline and decadence are often associated with this period despite efforts at reform, some of them undertaken by rulers themselves, their ministers or children. As Abbas Amanat writes, “what is perhaps most conspicuous in the history of nineteenth-century Iran is the persistence of elements of stagnation and decay which, in spite of relative political stability and economic improvement, continued to undermine the structure of material life.” Abbas Amanat, Resurrection and Renewal: The Making of the Babi Movement in Iran, 1844-1850 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1989), 18.

Alyssa Gabbay

reverberation of court chatter on interesting events.”3 Even sharper criticism was leveled by reform-minded intellectuals of the period, who denigrated its poetry as “esthetically repulsive, morally decadent, and socially harmful.”4 As Ahmad Karimi-Hakkak has observed, the most prominent and well-regarded poet of the Q$j$r era, M%rz$ ab%b All$h Sh%r$z%, known as “Q$’$n%” (d. 1854), is often regarded as an exemplar of this state of affairs.5 Q$’$n%’s voluminous dvn brims with panegyrics to kings, viziers, governors, and provincial rulers in a style so reminiscent of poets who lived seven or eight hundred years earlier that, were it not for a few identifying markers, one could easily mistake his poems for those of his forbears. For the most part, this complex, multifaceted personality drew on his enormous talent and immensely rich vocabulary only to preserve and uphold the court system that provided him with his livelihood. He refers to topical events, but mostly as a vehicle for praise and with no notion of accurately portraying them. Thus Ya y$ Áryanp¿r was moved to write that for Q$’$n%, “the people of Iran and their pains have no worth or importance ...”6 Yet exceptions do exist. Q$’$n% also occasionally used his poetry to lament deplorable societal conditions, to praise a certain holy man, and to present “challenges to lead a moral life, to practice renunciation, virtue, and piety ...”7 A notable example of this pietistic tendency appears in a qa‡dah titled only “In Praise of One of the Deeply Learned ‘Ulam$ and Scholars Possessing Glory and Honor.” A simple and elegant panegyric, the poem is written in praise of a saintly figure who, Q$’$n% says, has come to renew the world. As early as 1891, the celebrated Orientalist Edward Granville Browne remarked upon a tendency to regard this poem as an ode to the B$b, the aforementioned Sayyid ‘Al% Mu ammad (d. 1850). 8 This article will seek to marshal evidence demonstrating that the poem is, in fact, about the B$b, of whose existence Q$’$n% must have been well aware, and who, like so many of his countrymen, must have been 3

Jan Rypka, History of Iranian Literature, in collaboration with Otakar Klima et al., ed. Karl Jahn (Dordrecht: D. Reidel, 1968), 324. 4 Ahmad Karimi-Hakkak, Recasting Persian Poetry: Scenarios of Poetic Modernity in Iran (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1995), 26. Much of the criticism was unjust, as Karimi-Hakkak has noted; for example, poets closely associated with the court could not have been oblivious to “the changes to which their culture was being subjected”; nevertheless, the stereotype of detachment and irrelevance has stuck. Ibid., 31. 5 Karimi-Hakkak, Recasting Persian Poetry, 23-31. 6 Ya…y ryanp r, Az †ab t Nm (From †ab to Nm), (Tehran, 1354/[1975-6]), 1:99. 7 Rypka, History of Iranian Literature, 330. 8 As Browne writes, “It is said that Ká’ání was first disposed to regard the Báb with favor, and that the ka‡ída beginning: … ‘The ensample of men and jinn hath appeared,/The leader of these and those hath appeared,’ was written in his honor.” See Browne, ed., A Traveller’s Narrative Written to Illustrate the Episode of the Báb, by ‘Abdu’l-Bahá (Amsterdam: Philo Press, 1975), 199.

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captivated – even if only briefly – by this figure, the rise of whose religious movement was regarded as an “event of the most far-reaching significance and importance.”9

II. Q5’5n6: Man and Poet The remarkable nature of Q$’$n%’s talent becomes all the more apparent when one contemplates the infelicitous circumstances in which he was doomed to grow up. Born in 1808 in Shiraz, Q$’$n% lost his father, also a poet, at the age of eleven; he and his family then descended into such poverty that, as he writes, “of the luxuries of the world I had nothing except a straw mat and a loaf of bread.” 10 Nevertheless, having early demonstrated a gift for poetry, he succeeded in gaining sufficient financial support to continue his education, studying mathematics, metaphysics and metrics in Shiraz and Isfahan. In 1823, he attracted the attention of the prince „asan ‘Al% M%rz$, Shujæ‘ alSalƒanah, the son of Fat ‘Al% Sh$h; the prince took the poet under his protection and brought him to Khur$s$n, of which he had just been appointed governor. Q$’$n% settled in Mashhad, where he delved more deeply into the study of poetry and collected a number of dvns of old poets. It was during this period that the poet changed his pen-name from „ab%b to Q$’$n% in honor of the prince’s son, Ugut$y-Q$’$n.11 Through his connection with „asan ‘Al% M%rz$, Q$’$n% became introduced at the court of Fat ‘Al% Sh$h; and, when Mu…ammad Sh$h was enthroned in 1834, “he was greeted with verses composed by Q$’$n%, who in turn received the honorary title assnu’l-‘Ajam, ‘Hassan of the Persians.’”12 The poet seems to have settled in Tehran after the coronation of Mu ammad Sh$h. In 1840, Q$’$n% married in Tehran, but his wife supposedly proving ill-tempered and unloving, he sent her away; a second marriage was to be equally ill-fated.13 In 1843-4, the poet returned to Shiraz, apparently with the intent of living there permanently, although with frequent trips to Tehran; but conditions there growing less salubrious, he transferred back to Tehran in 1845-6. There, he again became close to powerful members of the court and eventually came under the protection of the new king, N$‡ir al-D%n Sh$h, enthroned in 1848.14 Having attained the rank of official court poet, Q$’$n%’s fortunes may have appeared to have reached a favorable 9

Edward G. Browne, A Literary History of Persia (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1959), 4:149. ryanp r, Az †ab t Nm, 1:93. 11 ryanp r, Az †ab t Nm, 1:94; Rypka, History of Iranian Literature, 329. 12 Rypka, History of Iranian Literature, 329. 13 ryanp r, Az †ab t Nm, 1:95. His marriages did produce at least one son, also a poet, and mention is made of other children. See Mu…ammad Ja‘far Ma…j b, introduction to Dvn-i „akm Q’n Shrz (Tehran: 1336/[1957]), 27. 14 ryanp r, Az †ab t Nm: 1:95-6. 10

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conclusion.15 Yet, as Rypka writes, “[h]e did not remain in this position for long: alcohol and opium, truly pernicious drugs that he may have used in an attempt to dispel melancholy, had a disastrous effect on his health,” and he died in 1854, at the age of 47.16 A few of Q$’$n%’s personal characteristics may be mentioned here. He was known as pleasure-loving, generous with friends and the poor to the point that he himself was often left empty handed, and a great devotee of wine. Many of his poems are, in fact, thought to have been composed in a state of drunkenness or near-drunkenness.17 By his own admission, Q$’$n% was an ugly man: short, stout, and with a face marred by pockmarks, a blemish that was evidently much on his mind, for he mentioned it frequently in his poems.18 He was so swift and proficient in composition that stories of his devising long and highly accomplished qa‡dahs on the fly are legion.19 However, he was notably careless with his poems, taking no time to polish, much less collect them.20 As a result, his dvn is marred by inconsistencies and significant omissions. Mu…ammad Taq% Bah$r (d. 1951), the last poet laureate of Iran, writes of Q$’$n% that he has “much fat and lean. He has many good poems and many bad ones.”21 According to Ma j¿b, the 21,000 or 22,000 verses comprising the most complete edition of Q$’$n%’s dvn may make up only one-fifth of his total output; the rest has been lost, thanks at least in part to the poet’s own inattentiveness.22 With regard to Q$’$n%’s style, as mentioned earlier he wrote as a member of the bz gasht, or Revivalist, movement begun in the eighteenth century, which strove to return Persian poetry to its traditional roots and to simplify its expression. A panegyrist to the core, his fluent pen found a wide range of subjects for expression, including some as topical as the campaigns of Mu ammad Sh$h to Herat and the unsuccessful assassination attempt of N$‡ir al-D%n Sh$h in 1852 by three misguided B$b%s.23 Other indications also suggest that he was attuned to the various modernizing and Westernizing movements and trends influencing the country: for example, he learned enough French to translate a

ryanp r, Az †ab t Nm, 1:96. Rypka, History of Iranian Literature, 329-30. For a description of his illness and death, see Ma…j b, introduction to Dvn-i „akm Q’n Shrz, 34-5. 17 Ma…j b, introduction to Dvn-i „akm Q’n Shrz, 33. 18 Ma…j b, introduction to Dvn-i „akm Q’n Shrz, 34. 19 Ma…j b, introduction to Dvn-i „akm Q’n Shrz, 36 n 2. 20 Ma…j b, introduction to Dvn-i „akm Q’n Shrz, 27, 38. 21 Quoted in Ma…j b, introduction to Dvn-i „akm Q’n Shrz, 38. 22 Ma…j b, introduction to Dvn-i „akm Q’n Shrz, 27-8. 23 ryanp r, Az †ab t Nm, 1:101. 15 16

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textbook of botany from that language into Persian and also knew some English.24 But according to the opinions of many critics, no true innovations can be detected in Q$’$n%’s poetry, and for the most part he resided in a “bygone world populated by the antiquated thoughts” of poets of centuries before.”25 In general, Q$’$n% is praised greatly for his facility with language, but is seen as a showman of great style and little substance. As Áryanp¿r writes: The language of Q$’$n% is rich and fluid. He has matchless command over words. He chooses sumptuous, elegant words and shows wondrous skill and ability in setting each word in its place; and in this matter … no Persian poet approaches him. But notwithstanding this power of expression and dexterity in description and metaphors and scene-setting, the majority of his qa‡dahs are poor and insignificant with regard to subject matter.26 Browne commends Q$’$n% as “one of the most melodious of all the Persian poets,” but faults him for lacking “high aims and noble principles. Not only does he flatter great men while they are in power, and turn around and rend them as soon as they fall into disgrace, but he is prone to indulge in the most objectionable innuendo and even the coarsest obscenity.”27 Rypka, who calls Q$’$n% the “Voltaire of the Iranians” and the “brightest star” of the Q$j$r period, likewise asserts that “… from a critical standpoint, with him the word outweighs the thought and his images are superficial. He is content with outward show.”28 With Q$’$n%, he continues,

24

Rypka, History of Iranian Literature, 330. While ill not long before his death, a hallucinating Q’n is reported to have spoken to imaginary figures at his bedside in a variety of languages, including Arabic, Persian, Turkish, English, and French. See Ma…j b, introduction to Dvn-i „akm Q’n Shrz, 35. 25 See ryanp r, Az †ab t Nm, 1:151. 26 ryanp r, Az †ab t Nm, 1:97-8. 27 Browne, Literary History of Persia, 4:329. Q’n’s inconstancy – a characteristic of court poets throughout the ages – has been pegged as the reason for his famous chastisement at the hands of Amr Kabr, Nsir al-Dn Shh’s prime minister in 1849. After Q’n recited a poem praising Amr Kabr and criticizing his predecessor, Hj Mrz qs, the new prime minister severely rebuked him and cut his salary. It has been speculated that Amr Kabr recognized and took offense at the fact that the poet was now disparaging the man whom he had recently effusively eulogized. See Karimi-Hakkak, Recasting Persian Poetry, 23. 28 Rypka, History of Iranian Literature, 331, 329, 330.

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[o]ne is confronted with a split personality, both as poet and as human being – a true mirror of his time when the old was moribund and the new as yet unborn. Q$’$n% was a poet who led the formal mastery of traditional poetry to its peak, at the same time gropingly seeking for new methods of expression; a man of pleasure, yet also capable of renouncement; an official panegyrist who also gave utterance to thought on the evil conditions prevailing in contemporary society; a man in the grip of worldweariness to which sensitive souls were bound to fall a prey in the face of an accumulation of seemingly overpowering events. Often we are in doubt as to whether Q$’$n% means his words to be taken seriously or not.29 Evidence of this dual nature can be found particularly in Q$’$n%’s book bearing the tongue-in-cheek title Parshn (Distressed), a collection of stories and maxims in the manner of Sa‘d%’s Gulistn.30 In it appear passages that demonstrate that the poet was “attempting to find themes in the reality of everyday occurrences and to expose faults and defects in the social order of the time (hypocrisy of the priesthood and magistrate, corruption of the police, swindling on the part of artisans, etc.).” 31 Yet the book nevertheless concludes with several “truly Machiavellian counsels to kings and princes,” and Ma j¿b rather quaintly avers that it contains “stories that should not be told and subjects that should not be written about ...”32 Against this mixed and complex backdrop, we now turn to the poem in question.

29

Rypka, History of Iranian Literature, 330. Parshn has multiple meanings, including scattered, confused, distressed, distracted, and disheveled, all of which may apply here. The poet explains the title thusly: “ … I mingled together some poems and prose and, in accordance with my own state of mind, I gave it the name ‘Distressed,’ for anyone who is distressed will produce distressed sayings.” Parshn, ed. Isma‘l Ashraf (Shiraz: 1338 /[1959]), 15. 31 Rypka, History of Iranian Literature, 330. 32 Browne, Literary History of Persia, 4:335; Ma…j b, introduction to Dvn-i „akm Q’n Shrz, 28. An example of one of the book’s milder pieces of advice: Q’n suggests kings arrange their affairs in such a way that they receive credit for any good acts that emerge from the government, and blame for none of the bad. In this manner, they will win people over by their supposed virtue. Q’n, Parshn, 204. 30

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In Praise of One of the Deeply Learned ‘Ulam$ and Scholars Possessing Glory and Honor The guide of men and jinn has appeared; the leader of these and those has appeared. Overflowing bounty from the court of eternity has come forth to whom? To young and old. The illuminating light from the Creator of time has become visible – to what? To the people of our age.33 The bearer of the secrets of divine revelation has appeared on earth from heaven. The glorified one of the verses of the eternal Invisible has appeared with an Invisible-knowing heart. The one united with annihilation has shown forth; the essence of the whole world of existence has appeared. The measure of a whole world of submission, a whole world of resignation34 has appeared within the heart of one cloak. A firmament of accomplishment, and a world of skill has appeared in two handfuls of bones. From his face, [whose beauty] puts to shame the garden of paradise a garden of Judas trees has grown up. From Q$f to Q$f, the world became full of life ever since that soul of the world shone forth.35

33

Ahl-i zamn = the people of our age or time. The expected Mahd, or “rightly-guided one,” who will come to renew the world at the end of time, is called imm-i zamn, the imm of the age. 34 The words used here for submission and resignation, taslm and riz, usually denote giving one’s self over to God’s will. 35 Qf is a legendary mountain believed to surround the world.

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From his disposition, musk, aloes wood, wild basil appeared from Qayrav$n to Qayrav$n.36 The ruler of the kingdom of religion has arrived; the interpreter of the secrets of God has appeared. The knower of the secrets of hearts, the champion of the kingdom of life has appeared. The Painter of fate applied many undercoats so that such a picture would emerge from the midst. He is the intended design, and these undercoats came in the way of tests. The form of eternal bounty has come forth; the meaning of the hidden mystery has appeared. The quality of that soul sought by souls has bloomed forth in a body lovelier than the soul. That which the heart was seeking in heaven – suddenly, joyously, has materialized on earth. If truth be told, he appeared suddenly, Gabriel-like on earth from the sky. Tell the garden of paradise to hide from sight – the envy of the garden of paradise has become visible. Let the soul of life leave the body – the jealousy of the soul has appeared. How could it appear in the seven heavens – that which has arisen in this mortal world? 36

The expression “from Qayravn to Qayravn” means “from East to West” or “from one end of the earth to another.”

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The people congratulate one another saying, “The knower of God has come forth.” That which is above thought has issued forth; that which is beyond imagination has appeared. He has arisen – the one about whom we were saying that his excellence could not be put into speech. He has arisen – the one about whom we were saying that words of praise for him cannot be contained in language. The entire ocean melted from jealousy because that endless ocean appeared. His soul-kindling nature sneezed [and] from that, the eternal paradise appeared.37 His world-burning anger flared, [and] from that, the life-taking hell appeared. From his heart and hand, which are absolute generosity the baseness of ocean and mine has become apparent. With two God-beholding eyes, he became visible; with two pearl-scattering hands, he appeared. May that land be eternally prosperous from which this heaven of generosity arose. To say more than this in praise of him is an error – that in this manner, or in that way, he came forth. 37

Q’n may be alluding to a parable about God’s creation of Adam from clay. As related by al-³abar (d. 923), “At the time God wanted to blow the spirit into Adam, He said to the angels: When I blow some of My spirit into him, prostrate yourselves before him! Now, when he blew the spirit into him and the spirit entered his head, Adam sneezed. The angels said: Say: ‘Praise be to God!,’ and he did.” See al-³abar, The History of al-³abar, vol. 1, trans. Franz Rosenthal (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1985-), 263.

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In brief, I will say that all of the mercy that was in the veil of secrets – exactly that, has emerged. As long as in the season of winter, the people say the time of walking in the rosegarden has arrived, May his life last so long that the whole world will say [that] the Mahd% of the end of time has appeared.38 First, a few general points about the poem. A qa‡dah, it consists of 36 lines, or bayts. The radf or rhyming phrase at the end of each bayt is mad padd, or “appeared,” which it has in common with the qa‡dah immediately preceding it in Q$’$n%’s dvn, addressed to N$‡ir al-D%n Sh$h. Like many of Q$’$n%’s other qa‡dahs, including those praising kings, it is effusive about its subject, describing him in glowing superlatives, and focusing on the bounties engendered to the world through his appearance. The similarities would seem to end there. This qa‡dah is laced with religious overtones and is directed at someone who possesses a very high spiritual station, who has “knowledge of the invisible,” who interprets the secrets of God, who rules the kingdom of religion, and whose description cannot be contained in language. The terms used in it, some of which will be mentioned below, could only be directed at one who was deemed to possess prophet-like status. The messianic overtones of the poem are clear: it addresses a long-awaited one who has come from heaven to earth to put it in order, and whose arrival transforms winter into spring. One might say it is replete with the joyousness of fulfilled expectation. As noted previously, the subject of the poem has often been identified as Sayyid ‘Al% Mu ammad, the young merchant who declared himself the B$b, or Gate, to the Mahd%, the “rightly-guided one” who, according to Twelver Shi‘% eschatological predictions, would appear at the end of time to renew mankind and inaugurate an era of justice on earth; and later the Mahd%, or Hidden Im$m, himself.39 Before entering into a discussion of the specific elements of the poem which indicate such a identification, however, let us first establish that it was indeed possible for Q$’$n% to have written such a poem about the B$b. It is highly likely that the poet would have been well-acquainted with the B$b and his mission, which earned considerable renown in the country, and that Q’n, Dvn-i Kmil-i „akm Q’n Shrz, ed. N‡ir Hr (Tehran, 1363/[1984]), 195-7. Translated by Alyssa Gabbay. 39 See Amanat, Resurrection and Renewal, 1; Moojan Momen, An Introduction to Shi‘i Islam: The History and Doctrines of Twelver Shi‘ism (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985), 165-6; and Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. “Bb.” 38

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he would have seen the young sayyid as an apt recipient of his praise. At the time of the B$b’s declaration, the poet, while still visiting Tehran periodically, had resettled in Shiraz, the B$b’s hometown.40 By late summer of that year, “news of the Bab had already begun to capture people’s attention”; such an event could hardly have escaped the au courant poet’s notice.41 A following soon began to grow among merchants, affiliated guilds, civil servants and others across Iran and Iraq. Though by the late 1840s B$b%s counted probably no more than 100,000 among their ranks, only a small percentage of the population, the movement still had a powerful voice, for “… its broad diffusion and intensive proselytism made its bold message audible throughout the country out of proportion to its size.”42 Although the movement encountered a great deal of opposition from the mujtahids, it also witnessed support from government officials, including such powerful men as Man¿chihr Kh$n Mu‘tamad al-Dawl$, the governor of Isfahan, who “must have seen the advantages of an alliance with a charismatic and increasingly popular religious reformist,” and who saw it in his interests to arrange an introduction between the B$b and Mu ammad Sh$h.43 Indeed, the king proved initially sympathetic to the B$b. Although he declined Sayyid ‘Al% Mu ammad’s request for an audience in 1846, he nevertheless assured him of his royal blessing and addressed him as “his excellency … of the purest descent, the model for the friends [of God], Áq$ Sayyid ‘Al% Mu ammad, may God, the Almighty, protect him.” 44 The refusal has been attributed to the premier $j% M%rz$ Áq$s%, who was “reluctant to permit an audience with the shah, lest the mystically oriented monarch be impressed.”45 It is possible that Q$’$n% was aware of some official sympathy toward the B$b and sought to curry favor with his patrons by writing the qa‡dah. Even if such were not the case, the poet himself, given his sensitive and, at times, idealistic nature, may well have taken an interest in the young sayyid inspiring such fervor in the country. The man who was capable of writing “sentimental elegies on the sufferings of Sh%‘ite saints” could well have found such a personality entrancing.46 Moreover, the poet was greatly devoted to the family and descendants of the Prophet, as evinced by poems in praise of ‘Al% al-Riz$, the eighth im$m, and F$ƒimah, daughter of the Prophet.47 ryanp r, Az †ab t Nm, 1:95. Amanat, Resurrection and Renewal, 214. 42 Amanat, Resurrection and Renewal, 370. 43 Amanat, Resurrection and Renewal, 257. 44 Amanat, Resurrection and Renewal, 258-9. 45 Amanat, Resurrection and Renewal, 259. 46 Rypka, History of Iranian Literature, 330. 47 N‡ir Hr, introduction to Dvn-i Kmil-i „akm Q’n Shrz by Q’n (Tehran, 1363/[1984]), 33-9. 40 41

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The following points address particular elements within the poem that support the theory that it is about the B$b: 1. Unlike most of the other qa‡dahs appearing in Q$’$n%’s dvn, it does not name its recipient.48 Unless the figure in question was somewhat controversial, as the B$b came to be, it would have been out of the ordinary for his name to have been omitted, especially given the praise and unusually elevated titles directed at him. One can theorize that the poet did initially include the name but that it was later excised by editors, which would undoubtedly have been the case had it been addressed to the B$b. However, it seems more likely that the subject was never named, for as Q$’$n% writes elsewhere: He whose name, from greatness, cannot be mentioned, one must keep it hidden within the veil of the soul. Or, since his celebrated name is a treasure, and a worthy treasure – it is necessary to keep the treasure hidden from the people.49 2. Many of the terms deployed are normally reserved for prophets or those of an extremely high religious station, such as the im$ms. For example, the fourth bayt addresses the subject as the “bearer of the secrets of divine revelation” ( mil-i asrr-i va…y-i zad). The term used for revelation, va y, is only employed when one is referring to prophets (or, in some cases, im$ms).50 Likewise, the following bayt calls the subject the “glorified one of the verses of the eternal Invisible” (mafkhar-i yt-i ghayb-i sarmad), indicating that he is one mentioned in divine verses or signs.51 Other phrases indicate that, like the im$ms, who were supposed to possess knowledge of the secrets of God and to be the sole legitimate 48

The addressing of the recipient in the poem’s title as “one of the deeply learned ‘ulam and scholars” may seem to indicate that the qa‡dah was not about the Bb, who received little in the way of a formal education; or, alternatively, that Q’n was unaware of the Bb’s background as a merchant. But the young sayyid, while not officially a member of the clergy, did produce extensive and highly respected writings on religious subjects both before and after his declaration, and was seen by many as possessing a “mystical consciousness’ and “profound wisdom,” both of which could potentially qualify him for the title <lim. Moreover, he was known as a member of an educated family. In his missive to the Bb, Muhammad Shh makes note of his descent from ‘the glorious family of the sdt and the learned people, in particular.” Amanat, Resurrection and Renewal, 135, 148, 259. 49 Q’n, Parshn, 13. 50 See Momen, An Introduction to Shi‘i Islam, 149. 51 In many cases the imms themselves are identified as the signs of God on earth. See Momen, An Introduction to Shi‘i Islam, 151.

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interpreters of His book, the Qur’$n, the subject is very close to God and knows His intent, which is normally shrouded from human beings. 52 These include “interpreter of the secrets of God,” “knower of God,” and a reference to the subject’s “Invisible-knowing heart.” Although the presence of these terms do not constitute proof that the poem is about the B$b, they strongly suggest that the poem was directed at someone other than a mere mullah. 3. Certain lines make reference to the subject’s physical attributes, indicating that he was slight (“A firmament of accomplishment and a world of skill/has appeared in two handfuls of bones”) and of a pleasing appearance (the beauty of his face “puts to shame the garden of paradise”; his body is “lovelier than the soul.”) Such a description accords with records made of the B$b, who is traditionally regarded to have been the possessor of “great personal beauty.”53 Dr. William Cormick, the crown prince’s personal physician, who examined the B$b at the order of the government of Azarbayjan in 1848, depicted him as “… a very mild and delicatelooking man, rather small in stature and very fair for a Persian, with a melodious soft voice which struck me much. … In fact his whole look and deportment went far to dispose one in his favor.”54 4. The line “He has arisen – the one about whom we were saying/that his excellence could not be put into speech” could easily refer to the messianic expectations rife in Iran previous to the B$b’s declaration. Several religious groups, including the Shaykhis and the Sufi millenarians, subscribed to the notion that the return of the Mahd%, identified with the Hidden Im$m, was near. As Amanat writes, “Sayyid ‘Al% Mu ammad the Bab was only the realization of what was already conceived in theory.”55 5. The poem ends by calling the recipient the Mahd% of the end of time, an assertion of staggering significance and one that, as has been stated earlier, is congruent with the claim that the B$b eventually made about himself. The Mahd% of the end of time denotes the Im$m Mahd% expected to return before the Day of Judgment.56 Again, Q$’$n%’s use of the term is meaningful; no mere mullah would have warranted it. 52

See Momen, An Introduction to Shi‘i Islam, 150. John Ebenezer Esslemont, Bahá’u’lláh and the New Era (Wilmette, Ill.: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1980), 13. A colleague of the Bb in B shihr, where the sayyid spent the years 1835-40, remembers him as “a handsome man with a thin beard, dressed in clean clothes, wearing a green shawl and a black turban.” See Amanat, Resurrection and Renewal, 133. 54 Quoted in Amanat, Resurrection and Renewal, 109. 55 Amanat, Resurrection and Renewal, 105. 56 Momen, An Introduction to Shi‘i Islam, 166. 53

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As has already been noted, toward the end of his life, Q$’$n% wrote two poems celebrating N$‡ir al-D%n Sh$h's escape from the attempt on his life by three B$b%s, and roundly condemning the perpetrators of the attack as well as the movement to which they belonged.57 Might not these later poems, representing as they do a stark shift in stance, throw doubt upon the contention that the first poem is, indeed, about the B$b? For a variety of reasons, the answer is no. By the time of the assassination attempt, the B$b had been martyred and his community left “demoralized, leaderless, and vulnerable.” 58 Indeed, the death of the B$b precipitated a sea change in the public’s attitude toward his movement, for, as Amanat notes, “the new prophet's human vulnerability turned the ephemeral sympathy of the miracle-seeking public into indifference and soon into hostility.”59 Q$’$n%’s own change in attitude toward the B$b% movement, then, would simply mirror the change that took place in Iranian society at large. Q$’$n%, as has been mentioned, was known neither for his fidelity nor his principles; such a shift in loyalties, as Browne points out, would be “by no means the only instance of inconstancy wherewith this talented but fickle poet can be taxed.” 60 Moreover, it would have been strange had Q$’$n%, as poet laureate, failed to react with outrage toward a movement whose relations with his king were marked by hostility. Unlike his predecessor Mu ammad Sh$h, N$‡ir al-D%n Sh$h bore no sympathy whatsoever toward the B$b%s, whom he regarded as "fallaciously strayed and errantly perplexed.”61 What of the notion that the poem is simply directed at another religious figure who came to the fore during Q$’$n%’s lifetime, or perhaps even a political figure? Such a hypothesis cannot be conclusively ruled out, especially in the absence of incontrovertible proof that the poem is, in fact, about the B$b. After all, throughout the ages in Iran, kings and other rulers were often associated with divinity; and many of the descriptions of them, even during the Q$j$r era, are religiously charged. 62 Q$’$n% himself applied otherworldly terms both to kings and to the premier „$j% M%rz$ Áq$s%, including perfect man (insn-i kmil), the lord of two worlds (khwæjah-’i du jahn), the manifestation of divine essence (maøhar-i zt-i br), and deliverer of the Creator’s bounty to the people

57

For more information on the August 15, 1852 attempt and on the poems themselves, see Browne, A Traveller’s Narrative, 199, 323-5. 58 Amanat, Resurrection and Renewal, 405. 59 Amanat, Resurrection and Renewal, 404. 60 Browne, A Traveller’s Narrative, 199. 61 Amanat, Resurrection and Renewal, 294. 62 In the Safavid era, for example, rulers were sometimes held to be semi-divine. See Nikki Keddie, Modern Iran: Roots and Results of Revolution (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2003), 14.

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(rasnandah-’i fayz-i khliq bi makhlq). 63 As extreme as these examples may seem, however, the level of exaltation accorded to the figure described in the poem discussed earlier is noticeably higher; moreover, the addressing of the qa‡dah to a “one of the deeply learned ‘ulam$ and scholars” makes doubtful that the recipient was a king or minister. With regard to the possibility that the poem refers to a messianic figure other than the Báb, it is difficult to produce another such personality who excited the same degree of attention, nor who became so controversial that he could not be named. The question of how to “read” the earlier poem, if one accepts the claim that is about the B$b, remains open to debate. Was it merely a qa‡dah of insincere praise like the other poems in Q$’$n%’s dvn, penned by a poet who was continually swayed by public opinion and who wrote only to please? As Rypka writes, Q$’$n% often leads his readers to wonder whether he “means his words to be taken seriously or not.”64 Or may we see in it signs that Q$’$n%, like so many of his countrymen, was captivated, even if only briefly, by a figure whose emergence inspired new hope in a country undergoing severe upheavals? Questions of a writer’s sincerity or lack thereof are not met with great enthusiasm by literary critics today. But nevertheless, the devotion expressed in the poem toward its subject does appear to be heartfelt; and it seems possible that Q$’$n% was, if only briefly, carried away by the hopes engendered by the B$b’s appearance. But these hopes must have been squelched rather early, and one could not expect Q$’$n% to depart from the habit (or, in his case, exigency) of currying favor with the court once a promising movement had been reduced to seeming ignominy. Conclusion At the beginning of this article, it was noted that the poetry of the Q$j$r period is typically viewed as detached from the concerns of the masses, decadent and bereft of morality. Poets themselves, with Q$’$n% as their exemplum, were seen as “slavish imitators of a bankrupt esthetic,” to whom have been attributed some of the blame of the country’s “backwardness and misery.”65 But the presence of the poem to a mysterious unnamed recipient indicates that Q$’$n%, at least, was not immune to the moods and changes sweeping his country and even that, at times, he was willing to bend his talent to laud a figure from whom he could derive no financial benefit, and for whom he may have See Ma…j b, introduction to Dvn-i „akm Q’n Shrz, 47.The concept of insn-i kmil, who becomes God’s vice-gerent in the world, is one that has both mystical and secular dimensions: sometimes the Prophet Mu…ammad or the imams are identified as the Perfect Man, but elsewhere kings (and, by extension, their ministers) can be seen as fulfilling that role. See Julie Scott Meisami, Medieval Persian Court Poetry (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987), 233-4 n. 64. 64 Rypka, History of Iranian Literature, 330. 65 Karimi-Hakkak, Recasting Persian Poetry, 26. 63

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felt genuine reverence. This qa‡dah helps to demonstrate that, even during what is normally seen as Iran’s period of greatest decadence, the court poet was not merely a puppet but could act as a source of moral guidance, a function that once comprised an important part of his position.66 The poem therefore may be seen as representing one of the last flashes of integrity of the ebbing light of a once-resplendent role, that of the Persian court poet.

66

See Meisami, Medieval Persian Court Poetry, 7-8, 11-14.

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Works Cited Amanat, Abbas. Resurrection and Renewal: The Making of the Babi Movement in Iran, 1844-1850. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1989. Áryanp¿r,Ya y$. Az †ab t Nm. Vol. 1. Tehran, 1354/[1975-6]. Browne, Edward Granville. A Literary History of Persia. Vol. 4. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1959. _____, ed. A Traveller's Narrative Written to Illustrate the Episode of the Báb, by ‘Abdu’l-Bahá. Amsterdam: Philo Press, 1975. Esslemont, John Ebenezer. Bahá’u’lláh and the New Era. Wilmette, Ill.: Bahá'í Publishing Trust, 1980. Karimi-Hakkak, Ahmad. Recasting Persian Poetry: Scenarios of Poetic Modernity in Iran. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1995. Keddie, Nikki. Modern Iran: Roots and Results of Revolution. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2003. Ma…j¿b, Mu ammad Ja‘far. Introduction to Dvn-i akm Q’n Shrz. Tehran: 1336/[1957]. Meisami, Julie Scott. Medieval Persian Court Poetry. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987. Momen, Moojan. An Introduction to Shi‘i Islam: The History and Doctrines of Twelver Shi‘ism. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985. Q$’$n%. Dvn-i Kmil-i „akm Q’n Shrz. Edited by N$‡ir H%r%. Tehran, 1363/[1984]). _____. Parshn. Edited by Isma‘%l Ashraf. Shiraz: 1338 /[1959]. Rypka, Jan. History of Iranian Literature. In collaboration with Otakar Klima et al. Edited by Karl Jahn. Dordrecht: D. Reidel, 1968. Al-³abar%. History of al-³abar. Vol. 1. Translated by Franz Rosenthal. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1985-.

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A page from the manuscript of the Divan of Emami of Heart

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A page from the manuscript of the Divan of Emami of Herat

161

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A page from the manuscript of the Divan of Emami of Herat

162

A Life in Poetry: Hfiz’s First Ghazal Julie Scott Meisami Oxford University (emerita)

Discussing Hfiz, in his chapter on “Lyric Poetry” (in Persian Literature, 1988), Heshmat Moayyad defined ambiguity as “one of the main characteristics of the Hafezian style,” and one which differentiates Hfiz’s style from that of his predecessor Sa‘d. Moayyad went on to say that it is this which lends to Hfiz’s style “a degree of sophistication…that is unparalleled in Persian poetry,” and which makes him “somewhat aloof and unreachable, with an aura of mystery around him; he is a fascinating challenge, as well as a source of aesthetic pleasure” (1988: 140). In taking up this challenge in this volume dedicated to Professor Moayyad, I will argue that one source of Hfiz’s ambiguity is the “literary” nature of his ghazals, and that an understanding of this “literariness” may aid in both appreciating his style and in unraveling some of its mysteries. That Hfiz is among the great figures of Persian literature needs no demonstration: poetry is, after all, “literature,” and Hfiz is an undisputedly great poet. But what is it, precisely, that makes Hfiz’s poems (or any others) “literary”? How do we define “literariness” in relation to a tradition which had no word for “literature” (and, arguably, no concept of “literature” as a special class of texts), but an abundance of terms relating to eloquence, art, craft, style and so on, and an abundant interest in the minutiae of style? How do we define “literariness” in a tradition where the primary means of “publication” of a text – even one composed in writing – was oral presentation and/or performance and oral transmission, to which the written word took second place? 1 Let me propose two working criteria for “literariness” (whether in prose or in poetry) in such a tradition. One is a self-conscious attention to style and to rhetorical refinement; the other is an equally self-conscious engagement with the literary tradition and the literary milieu in relation to which one produces one’s own works. Both topics receive considerable attention in Arabic and Persian “literary criticism” – in works on rhetoric and poetics, in collection of ma‘n, in discussions of “borrowing” and “plagiarism” – although the critics’ focus differs somewhat from that of modern readers, and they take things for granted that are often obscure to us.2 1

On this issue see Pedersen 1984: 20-36; with respect to the ghazal see Lewis 1995: 69-91; and see more generally Ong 1989. 2 Cf. Rypka’s comment, that the “old oriental commentators regarded [form] as self-evident and at most drew attention to it in isolated verses (e.g. S d on Hfiz)” (1968: 103).

Julie Scott Meisami

We may now put the question of “literariness” in a slightly different way. Is Hfiz, according to the standards of his own tradition (and I broaden this to include his later reception in the pre-modern period) a “literary” poet?3 More important: would he have considered himself to be a “literary” poet? The answer to both questions is, I think, “Yes”; and I propose to demonstrate this through a reading of Hfiz’s first ghazal, and the commentary on that ghazal by the 9th/16th century commentator S d Busnav (On S d see EI², s.v.). For Hfiz’s ghazal explicitly announces its own literariness (and, by implication, that of his oeuvre as a whole); and while S d can at times be unhelpful (and occasionally tedious), it is clear that he recognizes the poem’s “literary” qualities.4 Hfiz’s first ghazal is a programmatic poem. It is said that the poet himself either placed this ghazal, or instructed that it be placed, at the beginning of his Dvn.5 The fact that its rhyme (-ilhæ) violates the normal order of placement in a dvn arranged alphabetically supports the argument that its placement was deliberate. In rhetorical terms, it thus represents an application of the figure husn-i matla‘ or husn-i ibtid‘ in relation to the entire dvn.6 We may therefore expect that, just as the matla‘ of a poem is meant to point to the meaning of that poem, the matla‘ of Hfiz’s dvn is meant to tell us something about his poetry as a whole. Equally, we must not ignore the matla‘ (or the makhlas/maqta‘) of the ghazal itself.7 The ghazal’s opening line – like its placement – declares its “literariness” (as well as its setting and its subject, as is customary); and matla‘ and makhlas together provide a frame for the ghazal constituted by the two half-lines of Arabic with which it opens and closes:

3

For examples of the reception of Hfiz in the Timurid and Safavid periods, see Losensky 1988, index, s.v. I use the version of the ghazal in the edition of Qazvn and Ghan (1941: QG), and the Persian translation of S d’s commentary (1979, 1:1-17). 5 Hfiz may have prepared a “definitive edition” of his Dvn in 770/1368-9 (see Arberry 1962: 9). According to other stories, he requested his friend Muhammad Gulandm to prepare an edition after his death (see Lewis 1995: 229-35 and the references cited). 6 Sa‘d had already done this; he begins his Tayyibt with a Persian ghazal in praise of God rhyming in n, and his Badyi‘ with an Arabic ghazal (also in praise of God) rhyming in –l (Sadi 1885, 4: 2, 124, 2). Both are explicitly designated as exordia to the respective dvns. In view of the “profane” nature of Hfiz’s matla‘, it is possible to see here, already, an indication of the intertextuality which informs the first ghazal, as well as the announcement of a poetic persona contrasting radically with that announced by Sa‘d in these pious poems. While the alphabetical arrangement of dvns may have become conventional only fairly late (cf. Lewis 1995: 307), such examples suggest that it was already a feature of “partial” collections (or albums, daftar) in earlier periods. 7 Both matla‘ and maqta‘ received considerable attention from the literary critics because of their importance in relation to the poem as a whole. See the discussion in Meisami (2003), chapters 3 and 5. 4

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A Life in Poetry

1 A-l y yyuh s-sq adir ka’san wa-nwilh ki ‘ishq sn nimd avval val uftd mushkilh O sq, pass the wine-cup round and proffer it; for love at first looked easy, but difficulties have come to pass. 7 Huzr gar ham khh az- ghyib ma-shaw Hfiz matt m talq man tahw da‘i d-duny wa-ahmilh If you desire presence, Hfiz, do not be absent from him: once you find the one you desire, leave this world, and ignore it. The source of the concluding misra‘ has not been identified, and is probably of Hfiz’s own composition (as S d seems to think), which would add further support to the poem’s implicit argument for its own, and the poet’s, “literariness”, and the act of literary appropriation that the poem represents. That of the first is identified by S d as a reworking of the second misra‘ of a verse by the Umayyad caliph Yazd ibn Mu‘wiya (d. 64/683) – An l-masmmu m ‘ind bi-tiryqin wa-la-rq adir ka’san wa-nwilh a-l y ayyuh s-sq I am poisoned (by love), and have no antidote, nor any charm (to protect me); pass round the wine-cup and proffer it then, O cup-bearer – Of which Hfiz has “reversed the order so as to make it correspond with the rhyme of his ghazal, and introduced it as a tadmn.”8 While this attribution has been disputed (e.g. by M. M. Qazvn; see Arberry 1962: 139, n. 1), its provenance was accepted by earlier commentators, and occasioned considerable criticism. 9 Why should Hfiz open his ghazal with a line from a wine-song from a secular poet, a caliph who is generally presented (by anti-Umayyad historians) as a reprobate, and who was anathema to Shi‘s in particular (among whom we may include Qazvn) because of his role in the defeat and martyrdom of Husayn ibn ‘Al ibn Ab Tlib at the battle of Karbala (On Yazd ibn

8

Rypka notes that according to Bertels, 1:1 was “inspired by [Amr] Khusrau,” but that Bertels conceded “the possibility of a common source, i.e., the ghazal of Caliph Yazd” (1968: 258, 275 n. 49). Rypka does not indicate which of Amr Khusraw’s ghazals might have provided this inspiration, and I have so far not been able to trace it. 9 The verse does not occur in the collection of fragments of Yazd’s poetry published in Beirut in 1982. I have so far been unable to trace it; but the fact that its provenance was so widely accepted suggests that it would have been so by Hfiz himself, and that its use was deliberate.

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Mu‘wiya see EI¹, s.v.10). “Some poets have objected” to Hfiz’s use of this line, says S d, who quotes critical verses by Ahl Shrz and Ktib Nshp r (both Safavid, and Sh‘, poets). Ahl wrote: One night I saw lord Hfiz in a dream, and asked him, “O peerless in virtue and in learning: Why did you bind Yazd’s verse to yourself, despite all your virtue and perfection?” He answered, “You don’t understand the point: the unbeliever’s property is licit to the believer.” Ktib’s verses, which appear to be a response to Ahl’s, are considerably less moderate: I am amazed at Khvja Hfiz, so much so that reason is stupefied. What wisdom did he see in Yazd’s verse, that he sang it at the very beginning of his dvn? Even though the property of unbelievers is licit to Muslims – on that, there is no dispute – It is, nonetheless, shameful for a lion to steal a morsel from a dog’s mouth! Why did Hfiz begin his ghazal with this tadmn? And why did he frame it with two Arabic misra‘s? We may note, first, that Yazd’s verse comes from what seems to be the matla‘ of a longer poem on wine, and that the bayt as a whole announces, in reverse order, the two main topics of Hfiz’s matla‘, respite in wine and the pangs of love. Yazd’s poem – if authentic – must also be one of the earliest Arabic khamriyyt to feature an address to the sq, which is a prominent feature of Hfiz’s own poems. We would expect Yazd, as a practitioner of the newly-independent khamriyya, to continue with a depiction of the drinking-party, the wine, the sq and so on. Hfiz defeats those expectations. Initially, his ghazal presents itself as a mu‘rada (its meter, like that of Yazd’s line, is hazaj); that its rhyme differs is also significant, as I shall suggest below). But this is a mu‘rada that will not only allude to, borrow from, or compete with, but also appropriate the entire tradition – Arabic and Persian – on which it rests. (On mu‘rada see Losensky 1994: 229-32).

10

I have been unable to locate H. Lammens’ article on Yazd ibn Mu‘wiya published in the Journal Asiatique in the 1890s; the date of 1895, given in both the EI¹ entry and in the Index Islamicus, appears to be incorrect.

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That Hfiz’s wine cannot here be construed as “mystic wine” seems clear both from the tadmin’s profane provenance and from the ghazal’s setting – the drinking-party – which is established by this first misra‘. The second misra‘ states the ghazal’s theme: the difficulties of love. Love’s difficulties – which in Hfiz’s poetry range from the topical (his relations with his patrons) to the broadly ethical – are a dominant theme throughout the poet’s ghazals, as well as being the primary generic component of the ghazal itself. (This has led to a certain amount of over-reading, both in the case of S d, as we shall see, and amongst more recent commentators.) The matla‘ as a whole thus places the ghazal both in its physical setting, as performance at the gathering the sq serves, and in a broader contextual setting: as both explication of and (like the wine the sq offers) consolation for the pains of love. S d glosses the line: “Sq, give me wine; for love of the beloved at first appeared easy, but in the end many difficulties have manifested themselves.” He explains that when the beloved, who has at first treated the lover kindly, begins to demonstrate istighn (that is, independence, or lack of need for the lover), the unfortunate lover seeks to console himself, “sometimes with wine, sometimes with opium or coffee” (a nice Ottoman touch!), in order to find temporary relief. This is an example of that overreading (or perhaps under-reading, as it is inherently reductive) of the ghazal already noted above; for while convention demands (and Hfiz will supply) a “beloved”, this, too – as part of what I have called elsewhere the ghazal’s “fiction” (1987: 251-61; 1991) – is also part of the poetic game being played in this ghazal. On the basis of the matla‘ on its own we must, I think, take ‘ishq as Love writ large. Love’s difficulties, in various manifestations and with varied and wide-ranging implications, are the subject of the next two lines, which dwell on the inevitability and distress of separation. 2 Zi b-yi nfa- k-khar Sab z-n turra bi-gshyad zi tb-i ja‘d-i mishgn-ash chi khn uftd dar dilh At the scent of that musk-sac which the Sab loosed from those locks, from the shining twists of his musk-black curls, what blood rushed into (lovers’) hearts. 3 Ma-r dar manzil-i jnn chi amn-i ‘aysh chun har dam jaras faryd mzanad ki bar bandd mahmilh In the beloved’s abode what security of enjoyment have I, when at every moment the bell cries out, “Bind on the camel-litters!”

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S d (who transposes QG’s 3 and 4; most editors, however, concur with the order in QG) observes that he himself has written an entire treatise (risla) of commentary on bayt 2, a statement which alerts us to its semantic density.11 In terms of the ghazal’s structure and thematics, the order in QG makes perfect sense: the two bayts juxtapose, in reverse order with respect to the two languages of the matla‘, two topoi relating to separation and grief that stand ironically for expressions of this topic in Persian and in Arabic poetry respectively. The first is that of the beloved’s dark hair, which conceals his (or her) countenance from the lover; while this image occurs in Arabic poetry also, it is far more developed in Persian, so that the mere mention of curls and face becomes a kind of shorthand conjuring up the entire range of references of the image. The second is that of the departing women of the tribe, which originated in pre-Islamic Arabic poetry and retained its popularity in the urban poetry of Abbasid and later-periods.12 Let us follow S d’s “summary” gloss of line 2. By, he states, is used in both its “customary” sense of “scent, fragrance” and its figurative one of “hope.” Thus the fragrance of the beloved’s hair brings hope to the lover, as did the fragrance of Joseph’s shirt to Jacob. Nfa is the gland of the musk-deer, from which the fragrance is obtained (there is a long excursus on the musk-deer: when it becomes heated, it produces blood which collects in the region of its navel, nf; when this gland, or sac, becomes filled with blood it eventually detaches, and is collected and processed to produce the fragrance). The Sab is “the breeze that blows from the direction of the rising sun,” i.e. the east wind; “but in the language of poetry they call that breeze which comes from the beloved’s quarter the Sab.” khar is “a Persian word” used for affirmation and emphasis. Turra is the upper part of the forehead, or the hair of the forelock. Tb “has several meanings; here the best one is that of twisting;” we may note also its senses of “shining” (cf. mahtb “moonlight”), “brilliance, luster” and, significantly (when we think of the muskdeer), “heat.” Ja‘d is an adjective (sifat) used in the sense of muja‘‘ad, “twisting curling”. Dil means both “heart” (qalb) and “mind” (khtir); here it is used in the former sense. Thus Hfiz “has compared the curls to the musk-sac and the Sab to a musk-seller, and (has ascribed) the cause of blood falling into hearts as (being) the long waiting of the lovers.” There is, however, a problem with S d’s explanation: it does not really account for the metaphor. If, metaphorically speaking, a “blood-filled heart” is a sign of suffering, physiologically speaking it denotes the onset of the physical malady which is love11

This risla was published in N. M. Hoca’s study of S d’s life and works (Sd: hayati, eserleri ve iki risâlesi’nin metni, Istanbul 1980); I have not been able to consult this work. 12 To the point where, towards the end of the 4th/10th century, it could be parodied by a poet like Ibn Hajjj (see Meisami 1993: 25-6). The motif is infrequent in Persian poetry; one poet who does use it is Man chihr, who is noted for his imitation of Arabic models.

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sickness. When this blood is heated, it rises and is exhaled in the form of sighs.13 (We may note here the effect of the drawn-out  sounds in this line: nfa, khar, sab, z-n, bigshyad, tb, uftd, dilh). Hfiz’s line is ambivalent at best: if the breeze wafts the scent of musk from the beloved’s curls, bringing hope to the lover, it also looses those curls, obscuring the beloved’s face in their “musky twists,” a dark brilliance (tb) which conceals the light of his countenance. But on the etiological level (for what we have here is the figure husn-i ta‘ll), the context is physiological: it is the heat (tb) of those “musky locks” that is the physiological cause of the blood which fills the lovers’ hearts with pain, as heated blood fills the nfa of the musk-deer. Hope and fear are close comrades in the lover’s heart. This is borne out by bayt 3, where the poet exclaims that there can be no permanence in love (S d reads amn-i ‘aysh as “a life in security and safety”), when the danger of parting is always imminent. (Some variants have amn-e ‘ishq, “security in love,” which is perhaps more congruent with the matla‘). S d points out that manzil, which may mean “stopping places” (mahall-i nuzl) or “house, dwelling” (khna, maskan), is used here in the former sense, and that, moreover, Hfiz has used a singular noun in place of the more appropriate plural because of the exigencies of the meter: for “the road to union with the beloved is not restricted to a single road; many roads are required, in the sense that to reach the beloved the lover must endure much trial and torment, and pass through many stages [marhil] until he understands the value of union with the beloved and girds himself to his service.” S d also notes the correct sense of jaras (a bell tied to the necks of camels or mules); but in the end he curiously misread the sense of bar bandd mahmilh (or perhaps not curiously; S d tends to an overall optimism): life in the beloved’s abode is insecure “since at every moment the bell cries – that is, announces – ‘Bind on your burdens, and join the beloved as quickly as possible; for opportunity is gain’.”14 The Ottoman S d is far from the conventions of the Arabic nasb. 15 So, apparently, is Arberry, who comments, “The poet compares this world with the alighting-

13

We may note the prevalence of this image in both Arabic and Persian poetry. For the physiology of lovesickness see, for example, the discussion in Mas‘ d’s Murj al-dhahab, analyzed and translated in Meisami 1989: 273-5. 14 We may contrast Hfiz’s use of the caravan bell as an unwelcome harbinger of departure with Khqn’s treatment of it in the Tuhfat al-‘Irqayn, in which the sound of the bell that announces the departure of the pilgrims’ caravan is to be preferred above all sounds (Khqni 1955: 118-9). 15 S d digresses here on the figurative sense of faryd as a “call for help” and on faryd-ras as one who responds to this call. Here, however (he states), it means merely a cry, and “provides the content [qarna] for the fact that he has ‘borrowed’ [isti‘rat kard] jaras for a person.” He adds: “It is clear that in those days, when travelling, at the time of departure they sounded a bell to alert the travellers; but the

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place (manzil) of a caravan-train; every moment the bell of a camel departing from the caravanserai warms all other travellers that their lodgment there is only temporary, and that they too must soon be quitting this life” (1962: 139, n. 3). But while the image of life as a caravan and the world as caravanserai is indeed frequent in Persian poetry, and is implicitly part of the field of reference here, it is not to the fore; nor is Hfiz (as yet) talking about “this world,” in a general sense, but about love’s trials and, more importantly, about the language(s) in which those trials have been expressed by poets. Bayt 2 gave us a quintessentially Persian image; bayt 3 returns us to the imagery of the Arabic nasb, in which the departing tribe carries the beloved away. (The rhyme-word, mahmil, refers to the camel-borne litter in which the departing women, the za‘’n, ride). Thus Hfiz appropriates both the Persian and the earlier Arabic traditions of love poetry.16 But there is yet more, here, that meets the eye; and we would do well to keep the word manzil in mind (and Hfiz’s use of the singular) – its Persian plural constitutes the rhyme-word of the following bayt – and to recall that the matla‘ linked love and wine, to which bayt 4 returns us. It does so, moreover, in an allusive appropriation of the structure, or movement, of the panegyric qasda. For if bayts 1-3 of this ghazal constitute what is, in effect, a nasb, incorporating motifs associated with the poetry of love, 4 and 5 may be seen as alluding to the rahl (introduced by the transitional bayt 3, with its reference to the departing tribe or caravan), as they combine other topics drawn from both traditions and widen the poem’s field of reference. 4 Ba-may sajjda rangn kun gar-at pr-i mughn gyad ki slik bi-khabar na-bvad zi rh u rasm-i manzilh Stain your prayer-carpet with wine, should the Magian elder bid you to; for the traveler is not ignorant of the way and customs of the stopping- places. 5 Shab-i trk u bm-i mawj u girdb chunn hyil kuj dnand hl-i m sabuk-brn-i shilh The dark night, fear of the waves, the dreadful whirlpool: what do they know of our state, who pass lightly on the shore?

Ottomans sounded a trumpet [kurnay].” It is clear too that, despite his attempt to read the verse literally, the figurative sense of faryd has colored S d’s comments. 16 There is surely a cumulative allusion in the first three lines of Hfiz’s ghazal to a line from a ghazal by Amr Mu‘izz: Na-tavn guzasht az manzil k-nj na-yuftad mushkil/az qissa-yi sangn-dil nshn-lab smn-zaqan, “One cannot pass a station where some problem does not arise because of one hard-hearted, sweet lipped and silver-chinned” (quoted in Saf 1960: 516).

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Arberry gives these lines an unequivocally mystical reading. In 4 the “Magian elder” (pr-i mughn), the wineseller, “is the symbol of the man intimate with all the secrets of life; he knows by experience that reason is powerless to solve the ultimate riddle of the universe… and that it is only the wine of unreason that makes life in this world a tolerable burden.” Further, “The terms slik [traveler] and manzil [stopping-places] belong to the technical vocabulary of Sufis” (they did not, however, originate with them). Bayt 5 comprises “a fine description of the ‘dark night of the soul’; the imagery of the sea is more common in Persian mystical poetry than might have been expected of people little given to seafaring” (1962: 139, nn. 4, 5).17 S d is both more sober and more prosaic. For him, the pr-i mughn is the Zoroastrian priest in charge of the fire-temple (“and they use mugh categorically for kfir, unbeliever”), the chief of the Magians, the wine-seller, who must not be disobeyed because he, above all others, knows the customs and protocol of the tavern and the needs of its customers. Slik is simply “traveler” (i.e., the wine-seller), manzilh the taverns. To summarize: If the pr-i mughn (wine-seller) tells you to stain the symbol of piety, the prayer-carpet with wine, obey him, because he is the expert. This too is not particularly satisfying. Caught between the mystical Arberry and the prosaic S d, how shall we proceed? Perhaps by going back to the master of the Arabic khamriyya, Ab Nuws, and to the pre-Islamic poet to whom he so often alluded, Imru’ al-Qays, through whom we may further consider the meaning of rh u rasm, loosely rendered as “customs” but perhaps (in Hfiz’s project of appropriation) to be more precisely identified (in its juxtaposition with manzilh) as the traces of the ruined encampment. 18 In his Mu‘allaqa Imru’ al-Qays exhorted his traveling companions to 17

This is surely as inaccurate as it is irrelevant, and displays more than a touch of what might be called a “Britannia ruled[d] the waves” mentality. In “real-life” terms, many of the great travelers, geographers and seafarers were of Persian origin. Shiraz was not all that far from the Persian Gulf and its flourishing ports. Even in the more land-locked regions of Transcaucasia, Khurasan and Transoxania, there were the Caspian and that great “sea,” the Am Darya/Jayh n/Oxus. “Realism” aside, however, we are dealing with a literary topos which goes back to the early poetry of another people “little given to seafaring,” the Arabs of the Jhiliyya, who regularly compare desert and sea and expound upon the dangers (and rewards) of pearl-diving. M. Musaff sees in Hfiz’s line an allusion to a line from a ghazal by Nizr Quhistn (which is also on love and wine), line 4 of the poem’s seven lines and its “turn” from the first topic to the second: Zi iztirb-i ba-dary-uftda b-khabarast / qarr-yfta bar shil ay Musalmnn, “He knows nothing of the distress of one who has fallen into the sea, who sits safely on the shore, O Muslims!” (Nizr 1992: 356). References to the same topic are abundant in Hfiz’s contemporary, Khvj ; see for example Khvjý 1957: 195 (“How should he recall the shore who is drowning in the sea of love? For they who are on the shore know nothing of this state”); ibid: 213 (“I am drowning in an endless sea, while he who blames me is upon the shore”). 18 In this connection we might note that Mu‘izz’s ghazal (see the preceding note), a nasb-like lament over the past which begins Ay sribn manzil ma-kun juz bar diyr-i yr-i man, “O camel-driver, stop no

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“stop and weep at the memory of a loved one and a lodging” (bi-dhikr habbin wamanzil); later in the same poem he asked, “What is there left to lean on where the trace is obliterated?” (hal-li rasmin drisin min mu‘awwal) (1958: 29, 31). (Note that in Arabic prosodic terms, if we subtract the Persian plural suffix –h from the rhyme of Hafiz’s ghazal it is, like the Mu‘allaqa, a lmiyya. The central positioning of the rhyme-word manzilh, which points back to the manzil-e jnn in bayt 3, also draws attention to the parallel with the Mu‘allaqa). The slik – the traveler – knows both the road which leads to the abandoned manzil, and the signs which identify them. For Ab Nuws, the manzil was the tavern. He exclaims, in a line which curiously anticipates Hfiz’s imagery, and in which the manzil is at once the wineshop, the poet’s stopping-place, and the sacred shrine he circumambulates (atiftu bihi): 6 How many a vintner’s dwelling [manzili khammrin] have I circumscribed, When the night’s robes were black as pitch (1958: 3:5) Not only the poet, but the great kings of the past, have prostrated themselves (sajjada) before the wine (cf. ibid., 3:10, 80), which is purchased from a Magian (Mj s; cf. ibid., 3:102, and see also 279).19 (We may note here the resonances between Ab Nuws’s wamudmatin sajada l-mulki li-dhikrih, “And a wine at the mention of which kings bowed down” [ibid.:10] and Hfiz’s prayer-carpet, sajjda). And if for Ab Nuws the rusm represent the ruined traces over which the lovelorn poet fruitlessly weeps (“He is mad who weeps over the traces of a ruined encampment!”; ibid., 3:252), do not the “ruins of love” figure upon those “many roads” the lover must travel to seek his heart’s desire? It becomes apparent that in this ghazal Hfiz is, among other things, retracing a life in, and of, poetry – his own poetry, and that of the tradition that informs it, which begins with Imru’ al-Qays and passes through many hands (not least those of Ab Nuws) and many manzil until it reaches the Persian poet. (It is perhaps significant that much characteristically Persian imagery, in particular that of the garden, which is certainly abundant in Hfiz’s oeuvre in general, is virtually absent in this poem, which presents itself as an act both of homage and of appropriation). That it is the tavernkeeper (less than the Magian elder in his later Persian incarnation as spiritual guide) who knows the stopping-places on this road, who can read the signs of the abandoned camps – the

where except in the abodes of my beloved,” is often alluded to by later poets; cf. for example Sa‘d (Sadi 1939: 42): Sribn hista rn k-rm-i jn dar mahmil-ast / chr-pyn br bar pusht-and u m-r bar dil-ast, “Camel-driver, drive slowly, for my heart’s-ease is in the litter; the beasts have loads upon their backs, and I upon my heart.” 19 Both the “Magian” (or Persian) wine-seller and the fact that the wine is purchased with “Magian” (or Persian) coinage are motifs found already in pre-Islamic poetry.

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rusm which the Arab poets so often likened to writings, and not least to (often illegible) sacred writings – is scarcely surprising (and, of course, he also knows the “customs” of Ab Nuws’s favorite manzil, the taverns). These poetic “traces” continue to linger in the poetic memory, from whence – like the memory of the beloved of the classical nasb – like the memory of the beloved of the classical nasb – they are summoned up by the poet in whose work the tradition reaches its apogee. But what of the “dark night of the soul” – for it is surely that, though perhaps not, as Arberry would have us believe, in an exclusively or even primarily mystical sense. S d glosses: The darkness of the night of absence, fear of the spy [raqb], dread of drowning in the whirlpool of eternal separation: this is our situation and condition. Then how can those who have reached the shore of union, and who no longer worry about (the presence of) strangers nor fear separation from the beloved, understand our state? S di reads (or over-reads) the line in terms of the ghazal’s “basic fiction” to the point of supplying a raqb (perhaps in an effort to find a correspondence for every element in the image, which he clearly reads figuratively; the raqb must thus be, rather oddly, aligned with the waves). In his Mu‘allaqa Imru’ al-Qays (despite coming from a people “not noted for seafaring”) described the long night of cares: 44 Oft night like a sea swarming [ka-mawji l-bahri] has dropped its curtains over me, thick with multifarious cares, to try me (1958: 48; trans. Arberry 1957: 64). This is certainly echoed, if not directly alluded to, in Hfiz’s line; as is Ab Nuws’s arrival at the tavern under cover of a night whose “robes were black as pitch.” Those who sit carefree on the shore (sabukbrn, literally “lightly loaded”, that is, “free from care” (see Ahvar 1984, 1:449) – not, pace S d, those who have “reached the shore of union”) can have no knowledge either of the perils and terrors of the poet’s quest or of the joys of arrival. There is a long tradition of sea-imagery in (landlocked) Persian poetry, and especially in mystical poetry. A ghazal by ‘Attr begins, “I was cast into a great sea, no limit to which can I see,” dwells on the futility of the search for the “unique pearl” he so desires (“Why should I travel any more a road whose end I cannot see?”), but then asserts that, though the beloved (jnn) be unheeding, and other lovers not willing to make the sacrifice required to attain her, “whoever stakes his life on her, in him no penitence I see” (1960: 407-8, no. 525; in the same hazaj metre as Hfiz’s ghazal). San’ wrote of being

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cast into the sea of love, whose water is fire, whose waves are great mountains of darkness, and which was filled with terrifying sea-monsters: 6 I died; I drowned; how wondrous! I became alive, and gained a pearl whose price is both the worlds. (1960: 806) But while there are certainly overtones of these mystical ghazals in Hfiz’s poem, once again, they are only overtones. What they share with Hfiz’s ghazal is their emphasis on the quest, the preciousness of its object, and the dangers of the search. In bayt 6 we find further echoes of Ab Nuws, as well as further complications arising from mystical glossing.20 6 Hama kr-am zi khud-km ba-bad-nm kishd khar nihn kay mnad n rz k-az- szand mahfilh All my affairs, from self-indulgence, have led to bad repute: When does that secret remain concealed about which gatherings are made? S d glosses this line extensively, quoting parallels from Hill and Jm (both later than Hfiz). The gist of the verse, he says, is this: Since all my needs were (performed) in accordance with my own heart’s inclination, desires and wishes – that is, I was concerned with achieving my own desires and wishes, not bound to achieving those of the beloved…this is why my affairs have led in the end to disgrace and bad repute. The “gist of the discourse” (hsil-i kalm) – that is, what the line actually means – is given at greater length: That which love and affection requires is gaining the beloved’s heart [khtir]. To attain this goal one must renounce wealth and life and perform services worthy of the beloved’s status, while observing complete propriety. One must even, on occasion, ignore one’s own relatives and dependants. In short, in order to gain proximity to the court of good fortune and the threshold of felicity of the beloved, one must continually frequent the beloved’s abode. Then, in the second misr‘, he has produced 20

Were we to pursue our comparison of the ghazal’s structure with that of the qasda, we might term this a hasb-e hl, which often precedes either a suit by the poet or praise of his patron.

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a sentential [zarb al-masal] with regard to the intent of the first, saying: How can a secret remain concealed that is spoken about in gatherings and parties? He quotes a similar verse by Hill, and explains that “organizing gatherings” (skhtan-i mahfilh) means “telling secrets here and there.” That love’s secret should not be (but, inevitably is) revealed is one of the most well-known topoi of the Persian ghazal (as of love poetry in general), and Hfiz employs it frequently. Sa‘d writes (1976, 1:211), 10 Sa‘d, how can you hide from others the secret of your heart, since the details of your love have, one by one, been exposed? While the topic is used by mystical poets as well, there is nothing inherently mystical about it; and S d’s “court of good fortune and threshold of felicity” (dargh-i dawlat vasadda-yi sa‘dat) has definite courtly overtones (all the more so in an Ottoman context). Arberry, as usual, reads this mystically: “It is the eternal affliction of the lover of God that he is constrained by the ecstasy of his emotion to reveal the secret that should remain hidden; so did Hallj, who paid for his indiscretion upon the gallows” (1962: 140, n. 6). The reference to Hallj seems gratuitous (the more so as he is rarely mentioned in Hfiz’s poetry; an exception is QG142 [Sl-h dil talab-i jm-i Jam az m mkard…], a very different kind of ghazal, the textual tradition of which is, moreover, highly confused.21 What is involved here is a breach of protocol, although on just what level is not made explicit. We may recall in this connection the concluding lines of another of Hfiz’s ghazals (QG81) – 7 The words of love are not those which come to the tongue: Sq, bring wine, and cut short all this talk. 8 Hfiz’s tears have cast wisdom and patience into the sea: what can he do? He could not hide the burning of love’s grief – which contains similar resonances, as well as Ab Nuws’s famous lines (1958, 3: 126-7): 1 Give me wine to drink, and tell me it is wine; and do not give me to drink in secret when openness is possible … 21

Hallj is named or alluded to explicitly three times in Hfiz’s ghazals; see Ahvar 1982, 1:266-8.

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5 Speak openly the name of the one you love; spare me euphemisms [kun]; for there is no goodness in pleasures over which there is a veil. (The second misr‘ of the line quoted earlier in which Ab Nuws referred to kings bowing low at mention of the wine reads, “[a wine] disclosed by the mention of its names.”). These lines lead us back to the matla‘ of Hfiz’s ghazal, with its address to the sq establishing the setting as a drinking party, a setting also suggested by the mahfil of line 6. The poem has come full circle, and we have rejoined the convivial gathering. And now it seems, in the light of the intertextual allusions so far uncovered, that the poem is not merely “about” the difficulties of love, but also about those of wine-drinking (banal though that might seem; we may recall the accusations of libertinism directed at Hfiz by his detractors). The “secret” for which parties are organized is wine itself, whose “name” – as Ab Nuws exhorts – is (in contravention of the convention that the “beloved”’s name should not be revealed) to be pronounced openly. And how often does Ab Nuws complain that his pursuit of the daughter of the vine has led to bad repute and to censure, only to respond (ibid., 3:2), 1 Leave off blaming me, for blame is an enticement, and cure me with that which was the affliction! But other things go on at parties besides drinking; and one of these, not least in importance, is the singing of ghazals about love and wine, through which the lover’s (and the drinker’s) secret is, willy-nilly, revealed. We can now see that three major thematic concerns are linked throughout the ghazal: the trials of love, the celebration of wine, and a defence of the poetry which sings of both, in defiance of critics. (This is a further implication of the matla‘, with its tadmn drawn from a not-too-respectable source). All three are summed up in the ghazal’s final line – 7 Huzr gar ham khh az- ghyib ma-shaw Hfiz matt m talq man tahw da‘i d-duny wa-ahmilh If you desire presence, Hfiz, do not be absent from him: once you have found the one you desire, leave this world and ignore it – in which man tahw echoes Ab Nuws’s “Speak openly the name of the one you love” (buhi sma man tahw). Before considering the possible implications of this phrase, let us return for a moment to S d’s gloss. Huzr, “presence,” he informs us, “is the opposite of ghaybat, absence, and is also used in opposition to safar, journey; here, however, it means tranquility and ease” – as, for example, peace of mind. Az- refers to the second

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misra‘ (this will, however, create some difficulties), “and attributing it [the pronoun ] to God is the most flagrant of errors” (Bear this in mind). Ghyib, “absent,” is used here in the sense of ghfil, “negligent” (as some variants attest). Matt m talq is interpreted as matt aradta an talq, “If you wish to find [or: to meet with],” matt being taken as a conditional marker (shart); as for man, “those who believe that the pronoun  in the first misra‘ refers to this word…have both uttered a contradiction and committed an error.” (We are still in pursuit of the elusive .)22 Finally S d comes to the mahsl: It is this: If you seek tranquility [syish], Hfiz, do not neglect it. That is: Hfiz, if you wish to attain what you desire, abandon the world, meaning, expend all you have on the path towards union with the beloved and on the way to his service…For the meaning of renouncing the world is to renounce wealth and worldly possessions and, in general, all worldly connections, as mentioned in the preceding line; because the greatest means to reaching the beloved is to forgo wealth and, after that, to expend one’s life. One who ignores both [wealth and life] becomes worthy of service, and, moreover, (attains) knowledge and sagacity [‘ilm vama‘rifat]. Now it is possible that by ma‘rifat S d means gnosis (this is where all love should ultimately lead); but it is even more likely that he means “recognition” or “gratitude,” i.e., for services rendered on the path of love. But as the ghazal’s fiction of love is a wellestablished analogue of courtly protocol and poet-patron relations, huzr also connotes proximity to the ruler and/or his court.23 It appears, further, that in his eagerness to strip the poem of any mystical meaning (which militates against reading ma‘rifat as “gnosis”), S d has (deliberately?) misconstrued the  of the first misra‘. In his defense it should be said that he was approaching Hfiz’s ghazal as a written text, and was constrained to account for its grammatical features in terms of their possible referents within that text: if  cannot refer to man (which is evidently the view of many commentators), and still less

22

S d is occasionally on shaky ground in glossing the Arabic. He derives da‘ from the non-existent root nd-‘, “the root and the past tense of which are never used, and its subject and object forms only rarely so.” S d’s editor is not much more enlightened, as he considers da‘ “fixed” and unconjugable (ghayr mutasarrif). In fact it derives from the weak root w-d-‘; and phrases such as da‘ dh, “Leave that,” were commonly used as transitional markers in early Arabic poetry. 23 Hfiz’s contemporary Khvj of Kirman entitled two volumes of his Dvn Hazariyyt and Safariyyt, poems of “presence” and “absence,” i.e., in relation to the court.

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to God (Who is outside the text), it must refer to something, and S d links it to syish (even though an implied ma‘shq would seem more likely, as indeed his own further comments suggest). But there is an alternative, which S d has not considered but which is appealing if we may assume that the ghazal – despite its highly literary, allusive texture – was performed. This seems supported by internal evidence – the address to the sq and the reference to mahfilh, “gatherings” (like the present one); the addresses to members of an implied audience (ba-may sajjda kun; kuj dnand hl-i m? and so on) which involve them in the poem; and by the fact that it was a well-established convention for poets to incorporate into their poems references to the surroundings in which they were performed or recited. It may not be too far-fetched to suggest that the  is, indeed, a “he” (the same “he” implied by man tahw) – the mamdh, the object of the poet’s desire, perhaps absent at the poem’s performance. It is also possible that – as the final line suggests – the poet himself is absent (cf. for example QG9, where his absence from the gathering is clear from his request that the Sab bear his greetings to the “youths of the garden,” meaning not only the fresh flowers but the courtiers gathered there), that his ghazal is performed by a rv or a singer, and that the line is also a plea for restoration to the proximity of court and prince.24 This provides a satisfactory interpretation of the ghazal on the topical, or contingent, level. But in view of its self-proclaimed “literariness,” and its deliberate placement at the beginning of Hfiz’s Dvn, this reading does not exhaust its potential for meaning. Let us return briefly to Ab Nuws’s buhi sma man tahw. Ab Nuws does that, by naming the wine and describing its (her) various attributes. Hfiz, rather pointedly, does not, and it is only such vague references to n turra, manzil-i jnn and such, and the even more vague and obscure  / man of the makhlas that allow us (and S d) to posit a “beloved.” On the topical level these two must be paired, as indeed they must also be on the level of the “fiction” of the ghazal. We will recall, however, that S d rejected this pairing, although he seems in his discussion of the mahsl implicitly to accept it. Here we may introduce another possible allusive reference – manipulated, as is Hfiz’s wont, for the poet’s own purposes. In a brief poem (which is, generically speaking, a ghazal) in his Tarjumn al-ashwq, Ibn ‘Arab reveals that the Sab – the lovers’ messenger – has related (rawat) to him a hadth, transmitted by (mu‘an‘anan) a long chain of (entirely figurative) “tridents,” stretching from his “distracted thoughts” back to his heart. The text of this hadth is: “He whom thou lovest is between thy ribs; the breaths toss him from side to side” (anna lladh tahwhu bayna dul‘ikum tuqallibuhu l-

24

On the performance setting of the ghazal see de Bruijn 1983: 157-60; Lewis 1995: 107-11.

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anfsu janban il janb) (Ibn ‘Arab 1978: 21; translated by Nicholson, ibid.: 75).25 (We may note further resonances here with QG142, where the heart itself possesses the object of the quest.26 But rather than seeing in this allusion (and I believe it is such) further support for a mystical reading of Hfiz’s ghazal, I would ask instead: what is it that links Ab Nuws’s man tahw with Ibn ‘Arab’s alladh tahwhu and, ultimately, with Hfiz? The answer, I think, can only be: poetry. For Hfiz’s ghazal is, in the end, neither a Nuwsian wine poem, nor a typical ghazal-as-love-poem, nor a mystical poem, nor even an appeal to a prince or patron. It is, ultimately, about poetry – about a life lived in, and through, poetry, in which the poet returns to its (his) origins to become both heir to and appropriator of the entire tradition – a tradition, moreover, expressed in two languages.27 Hfiz’s man tahw, his ultimate object of desire, is neither Ab Nuws’s (personified) wine, nor the ma‘shq / jnn of the courtly or mystical love poem, nor yet the mamdh who is the implied “beloved” in much of his poetry. It is a “beloved” common to all three poets; and it is this beloved that Hfiz must not be “absent” from or “neglectful” of, and for which he must abandon other, worldly pursuits, to serve with the utmost devotion.28 For even though this may bring him bad repute, it will, in the end, ensure that his ghazals will be sung in many mahfils to come – as, indeed, they continue to be to this day.29

25

Although the “hadth” in question is not found in the standard concordances, it has every resemblance to a non-canonical hadth quds, and may either have been in circulation in Ibn ‘Arab’s time or have been put into circulation by him. 26 Compare also Sa‘d (1939: 416): “Long did I strive with all my soul seeking my heart’s desire – the friend at home, and I traveled the whole wide world.” 27 We might even suggest that Hfiz’s ghazal constitutes, in this sense, a commentary, or interpretation, of the tradition – a ta’vl that, quite literally, returns to the poetic origins of the poetry of love and retraces various stages (manzil) of that poetry to arrive at a poem that is both old and new, or rather, which makes new the old. 28 We may note here, in the context of both the Nuwsian khamriyya and the mystical poetry of Ibn ‘Arab, the feminine attributes of the beloved, many of which are also applied to poetry: the poem is a virgin, a bride, the daughter of the poet’s thoughts. Wine is also compared to a virgin bride by Ab Nuws; and we might recall the “daughter(s) of the vine” who appear in both Arabic and Persian wine poems (on this image in Hfiz, see Ahvar 1982, 1:339-41). 29 This essay has only begun to scratch the surface of the many intertextual references woven into this ghazal. I have left out many relevant poets – Amr Khusraw, in particular – with whose poetry this ghazal undoubtedly resonates; but considerations of space preclude further exploration of this topic.

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Works Cited ‘Attr, Fard al-Dn. 1960. Divn. Ed. Sa‘d Nafs. 3rd ed. Tehran: Zavvr. Ab Nuws. 1958- . Der Diwn des Ab Nuws. Eds. Ewald Wagner and Gregor Schoeler. Cairo and Wiesbaden: In Kommission bei Franz Steiner Verlag. Ahvar, Parvz. 1984. Kilk-i khiyl-angz, y Farhang-i jmi‘-e Dvn-e Hfiz. 2 vols. Tehran: Zavvr. Arberry, A. J., trans. 1957. The Seven Odes. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. -----, ed. and trans. 1962. Fifty Poems of Hfiz. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hfiz. 1941. Dvn. Ed. M. Qazvn and Q. Ghan. Tehran: Zavvr. Ibn al-‘Arab. 1978 [1911]. The Tarjumán al-Ashwáq, a Collection of Mystical Odes. Trans. Reynold Alleyne Nicholson. London: Theosophical Publishing House Ltd. Imru’ al-Qays. 1958. Dwn. Beirut: Dr Bayr t; Dr Sdir. Khqn Sharvn. 1955. Masnav-yi Tuhfat al-‘Irqayn. Ed. Yahy Qarb. Tehran: Chpi Sipihr. Khvj Kirmn. 1957. Dvn. Ed. Ahmad Suhayl Khnsr. Tehran: Brn. Lewis, Franklin D. 1995. Reading, Writing and Recitation: San’ and the Origins of the Persian Ghazal. Ph. D. Diss. Chicago: University of Chicago. Losensky, Paul E. 1994. “The Allusive Field of Drunkenness”: Three Safavid-Moghul Responses to a Lyric by Bb Fighn.” In Reorientations/Arabic and Persian Poetry, ed. Suzanne Pinckney Stetkevych, 227-62. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. -----, 1998. Welcoming Fighn: Imitation and Poetic Individuality in the Safavid-Mughal Ghazal. Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda Publishers. Meisami, Julie Scott. 1987. Medieval Persian Court Poetry. Princeton: Princeton University Press. -----. 1989. “Mas‘ d on Love and the Fall of the Barmakids.” JRAS: 252-77. -----. 1991. “The Ghazal as Fiction: Implied Speakers and Implied Audience in Hfiz’s Ghazals.” In Intoxication, Earthly and Heavenly: Seven Studies on the Poet Hfiz of Shiraz, eds. M. Glünz and J.-C. Bürgel, 89-103. Bern: Peter Lang. -----. 1993. “Arabic Mujn Poetry: The Literary Dimension.” In Verse and the Fair Sex: Studies in Arabic Poetry and the Representation of Women in Arabic Literature. A Collection of Papers Presented at the 15th Congress of the Union Européenne Des Arabisants et Islamisants (Utrecht/Driebergen, September 13-19, 1990), ed. Frederick de Jong, 8-30. Utrecht: Publications of the M.Th. Houtsma Stichtung. -----. 2003. Structure and Meaning in Medieval Arabic and Persian Lyric: Orient Pearls. London/New York: Routledge/Curzon. Moayyad, Heshmat. 1988. “Lyric Poetry.” In Persian Literature, ed. Ehsan Yarshater, 120-46. Albany: State University of New York Press. Nizr Quhistn. 1992. Dvn, matn-i intiqd. Ed. Muzhir Musaff. Tehran: ‘Ilm.

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Ong, Walter J. 1989 [1982]. Orality and Literacy: The Technology of the Word. London: Routledge. Pedersen, Johannes. 1984. The Arabic Book. Trans. Geoffrey French. Ed. Robert Hillenbrand. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Rypka, Jan. 1968. History of Iranian Literature. Dordrecht: D. Reidel. Sa‘d. 1885. Majm‘a-yi Kulliyyt. Lucknow [?] -----. 1939. Ghazaliyyt. Ed. Muhammad ‘Al Fur gh. Tehran: Beroukhim. -----. 1976. Ghazalh. Ed. N r Allh rnparast. Tehran: Dnish. San’ Ghaznav. 1960. Dvn. Ed. M. T. Mudarris-Razav. Tehran: Ibn Sn. Saf, Zabh Allh. 1960. Trkh-i adabiyyt-i rn. Vol. 2: Az miyna-yi qarn-i panjum t ghz-i qarn-i haftum-i hijr. 3rd ed. Tehran: Ibn Sn. S d Busnav. 1979. Sharh-i Sd bar Hfiz. Trans. ‘Ismat Sattrzda. Tehran: Kitbfur sh-yi Dihkhud.

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My Heart is the Ball, Your Lock the Polo-Stick: The Development of Polo Metaphors in Classical Persian Poetry1 A.A. Seyed-Gohrab Leiden University

Introduction This article traces the rise and the development of the metaphor of the ball and polo-stick, and related images, in Persian poetry from the tenth to the beginning of the sixteenth centuries CE. This “classical” period of Persian poetry has usually been divided into three phases. Although these phases use geographical nomenclature, namely Khursn, ‘Irq and Hind, accentuating the central region of literary activity in the period, these three phases are essentially based on stylistic standards, and not necessarily limited to these regions. Several characteristics of the first period (from the ninth century to the second half of the twelfth century) can be highlighted by the plain and harmonious poetical style, a harmonious use of images and metaphors and a limited use of Arabic words. 2 The second phase, which is called sabk-i ‘Irq (‘the style of ‘Irq’), starts in the middle of the twelfth century and lasts until the sixteenth century. The salient features of this particular style are the increasing use of Arabic words and expressions, and the tendency to employ complicated imagery and metaphor; it was also the period in which mystical poetry appeared, adding a symbolic dimension to Persian language. The third period, starting from the beginning of the sixteenth century and lasting until the eighteenth century, is named sabk-i Hindi (‘the Indian style’) and is typified by what Alessandro Bausani describes as: “deviations from the rule of harmonious use of imagery, leading to a ‘baroque’ extension of the stock images and metaphors allowed in poetry, the predominance of mystical-philosophical themes, and an extreme tendency towards allegory.”3

1

I would like to thank J.T.P. de Bruijn and K. Banak for reading drafts of this paper and for their invaluable suggestions. 2 The first period is called in Persian sabk-i Khursn (‘the style of Khursn’) or sabk-i Turkistn (‘the style of Turkistan’). For a discussion on the theory of periodisation of Persian poetry see J.T.P. de Bruijn in The Encyclopaedia of Islam, s.v. “Iran,” 59ff; see also N. Vaznp r, “Nras’ dar shins’ va nmguzr-yi sabk-h-yi shi‘r-i Frs,” in Nashriyya-yi dnishkada-yi adabiyyt va ‘ulm-insn-yi Tabrz, 25, # 108 (1974): 512-22. 3 As summarized by J.T.P. de Bruijn in The Encyclopaedia of Islam, s.v. “Iran,” 60; see also W. Heinz, Der indische Stil in der persischen Literatur (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1973), 4.

A.A. Seyed-Gohrab

Persian is usually considered an eminently symbolic language and this short study is an attempt to show how polo images were first created and how they were elaborated upon in later centuries, sometimes attaining epic proportions. Before turning to our analysis, it may be helpful to give a short background of the game of polo in Persia. Persia has traditionally been considered the cradle of polo, from which the game spread to the other countries of the East, and later to Europe. 4 From the pre-Islamic period until the eighteenth century, polo had been played at Persian royal courts, and Persian kings either participated in this game or watched courtiers play the game. It was the national sport of Iranians for several centuries. Persian kings’ love of polo is also attested by European travellers, such as Sir Anthony Shirley (1568-1635), who watched the game at the court of Shah Abbas I. In the city of Isfahan, Naqsh-i Jahn Square was the center of polo during the Safavid reign (1501-1722) and Shah Abbas I even constructed several playing-fields to promote the game. Polo is also mentioned in ancient sources. In a number of classical chronicles, it is reported that when Alexander the Great refused to pay taxes to Dariush, the latter sent him a ball and a polo-stick suggesting: you should play instead of ruling an empire. Receiving these contemptuous presents, Alexander interpreted them positively and thought that Daruish had given him the ball, which is the earth.5 One of the oldest books referring to polo is the Middle Persian text Krnma-yi Ardashr-i Ppakn, which reports how well Ardashr and Hurmuz could play the game.6 Many of the heroes of Persian epic poetry are celebrated for their skills at polo. Firdaus describes in the Shhnma (completed ca 1010) a match between Iran and T rn played by Siyvash against Afrsiyb.7 As in many other narrative epics, polo is also used in the Shh-nma as a setting and only limited information is offered with regards to rules, rituals and clothing. The number of people participating on each side in Siyvash’s match against Afrsiyb is seven. Furthermore, while they play polo, musicians play on cymbals, trumpets and drums to accompany them. Such polo-scenes are splendidly and repeatedly illustrated in 4

Encyclopedia Britannica, s.v. “Polo”; see also T.F. Dale, Polo: Past and Present (London: Country Life, 1905), 1-2; H. Massé in The Encyclopaedia of Islam, s.v. “awgn.” 5 Trikh-i Tabar, Persian trans., A. Pyanda (Tehran: Astr, 1362/1993), vol. 2: 489-90; see also Trkh-i Bal‘am, ed. M.T. Bahr, prepared by M. Parvn Gunbd (Tehran: Zavvr, 1353/1974), 695. 6 Kr-nmag  Ardashr (Book of the deeds of Ardashr), tr. Th. Nöldecke, Geschichte des Ardtachšr i Ppakn (Göttingen: Verlag von Robert Peppmüller, 1879), 39. See also F. Vahman in Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. “Bz.” 7 Shh-nma, ed. J. Khaleghi-Motlagh (Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda Publisher, 1990), vol. 2, 288ff; for an elegant English translation of this episode see Dick Davis, The Legend of Seyavash (Penguin Classics, 1992), 69ff; see also Dale, Polo: Past and Present, op. cit., 9-13. Similar stories are also narrated in, e.g., Ksh-nma, where btn plays polo against Tayh rshh; for this episode see J. Matn, “Chaugn dar K sh-nma” in Nma-yi farhangistn 4, 3 (1377/1998), 190-93.

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Persian painting.8 Special horses, called chaugn, were trained for playing polo to which several references can be found in Persian poetry.9 In his mirror for princes, the Qbs-nma (w. 475/1082), Kay Kav s b. Vushmgr (d. 492/1098-99) devotes an entire chapter to the game. 10 He also tells the following anecdote about the warrior ‘Amr b. Layth, who claimed independence from the Caliph in Baghdad: The story goes that ‘Amr son of Layth was blind in one eye. One day, after he had become Amir of Khurasan, he went on to the field to practice with the ball. Now he had an army commander to whose every word he paid heed. This man came on to the field and seizing the Amir’s rein said, “I will not leave you to practise with the ball, or play polo.” ‘Amr replied, “How is it that although you yourself play polo, you do not think it proper for me to play?” He answered, “Because I have two eyes. If one of them should happen to be struck by the ball, I should be blinded in one eye but one would still remain to me with which I should be able to behold the world. You have only the one eye, and if by accident the ball should hit it, you would be compelled to bid farewell to the amirate of Khurasan.” To this ‘Amr replied, “In spite of the annoyance of it all, you speak the truth. I agree never to practise with the ball as long as I live.”11 Kay Kv s considers the game dangerous, yet he allows his son to play the game twice a year. The author also gives some tips as to how polo should be played and by how many persons: 8

Polo became a favorite subject for Persian miniature painters from the fourteenth century onwards, and many historical scenes connected with polo have been painted in Persian medieval manuscripts, on carpets and on the walls of palaces and coffeehouses. 9 There are several poetic references to such horses. For instance, in one of his ghazals, Hfiz sings: “The grey polo-pony of the Wheel has been tamed under your saddle / O king, now that you have come to the arena, strike a ball.” Dvn-i Hfiz, ed. P. Ntil Khnlar (Tehran: Khrazm, 1362/1983), 780, gh. 382, l. 6. In Mubrak-Shh’s db al-harb va al-shaj‘a, a chapter is devoted to training polo-horses. See ‘A. Sultn Gurdfarmarzi in Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. “Asb. iii. in Islamic times.” It should be added here that Chaugn also refers to a town near the city of Balkh. In her article “Chaugn dar trkh-i Ibn Bb” (in Nma-yi farhangistn 3, 4 [1376/1998]: 73-80), Zhlih Muttahidn shows that during the medieval period, chaugn referred to a certain class of people at Iranian royal courts who were assigned to maintain law and order. 10 Qbs-nma, ed. Gh. H. Y suf (Tehran: Intishrt-i ‘Ilm va Farhang, 1371/1992, 6th ed.), chapter 19, 96-7; for an English translation see R. Levy, A Mirror for Princes (London: The Cresset Press, 1951), 85-6. 11 Ibid., 96, English tr., 86.

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[I]f once or twice a year you find pleasure in polo, I regard it as permissible. But you should not indulge in a great deal of riding, because in that there is danger. The men riding should number not more than eight in all; you should be stationed at one end of the field and another man at the opposite end, with six men on the field actually playing the ball. When the ball comes in your direction return it and bring your horse up; but do not take part in the scrimmage, thereby avoiding collision. You can achieve your purpose merely by looking on.12 The game of polo has also been integrated into several mystical and romantic epics. In Khusrau and Shrn, Nizm Ganjav (d. ca. 599/1203) describes a scene in which Khusrau plays polo with Shrn.13 The information Nizm offers in this passage is that polo was a game played by both men and women and that the sticks were made of willow-wood. We do not know for sure whether women actually participated in the game. In Musbat-nma, Fard ad-Dn ‘Attr (d. ca. 618/1221) tells an anecdote about the homosexual love between Sultn Mahm d and his slave boy Ayz, using a polo setting.14 The game of polo is also integrated into Jm’s Salmn and Absl, showing the hero’s skill at the game.15 In another romance, Sihr-i hall by Ahl Shirz, a game of polo is introduced in which Jam, the hero, falls from his horse while playing polo and dies.16 The appearance of the game of polo in romantic, heroic and mystical epics shows the popularity of this game amongst the Persians. Early imagery deriving from the game of polo Early court poets depicted activities at Persian courts by polo metaphors, similes and images. The salient stylistic features of these early poets belonging to the Khursni style include lucid imagery, plain language, direct expression and, sometimes, ‘realistic’ description. 17 The poet takes much of his imagery from direct observation of and participation in festivities, battle scenes, drinking parties, banquets or the game of polo. From several dvns, we learn that courtiers are expected to take part in festivity (bazm),

12

Ibid., 97, English tr., 86. Khusrau u Shrn, ed. B. Tharvatiyn (Tehran: T s, 1366/1987), 247-52. 14 Musbat-nma, ed. N. Visl (Tehran: Zavvr, 1373/1994), 258-59. 15 See Salmn u Absl, in Mathnav-yi haft aurang-i Jm, ed. q Murtaz Mudarris Gln (Tehran: Sa‘d, 1366/1987), 336. 16 See Dvn-i Ahl Shrz, ed. H. Rabbn (Tehran: San’, 1344/1965), 646. 17 For this particular style and other major styles in Persian see M.T. Bahr, “Shi‘r-i Frs,” in Bahr va adabiyt-i Frs: majm‘a-yi sad maqla az malik ash-shu‘ar Bahr, ed. M. Gulbun, v. 1 (Tehran: Sipihr, 1371/1992), 1:140-42. 13

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battle (razm), hunting (shikr) and polo (chaugn-bz). 18 Poets used polo images to show how well at home a person was in the saddle both during the game and during the battle. Also a person’s eloquence, his beauty, generosity and even his destiny were described by metaphors and similes deriving from polo. Poets even devoted the prologue of their odes (qasdas) to depict how well a king and other courtiers could play the game. The Ghaznavid poet Farrukh Sstn (d. 429/1037-8) depicts such a game in the following qasda (no. 11), “On the quality of Sultn Mahm d’s play at polo and his reception at the house of one of his sons”: You play cheerfully at polo with your servants, it suits you to play at polo among all the people of the world. The star is praising your polo-ball saying: “You possess dignity, esteem and rank.”19 I wished I could rush to the playing-field like you because there is the place of distinction, glory and grandeur. Were I to choose, the playing-field would be my place [but] it is not in our hands to be present at that site. O Emir, your polo-ball goes higher than the stars, the ball transcends the star; Who else possesses such a ball? This status and elevation of your polo-ball has been achieved through you; you know that this servant is telling the truth. It is clear to what height the value of your polo-ball can reach, it is clear how far the price of your polo-ball can reach. A ball reaches such an eminence at your service, becoming eloquent and famous in the sky. Concerning dignity and standing, it is right if we, who are your servants, arise to the sky. O king, he who becomes your servant, is not a servant O king, he who becomes your servant, is a king.20

18

Farrukh Sstn states: chahr chz guzn buvad khusruvn r kr / nisht kardan-i chaugn-u razm-u bazm-u shikr “Four things are chosen as the activities of the kings: / pleasing oneself at polo, fighting, feasting and hunting.” See Farrukh-yi Sistn, Dvn, ed. M. Dabrsiyq (Tehran: Zavvr, 1371/1992), 102, l. 1966; idem, 200, l. 3993. For a short study of polo imagery see A. Schimmel, Stern und Blume: Die Bilderwelt der persischen Poesie (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1984), 222-25; idem, The Triumphal Sun: A Study of the Works of Jalloddin Rumi (London: East-West Publications, 1978), 172-73. 19 Persian poets frequently associate the ball with stars in one way or another. Such a tendency also occurs in medieval Chinese poetry. See J.T.C. Liu, “Polo and Cultural Change: From T’ang to Sung China” in Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 45, 1 (1985), 211.

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As we can see from this poem, little information is offered concerning the actual game of polo. Apart from several poetic figures such as hyperbole, repetition and parallelism (that is the exactly measured symmetry of words), the poet uses the game to praise the king and how well he can hit the ball. What is interesting in this piece is that the poet uses polo both to compare the king’s loftiness and grandeur and to describe the high rank of servants serving such a mighty king. In the same way that a ball reaches a hyperbolic altitude when it is hit by the royal stick, the servants of such a king are no longer ordinary servants but reach the rank of kings. In fact, there are several instances in which retainers rose to high positions. The favourite slave-boy of Sultn Mahm d, Ayz rose to be a general. Needless to say, of course, that in such a courtly sphere, where poets composed poems to earn a living, the polo images were also used hyperbolically to show the king’s generosity. Amr Mu‘izz (d. ca. 519-21/1125) uses polo imagery to illustrate the patron’s generous hand: When you stretch your generous hand towards the polo-stick and strike at the ball, the ball will become a star in the curve of the stick.21 The altitude the ball can reach is analogous to the king’s generosity. Polo was a training game for cavalry and was loved by the nobility. It is for this reason that the game of polo is frequently used to depict a battlefield, showing how soldiers fight, defeat and behead the enemy. In such depictions, the focus of attention is the enemy’s hands and feet, which are compared to the polo-stick, and the enemy’s head, compared to the ball. These scenes are dominated by elements connected with weaponry, war and polo. The following couplet by Amr Mu‘izz is a good example; note how the poet plays on the words sahr ‘desert,’ ‘field’ and sarh, ‘heads’: Making balls from the heads of the Franks in the field; making polo-sticks for these balls from their hands and feet.22

20

Dvn-i Farrukh, 21, ll. 419-31. Another description of playing at polo appears on p. 149, qasda 70, ll. 2953-955. Farrukh’s other references to polo can be found at 83, l. 1571; 91, l. 1730; 102, l. 1966; 125, l. 2434; 127, l. 2488; 144, l. 2852; 149, l. 2953; 200, 2993; 201, l. 4014; 217, l. 4332; 251, l. 5014; 262, 5171; 266, l. 5273; 279, ll. 5539-42; 291, l. 5825; 295, l. 5903; 299, l. 5992; 302, l. 6047; 314, l. 6316; 327, l. 6595. 21 Dvn-i Amr Mu‘izz, ed. N. Hayyir (Tehran: Marzbn, 1362/1983), 477. Mu‘izzi’s other references to polo are on pp. 25, 38, 55, 56, 61, 87, 147, 167, 170, 172, 193, 327, 390, 391, 397, 459, 477, 499, 501, 504, 526, 530, 531, 536, 648, 671, 674, 680, 692, 701, 705, 707, 711, 714, 731. 22 Ibid., 531; cf. Dvn-i Farrukh, 217, l. 4332.

188

“My Heart is the Ball, Your Lock the Polo-Stick”

Another example in which the game is used in the same sense is the following: He has put the heads of the state’s enemies like balls at the curve of the polo-stick in the arena.23 Again in another place, the poet expresses: O king, when you strike the ball and play polo you start a battle against the army of your enemy From their bent statures you make polo-sticks you place their heads in the heart of the balls.24 There are dozens of such examples in Persian dvn poetry, describing bloody battles, quarrels at court, decapitations, a king’s victory, etc. Another poet, the poet-laureate of the Ghazanavid court ‘Unsur (d. 431/1039), compares those who speak ill of him to crooked polo-sticks and assures them that he will not be the ball at the stick of such ill-speaking persons. By playing on gy, meaning both ‘ball’ and ‘saying,’ the poet maximizes the effect of his statements: He who speaks ill of us is like a crooked polo-stick I shall not be the ball at the stick of the ill-speaker.25 Polo was also used to describe a person’s greediness (tama‘), as referred to by the Ism‘l propagandist Nsir Khusrau: Your greed is galloping around the world frantically O old man, you have become a ball and your greed a polo-stick.26 Old age and becoming bent by age is frequently compared with a bent polo-stick in Persian poetry. Nsir Khusrau is perhaps one of the first poets to use this imagery: 23

Dvn-i Amr Mu‘izz, 526. Dvn-i Amr Mu‘izz, p. 731. 25 Dvn-i ustd ‘Unsur Balkh, ed. M. Dabrsiyq, (Tehran: San’, 1342/1963), 323, l. 3088. Other references to polo appear on pp. 20, 236, 247, and 265. It might be mentioned here that ‘Unsur’s contemporary, Man chihr of Dmghn makes no reference to polo. Only one reference is made to the ball without mentioning the polo-stick. His other references to the ball do not specifically allude to polo. See Dvn-i Manchihr-yi Dmghn, ed. M. Dabrsiyq (Tehran: Zavvr, 1375/1996), 107, l. 1454; 147 , l. 1991. 26 Dvn-i Nsir Khusrau, eds. M. Mnuv & ‘A.A. Dihkhud (Tehran: Mahd, 1372/1993), 379, l. 11. 24

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How long do you want to travel in this rotating ball (i.e. the earth) because your back has become [like] a polo-stick from this spinning ball.27 It is worth noting here that in these examples, the earth is usually likened to a polo-ball tossed by heavenly powers. This image became very popular with the poets of later centuries. Nizm Ganjav alludes to this aspect of polo imagery in his Makhzan al-asrr (The Treasury of Secrets): The line of the spheres is the edge of your arena; the ball of the earth is in the curve of Your polo-stick.28 Since the earth was seen as a ball and heavenly powers functioned as polo-sticks, it was an easy step for Persian poets to describe destiny and divine decree on the basis of the game of polo. In such metaphors, time and destiny are frequently likened to either a polostick or a ball, playing with people. R dak (d. ca. 329/940) is perhaps the first poet using polo-imagery in this sense in the following couplet. The hemistichs are symmetrical both in form, content and syntax, followed by a radf-rhyme. The entire imagery is based on elements borrowed from the game of polo. In the first hemistich, time is likened to a colt and man is advised to become its trainer:29 Time is a colt and you the trainer, gallop according to your judgement; Time is a ball and you the polo-stick, play according to your judgement.30

27

Ibid., 321, l. 25, cf. 350, l. 24. Makhzan al-asrr, ed. V. Dastgird (Tehran: Armaghn, 1313/1934; 2nd ed., ‘Ilm, 1363/1984), 26, l. 8. For an English translation of this poem see Makhzanol Asrr, The Treasury of Mysteries, Gh. H. Drb (London: Arthur Probsthain, 1945), 111, l. 317. As has been pointed out by Hshim Jvd, this particular line was the source of inspiration for Hfiz’s famous line: gy-i zamn rubda-yi chaugn-i ‘adl-i st / vn bar-kashda gunbad-i nl hisr ham, “The ball of the earth has been stolen by the polo-stick of His justice / and also this indigo-coloured dome.” For a discussion on this couplet see H. Jvd, Hfiz-i jvd (Tehran: ‘Ilm va Farhang, 1375/1996), 493-96. See Dvn-i Hfiz, ed. Khnlar, 724, gh. 354, l. 12. 29 It may be added here that time is often likened to a horse in Persian poetry. In Firdaus’s Shh-nma, day and night, as signifiers of time, are compared to black and white horses. Firdaus’s comparison occurs in the form of a riddle, which in later centuries has become a metaphor. For a discussion on this riddle see A.A. Seyed-Gohrab, “Sayr-i tahavvul va krband-yi chstn dar shi‘r-i Frs” in Nashr-i Dnish 17, 2 (Summer, 2000): 7-16; for an English version of this article see “The Art of Riddling in Classical Persian Poetry,” Edebiyt: Journal of Middle Eastern and Comparative Literature 12 (2001): 15-36. 30 Dvn-i Rdak, ed. M. Dnishpazh h (Tehran: T s, 1374/1995), 75. R dak’s other references to polo can be found on pp. 27, l. 153; 37, l. 246; 40, l. 301; 83, l. 9. 28

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“My Heart is the Ball, Your Lock the Polo-Stick”

In some of the polo imagery associated with destiny, poets refer directly to a royal patron, suggesting hyperbolically that the turn of fortune is literally at the curve of the patron’s polo-stick and can be tossed in any direction. Through this kind of imagery, the court poet illustrates how easily the patron can change the poet’s fortune. Amr Mu‘izz’s description of time (zamna) as an agent of destiny is a good example: For you, the stars are but dust in the playing-field, time is the ball at the curve of your polo-stick.31 Again in another couplet, the poet states: Destiny became your arrow on fortune’s bow; the divine decree became your ball in the curve of the polo-stick.32 From the eleventh century onwards, many compounds related to polo and destiny were made such as chaugn-i zamna (‘the polo-stick of time’), chaugn-i qaz (‘the polostick of divine decree’), g-yi taqdr (‘the ball of God’s will’), chaugn-i falak (‘the polostick of the sphere’) and sipihr-i chaugn-bz (‘heaven, the polo-player’), referring to heaven as a deceitful player. The best-known poem using polo imagery to depict destiny has been attributed to ‘Umar Khayym (d. ca. 526/1131): O you who run like a ball by the polo-stick of destiny Receive blows from the left and run to the right33 without saying a word, Because He who has made you running He knows [the reason], He knows, He knows.34

31

Dvn-i Amr Mu‘izz, 714. Ibid., 504. 33 The phrase rst mrau is ambiguous. Also it means “to act rightly.” The entire hemistich may be translated as follows: “Although you are hit from the left, you should run on the right [path] without saying a word.” 34 Fitzgerald’s rendering reads as follows: “The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes, / But Right or Left as strikes the Player goes; / And He that toss’d Thee down into the Field, / He knows about it all -He knows- He knows!” See Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám Rendered into English Verse by Edward Fitzgerald, intro. A.S. Byatt (New York: Quality Paperback Book, 1996), 51, quatrain L. The quatrain does not occur in the critical text edition of M.‘A. Fur gh and Q. Ghan. The Persian poem cited above has been taken from Rub‘yyt-i Khayym, ed. R. Alyov & M. Uthmanov (Moscow: Idra-yi Intishrt-i Adabiyyt-i Khvar, 1959), 21. 32

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There are a large number of compounds related to polo and ‘A.A. Dihkhud enumerates them in his dictionary.35 In about the fifteenth century, the number of these compounds and metaphors increases and the following compounds and phrases have frequently been used: chaugn shudan (‘to become a polo-stick’),36 meaning either to be controlled by others, or to have a bent back, or to be stricken with age;37 ba chaugn uftdan (‘to fall before the polo-stick’), meaning to be enslaved or to be in someone’s power; gy rubdan (‘to bear away the ball’), meaning to win the game or to excel. In addition, there are many compounds based upon an abstract ball or polo-stick, such as chaugn-i malmat, ‘the polo-stick of reproach’; and g-yi sa‘dat, ‘the ball of happiness.’ Among these compounds, chaugn-i zamna is a favourite with many poets: Because of your galloping and playing, the ball of victory is in the curve of the polo-stick of time.38 It should be added here that in many of these metaphors, military and polo vocabulary are used, as in the above example, in which tkhtan (‘galloping’ or ‘assault’) and bkhtan (‘to play’ or ‘to lose at play’) are employed. Polo in Love Poetry When polo is a favourite sport and love a favourite topic for court poets, it is not surprising that polo serves as a metaphor for love poetry, too. Poets invented a wide range of images, metaphors and similes deriving from the game of polo. It is noteworthy that only the ball, the polo-sticks and the playing-field draw the poet’s attention and other aspects of this game are usually left out. In the imagery of the Khursni style, the polostick is often the agent and the ball passive. The poet usually uses the ball, the stick and the arena to describe various aspects of love, parts of the lover’s and the beloved’s bodies and their relationship. The comparisons are drawn from the actual shape of the ball and the stick. For example, the beloved’s curly locks are compared to bent polo-sticks, and the lover’s heart is likened to a ball. In the following couplet and in many other poetic references to polo, the lover expresses how the heartless and indifferent beloved plays with his heart. The reason that the beloved has been associated with the polo-stick and the lover with the ball is not merely because of the form of these objects – one resembling ringlets and the other the heart – but it has to do with the conventional qualities of the 35

Lughat-nma, s.v. “Chaugn.” See also B. tashn, in Dnish-nma-yi adab-i Frs, v. 2, ed. H. An sha (Tehran: Mu’assisa-yi Farhang va Intishrt-yi Dnish-nma, 1375/1996), s.v. “Chaugn.” 36 Dvn-i Amr Mu‘izz, 172. 37 The Ball and the Polo-Stick, ed. and tr. R.S. Greenshields (London: Luzac, 1932), 30, l. 9. 38 Dvn-i Amr Mu‘izz, 680.

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“My Heart is the Ball, Your Lock the Polo-Stick”

lover and the beloved in Persian love poetry. As H. Moayyad has summarised these qualities: “The beloved is called cruel, violent, tyrannical, hostile, bloodthirsty and even a killer; the lover, in contrast, was presented as feeble, ill, poor, wronged, despairing, wounded, bleeding, weeping, sleepless, and killed or murdered.”39 Moreover, since the game of polo resembled battle and war, it was very easy for the poet to combine the martial vocabulary with polo terminology to depict the quarrelsome attributes of the beloved. As pointed out by J.T.P. de Bruijn, “the aggressive character of the Beloved and the frequent association of the concept with soldiers called up comparisons involving weaponry such as swords, daggers and arrows.”40 The eyelashes were likened to arrows, eyelids to sheaths, glances to long lances, etc. The polo imagery served as a proper means to express the beloved’s hostile qualities and her essential contrast with the lover. In the following example, we see how the lover’s heart is hanging at the beloved’s polo-sticks, i.e. the curls: Her sweet scented lock is like a crooked polo-stick, my poor heart is a ball at the curve of her polo-stick.41 The arena in which polo is played is described as a locality where the risky game of love is played. Here I give one example of such images. Amr Mu‘izz sings: Sometimes you play with my heart like a ball in the playing-field of love, Having turned my heart into a ball, you yourself become a polo-stick.42 One of the reasons that the heart is compared to the ball is because the lover’s heart (like several other parts of his body) is frequently personified and is depicted as a being that lives its own life, wandering alone at night in alleys, searching for potential fellowsufferers; sometimes the heart goes to the bazaar looking for another heart to fall in love

39

See his “Lyric Poetry” in Persian Literature, ed. E. Yarshater (Columbia University, Bibliotheca Persica, 1988), 132. 40 J.T.P. de Bruijn in Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. “Beloved”; for an analysis of the beloved’s warlike appearance see A.A. Seyed-Gohrab “A Narration of Love: An Analysis of the Twelfth Century Persian Poet Nizm’s Layl and Majn n,” Ph.D. dissertation, University of Leiden, 2001, pp. 256-57. 41 Dvn-i Amr Mu‘izz, 397. See also Dvn-i Anvar, ed. M.T. Mudarris Razav, Tehran: Intishrt-i ‘Ilm va Farhang, third edition 1372/1993, 2:789, l. 8. For a study of the imagery used to describe the beloved’s hair see N. Chalisova, “The Mystery of the White Hand: Šaraf al-Dn Rm on the Art of Deciphering Poetry,” in Persica 17 (2001): 11-25, esp. 20. 42 Dvn-i Amr Mu‘izz, 648.

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with, etc.43 Fard al-Dn ‘Attr (d. 618/1221) tells an anecdote about Y suf and Zulaykh by employing a polo metaphor to explain why the lover has no control over his heart and why falling in love is not in one’s own control: An intimate person asked Zulaykh: “Tell me earnestly how did Y suf rob your heart, because if you [still] have your heart, why do you flirt? How do you expect Y suf to give the heart to you again?” Zulaykh swore solemnly, saying: “I am not aware 44 of the state of my heart; I do not know why my heart fell in love, And where [when and how] it fell in love. Although Y suf possesses no firm hold on my heart I do not even have that heart. Since neither his heart nor my heart were in our control neither is the former a robber of the hearts nor is the latter the succour of the heart. Now, I do not know how this heart has been binding us, what shall I say about this talisman and this pretence? How well a polo-stick hit a ball that it rolled from the East to the West. Then the stick said: ‘O nimble ball run45 in such a way that you may not fall into a pit in the earth. O ball, if you do not run in the right direction along the path you may remain eternally in the fire and the pit.’ Since the ball’s travelling cannot be accomplished without the polo-stick, it is not the fault of the rolling ball. You have not committed any sin, yet the consequences are upon your shoulders.”46 43

For metaphors of the heart see A. Schimmel in I Am Wind, You Are Fire: the Life and Work of Rumi (Boston: Shambala, 1992), 110f, and M. Glünz, “The Poet’s Heart: A Polyfunctional Object in the Poetic System of the Ghazal” in Intoxication Earthly and Heavenly: Seven Studies on the Poet Hfiz of Shiraz, ed. M. Glünz and J.C. Bürgel (Bern: Peter Lang, 1991), 53-68. 44 Literally: “Not even a lock of my hair is aware…” 45 Literally: “spring” or “jump.” 46 Ilh-nma, ed. H. Ritter ([reprint] Tehran: T s, 2nd ed., 1368/1989), 117, ll. 9-20; for an English translation, see The Ilh-nma or Book of God of Fard al-Dn ‘Attr, trans. J.A. Boyle (Manchester University Press, 1976), 112-13; also see H. Ritter, Das Meer der Seele: Mensch, Welt und Gott in den Geschichten des Fariduddin ‘Attr (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1955), 70-71, and 402.

194

“My Heart is the Ball, Your Lock the Polo-Stick”

Often, the separated lover voluntarily turns his heart into a ball, longing to be touched by the beloved’s stick: I turned my heart into a ball for the polo-stick of your lock Bring the news of my ball to your polo-stick.47 It also occurs that either the ball or the stick breaks. This was a favourite image with poets who could then easily draw an analogy between a broken heart and a ball broken by a hard hit. For instance, Farrukh Sstn states: It is not a wonder that the ball of my heart has been broken: your lock breaks many polo-sticks [by hitting] my ball so much.48 In addition to the lover’s heart, the ball is also likened to aspects of the beloved: her round chin and dimple (zanakh) are compared to the ball.49 In the following couplet, using the poetic figure ‘combination and division’ (jam‘ va taqsm), Amr Mu‘izz refers to the beloved and also to the lover’s back, which has become bent by sorrow: Every moment, she makes from her lock a polo-stick and from her chin a ball in order to make my heart like the ball and my back like the stick.50 The beloved’s dimple is usually likened to a deep pit, dug on the path of the lover. When the lover tries to steal a kiss, he will fall into it. In the following quatrain from Nuzhat almajlis, the image of the dimple as a pit is coupled with the imagery of the ball and the polo-stick: Your polo-sticks have dropped from black musk (that is the beloved’s locks) 47

Dvn-i Amr Mu‘izz, 674. As quoted by Dihkhud in Lughat-nma, s.v. “Chaugn”. This particular line could not be found in Dvn-i Farrukh Sstn, but see the similar imagery on 314, l. 6316. 49 Cf. Dvn-i Farrukh Sstn, 262, l. 5171; 125, l. 2434; 299, l. 5992. Nizm compares Shrn’s dimple to a ball in his Khusrau u Shrn. Here, Shrn is disappointed by Khusrau and uses various images showing how he may reject him: va-gar gyad rubyam z-n zanakh gy / big chaugn khur z-n zulf bar ry, “And if he says: ‘I shall rob the ball of her dimple’ / you should say: ‘you will be hit in your face by the polo-sticks of those locks.’ ed. B. Thirvatyn (Tehran: T s, 1366/1987), 363, l. 137. 50 Dvn-i Amr Mu‘izz, 147. The same idea is repeated on p. 172: “The lovers’ hearts are like balls and their backs like sticks, the beloveds’ chins are like balls and the locks like sticks.” Also Anvar compares the lover’s bent back to a polo-stick. See Dvn-i Anvar, v. 2: 1044, l. 3. 48

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Because of the sticks, your ball has fallen along the moon It is not a wonder if a ball falls into a pit, It is wondrous that a pit is made in your ball (i.e. dimple).51 Persian poets sometimes compare the beloved’s beauty spot to a ball: Everyone knows [that] her ringlet is a polo-stick and her beauty spot the ball: the ball suits the stick and the stick the ball.52 To summarise the discussion thus far, it can be stated that the poets of the Khursni style found a potential in the ball-and-stick imagery to depict several aspects of everyday courtly life. Not only was the actual game of polo used to praise the patron’s qualities, but also scenes from bloody battles, a person’s destiny and even jealousies and quarrels at the court were depicted through polo imagery. In love poetry, whereas the ball was used as an image for the lover’s heart, the beloved’s chin, beauty spot and dimple, the polostick was used to compare the beloved’s ringlets as well as the lover’s bent back. Moreover, the likeness of the bent polo-stick and a person’s bent back became a favourite metaphor for old age. Many of the previously cited metaphors were ‘realistic’ in the sense that they were sometimes the results of the poet’s personal experiences. These metaphors, similes and images underwent a considerable change with the alteration of Persian poetic diction, which I shall discuss in the next section. Polo Imagery of the ‘Irq Style As Persian poetic diction developed, and the plain and harmonious language of the Khursn style gradually transformed into the more complex and composite ‘Irq style toward the end of the twelfth century, polo imagery assumed more intricate forms. Much of polo imagery took on a symbolic and figurative character. Part of this shift was due to the use of profane love language in a mystical context, thereby adding several connotations to the terminology of love. 53 Thus new metaphors, compound words, images and even proverbs were invented which are still in use even to the present. In the twelfth century, San’ was one of the poets who introduced mystical terminology into the profane language of love. His use of polo imagery is limited but his ghazals, from 51

Nuzhat al-majlis, ed. M.A. Riyh, (Tehran: Mahrat, 1366/1987), 358, q. 2032. Dvn-i Amr Mu‘izz, 692. 53 For the influence of Sufism see H. Moayyad, “Lyric Poetry” in Persian Literature, 132ff; see also J.T.P. de Bruijn in Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. “Beloved”; idem, Persian Sufi Poetry: An Introduction to the Mystical Use of Classical Poems (Richmond: Curzon Press, 1997), 68-71. 52

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“My Heart is the Ball, Your Lock the Polo-Stick”

which the following extract has been taken, are open to a mundane as well as spiritual interpretation: Whoever rides in the arena of love together with the beauties should throw his heart at the curve of the heart-ravishers’ polo-sticks. I have ridden in this arena so that I make a ball from my heart at the curve of Love’s polo-stick.54 The tendency towards mysticism, coupled with the abstraction of metaphor into extended conceits increased with the poets of the ‘Irq style, such as Nizm Ganjav.55 In the following piece, the poet describes his solitude by polo imagery: I went towards the heart while my soul went towards the lips, it took half of my life [before I reached the heart] at midnight: At the door of my spiritual compartment (i.e. the heart), my polo-stick-like stature turned into a ball; My polo-stick came with a ball in its hand, my feet joined my collar. It had made feet from its head and from the feet head It had taken over the attributes of the ball while looking like a polo-stick.56 Other poets like Sa‘d (d. 691/1292) and Hfiz (d. ca.791/1389) and their contemporaries used ingenious metaphors and similes inspired by polo. In the following couplet by Sa‘d, we see how the simple and ‘realistic’ polo imagery of the poets of Khursn style has changed into a refined image. The basic elements “chaugn-i zulf” (‘the polo-stick of the lock of hair’) and “gy” (‘the ball’) are used in a totally different light. The beloved is still the same cruel and bloodthirsty person, but by offering new imagery, Sa‘d refers both to the beloved as a murderer in a mundane sense, and to the lover’s union in a mystical sense: If you look carefully at the amber-scented polo-stick of her lock you will find a heart wandering like a ball under each of her ringlets.57 54

Dvn-i San’, ed. M.T. Mudarris Razavñ (Tehran: San’, 1362/1983), 917. Although Nizm and other poets of the Azerbaijani School lived during the twelfth century, his style cannot be classified as belonging to the Khursn School. See M.T. Bahr, “Shi‘r-i Frs,” 141; for the school of Azerbaijan see J. Rypka, “Poets and Prose Writers of the Late Saljuq and Mongol Periods” in The Cambridge History of Iran, v. 5, ed. J.A. Boyle (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), 568-84. 56 Makhzan al-asrr, ed. V. Dastgird, 50, ll. 2-4. 55

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To be part of the beloved’s body stands for the union with the beloved in Sufism. Often lovers desire to be “a lock on the beloved’s hair” (my shudan dar sar-i ma‘shq).58 Such a union can be achieved by the lover’s annihilation. Sa‘d also states that not everyone is worthy of being slain by the beloved, only those who have experienced the hardships on the path of love can be placed at her polo-stick like a ball: Every burned heart that has fallen under your ringlets is the best ball fallen at the curve of the polo-stick.59 The lover’s bewilderment, which is sometimes conveyed by the Persian compound sargashtag, ‘head-whirling,’ also appears in polo imagery. The term sar-gashtag is a complex concept. Not only does the term refer to the lover’s bewilderment caused by his rejection and his lonely wanderings, leading finally to love-madness, but it can also refer to the lover’s confusion and his inability to distinguish between the lover and the beloved. The following couplet by Hfiz is a good example: Since the beloved’s hair drew me like a ball to the curve of her polo-stick, I have become a legend because of my bewilderment.60 Sa‘d also describes the lover’s endless wandering and quest for the unattainable love by the ball-and-stick imagery: Because of longing for her, I journeyed like a ball the entire world with my head [cut off from my body] while the polo-stick is still running after the ball.61

57

Kulliyt-i Sa‘d, based on M.‘A. Fur gh and ‘A.‘A. Qarb’s edition, (Tehran: Muhammad, 1366/1987), 75, tayyibt 92, l. 6; 14, t. 17, l. 1; 15, t.17, l. 11; 19, badi‘t 22, l. 4; 49, t. 58, l. 6; 71, t. 88, l. 5; 72, t. 89, l. 7; 73, t. 91, l. 6; 76, b. 95, l. 1; 86, b. 107, l. 6; 100, t. 127, l. 1; 106, t. 136, l. 1; 112, t. 146, l. 1; 113, t. 148, l. 1; 193, t. 259, l. 5; 220, b. 290, l. 4; 244, t. 318, l. 2; 255, t. 330, l. 9; 258, t. 333, l. 11; 318, khavtim 399, l. 6; 355, b. 440. l. 6; 361, t. 446, l. 8; 416, b. 510, l. 1; 499, t. 607, l. 6; 502, b. 611, ll. 4-5; 518, t. 627, l. 1; 519, kh. 628, l. 4; 522, t. 631, l. 8; 529, t. 629, l. 8; 530, t. 630, l. 7. 58 N. P rjavd, ‘Ayn al-Quzt va ustdn-i  (Tehran: Astr, 1374/1995), 69-75; see also Seyed-Gohrab, “Majn n’s Image as a Serpent” in The Poetry of Nizami Ganjavi: Knowledge, Love, and Rhetoric, eds. K. Talattof & J.W. Clinton (New York: Palgrave, 2000), 88ff. 59 Kulliyt-i Sa‘d, 375, t. 644, l. 8. 60 Dvn-i Hfiz, ed. Khnlar, 760, gh. 372, l. 8. Other references to polo are: 34, gh. 9, l. 4; 40, gh. 12, l. 11; 225, gh. 104, l. 1; 400, gh. 192, l. 4; 478, gh. 231, l. 5; 538, gh. 261, l. 6; 548, gh. 266, l. 7; 668, gh. 326, l. 1; 724, gh. 354, l. 12; 752, gh. 368, l. 6; 963, gh. 473, l. 2. 61 Kulliyt-i Sa‘d, 72, t. 89, l. 7.

198

“My Heart is the Ball, Your Lock the Polo-Stick”

It is also worth remarking that the poets of the ‘Irq style sometimes make suggestive and elliptical use of polo imagery. In their poetry, the ball and the polo-stick developed into a topos. Although they sometimes leave out either the ball or the polo-stick, the message is clear: What has happened to the riders? The ball of favour and generosity is thrown in the middle [of the field but] no one comes to the arena.62 Poets of the ‘Irq style added numerous new images to the poetic repertoire connected to the polo imagery. No longer satisfied with likening the beloved’s chin and dimple to a polo-ball, poets now compared other features of the beloved to the ball and the polo-stick. For instance, whereas conventionally the beloved’s breasts were likened to pomegranates or lemons, Sa‘d compares the beloved’s breasts to polo-balls touched by her curly locks.63 To my knowledge, this is one of the rare instances in which such a comparison is made explicit: Under her curly locks, the beloved’s breast is like an ivory ball in the curve of an abony polo-stick.64 Moreover, poets introduced explicitly mystical concepts into their ghazals. One such concept often depicted by the polo imagery is sar-ddan, of which two examples follow from the Dvn of Hfiz, asserting that the lover’s head has no other function than to be cut off and thrown at the foot of the beloved’s polo-stick: If I not place my head at the curve of her polo-stick I shall say it again: ‘of what use is the head?’65 Again in another poem we read: If I get the chance to reach the tips of your ringlets like a ball, I will offer many heads to your polo-sticks.66

62

Dvn-i Hfiz, ed. Khnlar, 344, gh. 164, l. 6. For a description of the beloved’s body see Seyed-Gohrab, “A Narration of love,” op. cit., 254ff. 64 Kulliyt-i Sa‘d, 244, t. 318, l. 2. 65 Dvn-i Hfiz, 478, gh. 231, l. 5. 66 Dvn-i Hfiz, 668, gh. 326, l. 1. The word bzam means here both ‘one more time’ (bz-(h)am) and ‘to play’; the second hemistich can also be read: “Like a ball, I will play for many heads with your polostick.” Hfiz’s other reference to offering one’s head appears on 538, gh. 261, l. 6. 63

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The compounds sar-andkhtan or sar-ddan are usually used to express the lover’s selfsacrifice. The compound sar-ddan is ambiguous: it denotes ‘to bid farewell to reason,’ ‘to be obedient’ and literally to ‘offer one’s head [to the beloved].’ In theoretical texts on love, there are several reasons given as to why the lover should offer his head. The most important reason is that when the beloved kills the lover, the latter is regarded as a martyr (shahd), and thus can live eternally. Several scenes in Persian amatory texts illustrate the lover’s ardent desire to be murdered by the beloved. The tragic death of the mystic Husayn Mans r Hallj (executed 922) serves as a model of the selfless lover ready to be cut into pieces for the beloved.67 One reason why the lover longs to be beheaded is the inherent nature of love. San’ portrays love in his mystico-ethical poem, the Hadqa, as a force that cuts off the head and reveals the secret (sar bur-i sirr-nam). Love reveals its secret only to those lovers who have lost their heads. The often-used phrase, sar bar qadam nihdan, ‘to put one’s head before the foot’ means both to tread the path of love whole-heartedly and submissively, and to literally put one’s head before the foot. The head should be sacrificed in order to receive love’s secret. Decapitation is necessary because love then becomes assured that the lover will not reveal the secret and will not think rationally. San’ takes the head as a ‘tattletale’ (ghammz) and states that since the head betrays the lover’s loving states, it should be cut off. Love itself avoids speaking to a lover who cherishes his head: Love came as a ravisher of the heart, which robs the soul it came to behead and to reveal the secret. Love tells the secret to those whose heads are severed because love knows that the head is a ghammz.”68 A lover who fears to lose his head can be taken as a ‘pretender’ (mudda‘). In Mantiq altayr (The Conference of Birds) when a poor man falls in love with a king, the king asks him either to leave town or to offer his head for love. When the man chooses to leave town, the king immediately orders that his head be cut off, because he was a pretender 67

Several aspects of the lover’s desire for decapitation are discussed by the present author in “A Narration of Love,” ch. 7: “When they love, they die.” Many authors dwell on this subject and cite a variety of reasons for the lover’s wish to be killed by the beloved. For instance, Jall ad-Dn R m compares the lover to Ism‘l who joyfully gave his head to his father Abraham to be cut off in his Mathnav-yi ma‘nav (ed. M. Isti‘lm [Tehran: Zavvr, 1372/1993], v. 1, ll. 223ff.). ‘Attr in vivid and moving language describes Hallj’s death in his Tadhkirat al-auliy (ed. R.A. Nicholson [reprint, Tehran: Man chihr, 1370/1991], 509-18). Ritter, Das Meer der Seele, 395ff., elaborates on the idea of death at the hand of the beloved in ‘Attr’s writings; see also De Bruijn, Persian Sufi Poetry, 107. 68 Hadqa, Ms., Bagdatli Vehbi, chapter “On love,” f. 135b, l. 2.

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“My Heart is the Ball, Your Lock the Polo-Stick”

and not a true lover.69 In a quatrain attributed to the mystic Ab Sa‘d-i Ab al-Khayr, he stresses that union with the beloved is only possible by bidding farewell to one’s head.70 Playing on the word ‘leader’ (sar-dr) and ‘on the gallows’ (sar-i dr) Shihb Khr expresses that in the world of love, whoever is a sar-dr, knows in his head (sar) that he will be on the gallows.71 Another poet, Jaml Hj Shirvn states that lovers who offer their lives for love actually desire to find the head of the cord of love (sar-rishta-yi ‘ishq).72 Another reason why the lover desires to be beheaded by the beloved is because he can only be released from the scorching pain of love by renouncing his head. By alluding to the Prophetic tradition ‘die before you die’ (mt qabla an tamt), the beheaded lovers are often compared to a candle, which regains life and burns brighter only when its head is cut off.73 By the same token, when the lover’s head is cut off by the strike of a polo-stick, he regains life and goes on with his mystical travelling (sayr) without his head. Nizm takes the head as the source of ‘headache’ (sar-dard).74 In fact, one of the beloved’s functions is to cure the lover by cutting the lover’s head from his body and removing the headache. Often when the poor lover asks her why she wants to cut off the head, she coldly answers that this is an ancient tradition and it is not the first time such a thing has happened. 75 It is with this background in mind that when a lover sees the beloved’s ringlets, he mistakes them for polo-sticks and wishes to be beheaded. Such metaphors show, of course, the lover’s submissive behaviour as well as his desire to be united with the beloved, if but for a short interval. 76 Several also show the lover’s readiness to eliminate his reason, which erects a barricade against the union with the beloved. The use of polo imagery to depict the lover’s desire for death in the ghazal genre reached its zenith in the following piece by ‘Abd al-Rahmn Jm. For the most part, this ghazal employs polo imagery in a consistent way. Using the poetic figure of iltizm (‘poetic obligation,’ that is when the poet obliges himself to use one or more words in 69

Mantiq at-tayr, ed. Sayyid Sdiq Gauharn (Tehran: Shirkat Intishrt-i ‘Ilm va Farhang, 1368/1989), 10809, ll. 1949-64; for an English translation see D. Davis & A. Darbandi, Farid ud-din Attar: the Conference of the Birds (Penguin Classics, 1984), 94-5. 70 Sukhann-i manzm-i Ab Sa‘d Ab `l-Khayr, ed. S. Nafs, (Tehran: Haydar, 1334/1955), 40, q. 278. 71 Nuzhat al-majlis, op. cit., 205, q. 738. 72 Ibid., 206, q. 744. 73 For candle imagery see J.T.P. De Bruijn in Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v “Candle: ii. Imagery in Poetry”; see also N. P rjavd, “Parvna va tash: sayr-i tahavvul-i yik tamthl-i ‘irfn dar adabiyyt-i Frs” in Nashr-i Dnish, 16, 2 (Summer 1378/1999): 3-15; Seyed-Gohrab, “A Narration of Love,” 290-94. 74 Nizm Ganjav, Dvn-i qas’id va ghazalyt, ed. S. Nafs (Tehran: Fur gh, n.d.), 265, l. 698. 75 Ibid., 268, l. 739. 76 ‘Attr, Dvn-i qasyid va ghazlyyt, ed. S. Nafs (Tehran: Iqbl, 1319/1940), 96.

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each line), the poet plays on the words ‘head’ (sar), ‘arena’ (maydn), ‘ball’ (gy) and ‘polo-stick’ (chaugn): At the top of the lovers’ arena, my head has reached such exaltation that one day I shall risk my head like a ball before your polo-stick. When the desirous lovers cut off [their] heads at the beginning of your playing-field my entire body turns into a head like a ball, desiring to be decapitated. (…) The sun comes up everyday in this turquoise playground in the form of a yellow ball when you strike it with your polo-sticks The spheres say from behind you: “O God, grant him salvation”; like a light-footed horse you gallop behind the ball. Place privately77 the ball of my head at the curve of your polo-stick [for] I do not want others to be your intimates in this playing-field. Early Development of the Indian Style From about the 15th century, Persian poetical style started to change and this gradual change also affected polo imagery. Due to the rise of the Shi‘ite Safavid dynasty in the 16th century, which brought many changes in Persia, poets moved to India where Akbar (1556-1605) and his successors received a galaxy of poets.78 As E. Yarshater puts it, India became the Mecca for Persian poets and their style came to be known as Indian style (Sabk-i Hind). A salient characteristic of this style is its breaking up the centuriesold images, which had become mere clichés, by re-combining them in heterogeneous and ingenious ways. Personification became a popular vehicle for the poet’s kaleidoscopic play with poetic imagery, and a preference for proverbs, figurative and even allegorical modes of expression arose within this school. A few typical developments in polo imagery include the following: chaugn-i fikr psh rndan (‘to run forth the polo of thought’),79 meaning to think actively with the aim of arriving at a result; chaugn az zabn-i hl skhtan (‘to make a polo-stick from the tongue, telling one’s condition’),80 meaning to speak eloquently; n gy u n maydn (‘here is the ball and here is the field’),

77

Lit. ‘solitary,’ or ‘alone.’ For a study of the Indian style see E. Yarshater “The Indian or Safavid Style: Progress or Decline?” in Persian Literature, ed. E. Yarshater (Columbia University, Bibliotheca Persica, 1988), 249-88; also see W. Heinz, Der indische Stil in der persischen Literatur, op. cit.; and J.T.P. de Bruijn in The Encyclopaedia of Islam, s.v. “Sabk-i Hind.” 79 The Ball and the Polo-Stick, ed. and tr. R.S. Greenshields, 7, l. 11. 80 Ibid., 7, l. 14; a similar image can be found on page 6, l.5. 78

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“My Heart is the Ball, Your Lock the Polo-Stick”

meaning, here you can show your competence;81 ashk-u muzha g-yu chaugn kardan (‘to make balls from one’s tears and polo-sticks from eyelashes’) meaning to weep.82 During this period several ingenious allegorical epics were composed. Many favourite metaphors, such as the Rose and the Nightingale (Gul u Bulbul), the Candle and the Moth (Sham‘ u Parvna), and the Ball and the Polo-stick (Gy u Chaugn) were made the subject of allegorical narratives. Mauln Mahm d Hirav ‘rif (d. 853/1449), for example, wrote an allegorical poem Hl-nma (“The Book of Ecstasy”) (842/1438), better known as Gy u Chaugn (“The Ball and Polo-Stick”).83 Though this poem has been imitated several times by poets of later centuries,84 it was not, however, appreciated by older generations of Persian literary historians, such as E.G. Browne, who states: “I regret to confess,” that the poem is “laboured and insipid.” After quoting a short passage from the poem, Browne continues: The whole poem is filled with these ingenious and often far-fetched similes and metaphors drawn from the game of polo, but to most European readers they will seem tasteless and artificial, and the resulting product hardly worthy to be called poetry in the sense in which we understand the word.85 Despite this negative judgement of the poem, it has been translated twice: in 1932 by Greenshields and very recently by W.M. Thackston and H. Ziai. 86 Although ‘rif’s poem is a bit thin with respect to theme and the structure of the narrative is rather weak, it is a good source for the study of the ball and the polo-stick imagery in Persian poetry. As stated in a couplet by the poet himself, the poem is an imitation of Nizm Ganjav. ‘Arif’s romance has the same metre as Nizm’s Layl and Majnn and the theme of both romances revolves around unrequited love. Gy u Chaugn tells the story of the pure love of a dervish for a prince from China, ending with the dervish’s self-desired death by the prince’s polo-stick. The poet adds another story as well. This is the love-story of a ball and a polo-stick, both 81

Ibid., 30, l. 11. Ibid., 24, l. 12. 83 For more information on ‘rif and his work see Z. Safa in Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. “‘ref.” E.G. Browne, A Literary History of Persia, v.3 (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1956), 495ff. 84 The following poets have each written a romance entitled Gy u Chaugn: Tlib Jjarm (d. ca. 854/1447), Lmi‘ (d. ca. 937/1530-1), Qsim Gunbd (d. ca. 989/1581), ‘Urf Kamngar Tabrz (963/1555-6). 85 E.G. Browne, A Literary History of Persia, v. 3, 497. 86 The Ball and the Polo-Stick, ed. and tr. Greenshields (London; 1931 and 1932). H. Ziai & W.M. Thackston, The Ball and Polo-Stick or the Book of Ecstasy: A Parallel Persian-English Text, Bibliotheca Persica, Intellectual Traditions Series, No. 3 (Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda Publishers, 2000). 82

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complaining of their separation and expressing their feelings of love in moving language. What is significant for the present discussion is the emphasis in ‘rif’s romance that both lovers, the Ball and the dervish, fervently desire to be killed by the hand of the beloved. The poet uses these parallel love-stories to elucidate the mystical concept of kushta-yi ma‘shq shudan (‘to be killed by the beloved’),87 which had appeared in the works of ‘Attr and was further elaborated upon by poets such as R m, Sa‘d and Hfiz. ‘rif brings many old images together, but also coins new images and metaphors in recounting his story. There is a perfect analogy between the separated Ball and its beloved Polo-stick, and the prince and dervish, who longs to be decapitated so that the prince can hit him like a ball. In this poem both the ball and the stick speak in zabn-i hl, that is, the ‘language expressing one’s state or condition.’ In such passages, the poet bestows life on the object, making it speak as a living being. In ‘rif’s poem, as soon as the prince wants to hit the ball, the latter starts to speak, revealing its loving desire for the polo-stick: The ball said: “O, may my head be your foot’s sacrifice, being passionately in love with you, I am ready to offer my head. Since my head has reached exaltation because of your foot why should I not gamble my head at your foot? Every moment you behave with fidelity, lifting me from the earth. Since you have taken me up from this alley I put my face in the dust of your road.88 Later in the poem, the dervish speaks first to the ball and then to a broken polo-stick. He learns from the stick how he will have to offer his head to the prince, who with a hard hit decapitates the dervish. After his decapitation, ‘rif comments: He played his life easily and departed from this world: How can one depart from the world more easily? (…) He played more the polo of love than anyone who in this world89 had ever gambled his head. Since he was aware of the world of secrets the first ball he played was his head.90 87

For an elaboration on this concept see Seyed-Gohrab, “A Narration of Love,” 154-61. ed. R.S. Greenshields, 15. 89 Literally: ‘carpet,’ which is a metaphor for ‘the world.’ 90 Greenshields, 27, ll. 17, 19-20. 88

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“My Heart is the Ball, Your Lock the Polo-Stick”

It should be noted here that ‘rif’s romance belongs to the genre of king and beggars (shh-u gad), an early example of which appears in Ahmad Ghazl’s treatise on love, the Savnih.91 In this genre, a beggar usually falls in love with a prince and desires to be killed by him. The best known treatment of this genre is by Badr al-Dn Hilli (killed in 935/1528) in his epic poem Shah u Gada.92 Although referring implicitly to the lover’s desire for decapitation, Hilli employs the game of polo in his romance Sift al-‘shiqn (“The Lovers’ Attributes”) to delineate the necessity of the lover’s seclusion (‘uzlat). Here, a beggar falls in love with a king and every time that the king arrives at the playing-field to play polo, the beggar hurries and throws himself like a ball before the king’s polo-stick, but the king’s attendants remove him from the arena. Finally, the rejected beggar retreats into a ruined place in the vicinity of the playing-field for a period of time. One day the king hits the ball and it falls by chance in that ruined place where the beggar resides. He takes the ball and brings it to the king and from then onwards, the king accepts the beggar as his companion.93 Conclusion In this brief survey, we have seen how poets invented polo metaphors and images for several purposes. Not only is the polo metaphor suitable for describing a person’s qualities such as his riding skills, beauty and eloquence, the metaphor has also been chiefly used for amorous purposes: the lovers’ relationships and parts of the lovers’ bodies are compared to the ball and the stick. In addition, bearing in mind the theoretical background of mystical love, it is certainly not an overstatement to say that the game of polo is one of the most appropriate metaphors illustrating various shades of ideas on mystical love. What is more, we have also seen that with the development of the poetic style of Persian poetry from the tenth to the sixteenth centuries – the transformation of the Khursn style into the ‘Irq and later to the early Indian style – the polo metaphor changed as well. For instance, when in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, allegorical romances became a literary vogue, the polo metaphor lent itself easily to allegorical romances. The ‘realistic’ became symbolic and later became figurative and allegorical.

91

See Ahmad Ghazl, Aphorismen Über die Liebe, Herausgegeben von H. Ritter (Istanbul: 1942), 25-6, fasl 11, (1), ll. 7-17. 92 For a German translation of this romance see H. Ethé “König und Derwisch: romantisch-mystisches Epos vom Scheich Hill, dem persischen Original true nachgebildet” in Morgenländische Studien (Leipzig, 1870), 197-282. 93 Dvn-i Hall Jughat’, ed. S. Nafs (Tehran: San’, 1337), 323-25.

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Sincerely Flattering Panegyrics: The Shrinking Ghaznavid Qasida Franklin Lewis University of Chicago [A]s generally understood, “humbug” consists in putting on glittering appearances – outside show – novel expedients, by which to suddenly arrest public attention, and attract the public eye and ear…. An honest man who thus arrests public attention will be called a “humbug,” but he is not a swindler or an impostor. - P. T. Barnum, Humbugs of the World (1866), 20, 21.

Not so long ago, when an adjective immediately preceded the word “despotism” in an English sentence, the adjective in question, if it were not either “enlightened” or “absolute,” was most likely to have been “Oriental.”1 While Europe has had no shortage of its own tyrannical monarchs and totalitarian dictators, it is with the Near and Middle East that imperious, ruthless and absolute rule in its pre-modern forms has been particularly associated in the western imagination. Perhaps the locus classicus for this western apperception, described by Edward Said as the “barbarian stereotype” of the Asiatics, can be traced all the way back to the fifth century BCE, and Aeschylus’ Persae. With the defeat of the Persian forces at Marathon, the chorus of Persian nobles sings this refrain:

They throughout the Asian land No longer Persian laws obey, No longer lordly tribute yield, Exacted by necessity; Nor suffer rule as suppliants, To earth obeisance never make: 1

British National Corpus, accessed online via Mark Davies’ search engine at http://view.byu.edu/. “Asiatic” and “Pahlavi” are both attested once and may provide evidence of more specific kinds of “oriental” despots relevant to our purpose. In the American usage of Time Magazine, the adjective “benevolent” occurs with despot more frequently than “oriental,” by a ratio of about 4 to 1. “Benevolent” is collocated with despot in every decade of the 20th century, whereas “absolute” occurred only in the 1920s and 1930s. “Oriental” is confined to four occurrences with despot, all of them in the 1940s and 1960s.

Franklin Lewis

Lost is the kingly power.— Nay, no longer is the tongue Imprisoned kept, but loose are men, When loose the yoke of power’s bound, To bawl their liberty.2 Thereafter, the West suspected the Persians of being “sensual, irrational, effeminate, cruel and weak—in short, servile by nature.”3 Herodotus, too, admiring though he was of some of the virtues of the Persians, likewise remarked upon their public display of obeisance to power, noting that a man of much lower rank prostrates himself when coming in the presence of a dignitary.4 Guardedness of speech, Aeschylus’ passage makes clear, was seen as a necessary corollary to such gestures of servility. Afterwards, Aristotle would formulate the matter categorically, contrasting four types of kingship: that of heroic times; the Greek elective dictatorship (aisumnteia); Spartan kingship or “hereditary permanent generalship rule”; and that of the Barbarians: Alongside this there is another type of monarchy, such as kingships found among certain non-Greeks. All these have power approximating to that of tyrannies, but they are legally established and ancestral. For it is because Non-Greeks are by natural character more slavish than Greeks (and the Asiatics than the Europeans) that they tolerate master-like rule without resentment. Therefore, while these kingships are like tyrannies, their legality and ancestral status make them safe.5 The ancient Greeks may not have prostrated themselves before potentates, but they did bequeath to us our generic term for praise poetry, “panegyre,” and in the Greco-Roman context, a Horace could genuinely admire a Maecenas as the ideal patron. Yet, we now view the gestures of the panegyrical poet rather cynically. European Romanticism imagined the 2

“The Persians,” translated by Seth G. Bernardete, in Aeschylus II. The Complete Greek Tragedies, ed. David Grene and Richard Lattimore (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1956; reprint NY: Washington Square Press, 1967), 67-8. 3 Pericles Georges, Barbarian Asia and the Greek Experience: From the Archaic Period to the Age of Xenophon (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994), xv. The Persians was produced at Athens in 472 B.C.E., eight years after the battle of Salamis, which the play celebrates. Thus, while our culturalgeographic concepts of “the West” and “the Orient” are both overused and imprecise, they have deep roots in the Greek tripartite division of the world. 4 The Histories of Herodotus, Book 1, 134. 5 Aristotle, The Politics, trans. T. Sinclair, rev. T. Saunders (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1992), Book III 1285a16 ff.

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true poet as an unbridled genius who would not stoop to authority, while Marxists viewed the court poet’s motivations in genuflecting to the patron-king as abject penury, or classmotivated self-interest. In any case, true admiration of the ruler/patron, and a desire to advise him on behalf of the common weal seem no longer wholly credible sentiments. With the notable exceptions of Robert Frost and Maya Angelou, who recited poems at U.S. presidential inaugurals (this was understood, I think, more as poems on behalf of America and its aspirations than in praise of the particular president being inaugurated), the rhetorical arts of praising a leader are now practiced for partisan and commercial motives by advertising firms with focus groups, rather than by inspired artists. 6 Panegyric, if not morally reprehensible, feels insincere and unworthy of emulation, a profession of marketers, not poets. If the European representation of the orient as despotic began with the ancient Greeks, the association of the Middle East with the arbitrary exercise of power and with unrestrained sexuality intensified in the wake of the immensely successful translations of the Arabian Nights, the odalisques of Orientalist painting, and of course, Hollywood films.7 This collocation of “oriental” with “despotism,” and with sexual licence, and indeed with something “monstrous,” appears in seventeenth- and especially eighteenth-century western images of languid harems, capriciously cruel rulers, and a hot-blooded lack of discipline or self-control, notions which have informed not only our cultural attitudes about self and other, but also our political behavior.8 Despite the abuses of the Sun King, the definition of despotism in the final edition of Trévoux’s Dictionnaire (1771) already considers it as a largely non-European phenomenon, associated by name with many places where Persian was the court language. Despotism is a:

6

There are instances of artists who dedicated their works to particular rulers and came to regret it, some voluntarily (e.g., Beethoven’s removal of the Emperor symphony dedication), and some perhaps involuntarily (e.g., Ezra Pound’s broadcasts on behalf of Mussolini’s fascism, or Leni Riefenstahl’s visual paean to the National Socialist party). 7 Jack Shaheen, Reel Bad Arabs: How Hollywood Vilifies a People (NY: Olive Branch Press, 2001) catalogues the negative stereotyping of Arabs in western film, while Matthew Bernstein, ed. Visions of the East: Orientalism in Film (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1997) describes the exotic and sensually imagined “orient” in film. In 2007 a stark example of this self-perpetuating mode of cinematic representation created a significant controversy in Iran: Zack Snyder’s film “300” (Warner Brothers, 2007), based upon Frank Miller’s graphic novel about Thermopylae. 8 For sixteenth- and seventeenth-century European visions of the “monstrous” East, and the later impact this perception had on U.S. policy toward the Barbary pirates, see respectively Alain Grosrichard, The Sultan’s Court: European Fantasies of the East, trans. Liz Heron (London/NY: Verso, 1998), and Robert J. Allison, The Crescent Obscured: The United States and the Muslim World, 1776-1815 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995).

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form of government in which the sovereign is absolute master, with limitless authority and arbitrary power, having no other law but his will. Thus is the government of Turkey, of the Mogul, of Japan, Persia and almost all of Asia. The principle, the character and the evils incurred by despotism have been well enough elaborated by the best of our writers.9 Though this lens of “oriental despotism” may be the peculiar portal through which the “West” views the “East” – one which we will need to consciously set aside in the following discussion of sincerity and the practice of panegyre – at the same time, the historical record is not wholly lacking in instances of court intrigue, of sultans or self-serving viziers bilking the populace through exorbitant taxes, of despoliations of the treasury for personal aggrandizement, or of preemptive suppression of potential rivals to the throne by blinding or otherwise disposing of siblings. The chronicles written in Persian for the various medieval dynasties do document such behavior, and the reports received from European travelers at the courts of the Grand Sophy in Isfahan or the Ottoman Sultan in Istanbul would not have encouraged their western readers to imagine poets of virtue and clear conscience in those realms vying with one another to sing the praises of their sovereigns. And yet, however arbitrary or ruthless, rulers apparently had no shortage of poets willing to eulogize them on ceremonial occasions in the form of a qasida or a ghazal. Of course, prevailing assumptions about the exercise of power were generally Machiavellian. Vigorous uprooting of rebellions and preemptive punishment of challenges to the throne were expected of a decisive and capable ruler. If liberality and generosity were owed to loyal friends and subjects, nothing but enmity and severity were due the sovereign’s potential rivals and declared opponents. To be as a fire to one’s enemies is a virtue extolled in panegyrical verse and prescribed in manuals of statecraft, such that our modern abhorrence of royal ruthlessness would not necessarily have concerned the poets, or tainted the sincerity of their ceremonial praise. While concern for justice and the common weal was part of the conscious political ideal – kings were admonished that the sigh of a lowly widow unjustly oppressed could destabilize an entire country – a monarch who kept brigandry, hostile plundering armies, and total chaos at bay, might well be forgiven a certain idiosyncratic capriciousness and self-indulgence in punishing enemies and preserving order.10 But even if we assume that poets and courtiers as a class cared only in the abstract for the toiling masses, and were not unduly concerned by notions of social equality,11 they 9

Cited in Grosrichard, The Sultan’s Court, op. cit., 4. We may recall here the cruel public spectacle of punishment in pre-modern France detailed by Michel Foucault in Discipline and Punish: the Birth of the Prison, trans. A. Sheridan (NY: Pantheon, 1977). 11 Indeed, the accusation of promoting social equality or communism has been recurringly leveled at suspect or heretical groups (e.g.. the Mazdakites in the Sasanian era, the Bâbis in the Qajar era, etc.). 10

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of course had opinions about political decisions that affected them personally, and sometimes perceived their patrons to insufficiently appreciate their literary labors. Anecdotal Evidence Wa inna a sana baytin anta q’iluhu Baytun yuqlu id anšadtahu: adaqa! Indeed, the best verse you can ever compose Is the verse of which it is said as you recite it: How true! - assn ibn bit, 7th century CE, quoted in al-Jurjn (d. 1001), Secrets of Rhetoric (Asrr al-bala, 250). Indeed, we have scattered examples of poets who denounced their patrons after severing relations with them; in Arabic literature, one might point to al-Mutanabb’s vitriolic attack on Kf r, or in the case of Persian, to the satire on Sultan Ma mud by (pseudo)Ferdowsi.12 In the latter case, Neâmi Arui (writing c. 551/1156), tells us that after Ma mud, the Ghaznavid Sultan associated with the liberal support of Persian poetry and culture, offered an insulting recompense for the labor of the Šâh-nâma, Ferdowsi took the work to the Bawandid Espahbod, Šahriâr b. Širzâd, in Tabaristan and offered to dedicate the book to him, including a satire newly written against Sultan Ma mud. Since this Espahbod was a tributary of Ma mud, he asked that Ferdowsi retain the original dedication to Ma mud and accept instead a handsome reward for not including the satire. Arui comments that a great service was thus rendered to Sultan Ma mud, sparing him the “publication” of such lines as “But since his sires were not of gentle birth / he hates to hear me praising names of worth.”13 The Persian literary tradition did therefore conceive of the poet scorned (or at least insufficiently honored) as a trope. But poets might also express their displeasure without burning any bridges, by seeking out a different ruler at another court, courting one who was in effect, a rival of their previous patron. Such career moves were likely motivated less by disgust with the political behavior of the ruler/patron, than by personal dissatisfaction with Although Ferdowsi seems sympathetic to the principle of social equality in his description of Mazdak, allowing Mazdak in the Shâh-nâma to make a convincing argument on its behalf, eventually Mazdak sees his followers literally overturned and buried headfirst in the sand, a visual metaphor for the rootlessness and barrenness overturning the social order entails. 12 Complete scholarly consensus on the authorship of this satire remains elusive (see Djalal KhaleqiMotlagh, Encyclopædia Iranica, s.v. “Ferdowsi”), but regardless of who authored the satire, it does indicate medieval Persian views about the economic value of praise and denunciation, and the possible recourses of a poet scorned. 13 See E.G. Browne’s translation of this passage of the ahâr maqâla in A Literary History of Persian, v. 2: From Firdawsí to Sadí (NY: Scribner, 1906; reprint, Bethesda, MD: Iran Books, 1997), 134-9.

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the patronage arrangement itself. Examples would include the departure of Sanâ’i (d. 525/1131) from Ghazna after failing to secure a post at the court of Sultan Masud III, only to return during Bahrâmšâh’s reign as a mystical poet writing a new kind of panegyre.14 Osmân-e Moxtâri (d. c. 544/1150 or 549/1155) also traveled from the Ghaznavid court to western Iran, only to return later, presumably with an enhanced reputation and a strengthened position in the court hierarchy. 15 Masud-e Sad Salmân’s (d. 515/1121) banishment from the Ghaznavid court and imprisonment for internal political reasons might be taken as a corollary instance of the patron’s dissatisfaction with the behavior of the poet, and though Masud-e Sad was eventually able to win his way back into the confidences of the Sultan and return triumphantly to the court,16 we must not lose sight of the fact that courtiers, including poets, wishing to speak their minds could find themselves in delicate, indeed precarious, circumstances. Amir Xosrow (d. 725/1325) bluntly (or rather, sharply) expresses this uneven dynamic of the patronage relationship as follows: bâ šahân har a bar xalâf-e havâ-st / na-tavân goft agar a bâšad râst har ka šod râstguy-e dâvar-e xwiš / zad be-ti-e zabân-e xwod sar-e xwiš With kings, that which defies their whims / should not be spoke, however true. To speak the truth to one who rules you? / With sharp tongue you’ll slit your own throat.17 And yet, Amir Xosrow did expect royal patronage, and had certain notions about the appropriate recompense for his poems. The code of poetry and patronage was so well ingrained that as late as 1856, Ghalib (Mirzâ Asad Allâh Xân, Ghâleb) thought it might be possible to inculcate it in the British. His letter to Queen Victoria, accompanying a Persian qasida in her honor, explained the procedures whereby great kings had always “rewarded 14

See J.T.P. de Bruijn, Of Piety and Poetry: the Interaction of Religion and Literature in the Life and Works of akm San’ of Ghazna (Leiden: Brill, 1983) and Franklin D. Lewis, “Reading, Writing and Recitation: Sanâ’i and the Origins of the Ghazal,” Ph.D. Dissertation. University of Chicago, 1995. 15 See Jalâl al-Din Homâ’i’s introduction to his edition of the Divân-e
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their poets and well-wishers by filling their mouths with pearls, weighing them in gold and granting them villages and recompense.” He requested from the great empress a title, “a few bread crumbs from her bounteous table,” and, as the English would call it, “a pension.”18 Even though serving at the mercy of the royal whim, which the poet must try to move to his own advantage, the code of poetry and patronage did entitle the professional poet to great expectations. Those closely associated with sufism, as a general principle, condemned the practice of literary patronage, insofar as it was premised upon the support of a worldly prince who would have to be praised for his exercise of power. On the one hand, this situation might lead the poet into a rhetorical stretching of the truth; as Solân Valad (d. 712/1312) put it, the worldly poet always strives for exaggerated rhetoric (mobâlaa, a rhetorician’s technical term, meaning hyperbole, or, in some cases, “humbug”) in order to sell his poems at a good rate: har dam ân dar mobâlaa kušad / tâ be-nerx-e neku-š be-frušad. 19 Beyond the prostitution of one’s art, to accept lucre amassed by the crown in religiously suspect ways at a court where debauchery (in the form of wine, women and song) prevails, would hardly be consonant with pious expectations and standards. Nevertheless, righteousness need not entail an aversion to the practice of poetry (šer), per se. Solân Valad draws a distinction between the poetry of saints (owliâ’), and the poetry of poets (šoarâ’). The saints compose poetry as a gloss (tafsir, šar ) of the Qur’an – not for selfish reasons, but as moved by God. By contrast, ordinary poets (šoarâ) are inspired by their own thoughts and fancies (fekrat o xiâlât), fashioning poems from deceitful distortions, with the aim to display their superiority. Thus, professional poetry is self-displaying (xwod-namâ’i), while saintly poetry is Godrevealing (xodâ-namâ’i). The Qur’anic denunciation of poets as liars (Q26: 221-26) does not, however, extend to panegyric (mad ) addressed to God, and since Solân Valad does not want to leave us guessing about who are the saintly and who the professional poets, he names names. Those who incline to the divâns of Anvari (d. c. 585/1189) and ahir-e Fâryâbi (d. 598/1202) and their ilk are men of this world, ruled over by water and clay; whereas those who incline to the divâns of Sanâ’i, Aâr, and Rumi are men of heart, accounted as saints.20 In his Golestân (656/1258), Sadi offers a somewhat more worldly take on patronage and panegyre, through the lesson embedded in the story of a poet who recites a qasida for the chief of a band of robbers.21 The robber chief has the poet stripped of his clothes and 18

Cited in Frances W. Pritchett, Nets of Awareness: Urdu Poetry and Its Critics (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), 8-9. 19 Solân Valad, Valad-nâma: Masnavi-ye valadi, ed. Jalâl Homâ’i (Tehran: Eqbâl, [1316 š /1937]), 53-4. 20 Idem., Valad-nâma, 212. 21 Chapter 4, ekâyat 10 (yaki as šoarâ piš-e amir-e dozdân raft…). Golestân, ed. Mo ammad-Ali Forui and Abd al-Aim Qarib, Kolliyât-e Sadi, 4 vols. (Tehran: Abbâs Eqbâl, 1363š/1984), 119-20.

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sent away in disgrace, the dogs lapping at his heels. The poet tries to throw a stone at the dogs, but the frozen ground yields no projectiles, inspiring him to utter this witty, and more importantly, sincere, complaint: “What a town is this where they let loose their dogs and tie up their stones?!” The robber chief happens to overhear this from a window, and offers the poet a boon for this witticism. The chastened poet asks merely for the return of his clothes and to be allowed to depart, but is rewarded with his clothes and a fur coat, to boot. Here, the reader may sympathize with the poet’s plight, while recognizing the inherent folly of the practice of panegyre, due to the caprice of the patron, or the difficulty of bestowing sincere praise on one who (whether robber or ruler) may come by his power and his purse in questionable ways. We may conclude that poetic justice in this vignette resides not with the poet, who has chosen to praise an unworthy patron from an unworthy motive, and received humiliation for his troubles, but with the no-nonsense king. On the other hand, when the poet says something sincere, he moves the ruler, albeit criminal-in-chief, to pity. Sadi’s story implicitly presumes an etiquette of patronage relations in which the poet should not act insincerely, and the ruler (even a morally tainted one) should value sincerity and reward it. Rumi (d. 672/1273), himself, seems to take this a step further, in a story about poetry and patronage related in Book 4 of his Masnavi (4:1156ff). Unlike his son, Solân Valad, Rumi displays here some sympathy to the pecuniary needs of a poet submitting a panegyric to a king. There is no opprobrium associated with this arrangement, either for the king, or for the poet (though it should be noted that this particular poet does not live at court and only very infrequently seeks funding from the ruler), even though the objectives are worldly – hopes of a robe of honor and bounty and glory (xalat o ekrâm o jâh, 4:1156). This king’s habit is to bestow a thousand gold coins and other honors and awards (4:1157), but the vizier, recognizing the worth of good poetry, quickly convinces the king to give ten thousand, and the evidences of this largesse on the person of the poet silently bespoke the praises (mad ) of the king everywhere the poet went (4:1165). The poet, after learning that it was the vizier (asan, so-and-so al-Din) who prevailed upon the king for this great reward, composed a “long poem” in praise of the vizier, and left. Several years later, compelled by poverty and destitution, the poet returns to court and offers a new poem (šer), but when the king commands his usual thousand-dinâr award, the new and miserly vizier dissuades him, promising to make the poet happy to accept one-fortieth of the amount. It happens that the new vizier, also named asan, delays and diverts the poet’s reward for many seasons, until the poet accepts a small gift and leaves, with curses for the minister. Though the king does not bear the brunt of the blame, Rumi concludes that a king will debase himself by listening to such a vizier (4:1239), who is compared to Hâmân giving corrosive advice to Pharoah (4:1240ff).

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The Question of Sincerity HUMBUG: deceptive misrepresentation, short of lying, especially by pretentious word or deed, of somebody’s own thoughts, feelings, or attitudes. - Max Black, The Prevalence of Humbug (March 1980). To what extent, then, were panegyrical poets sincere in the praise they bestowed upon rulers? Looking past our modern and western biases against the practice of panegyre, can we discern whether the poets’ participation in the economy of flattery is truly sincere, or largely humbug? To what extent is it variously attributable to habitual conformity with literary conventions, a desire for access to the corridors of power, the goal of holding a mirror up to the prince? Or is it something more base, craven servility, pursuit of riches, or cynical selfaggrandizement? By what indices might we evaluate sincerity at this historical remove? Exasperation with the overtly panegyrical poetry of the past has been a fairly typical reaction among modernists looking back on a variety of literary traditions. Even in the classical period, Neâm al-Molk (d. 485/1092) harbored no affection for court poets and their practice, and Šams-e Qays Râzi (13th century CE) expressed ethical doubts about panegyric poetry (see below). For about a century, Iranian, Indian and western scholars confronting the Persian qasida tradition have had a similar reaction. A mad Kasravi and Šebli Nomâni looked back on this tradition with disgust and reformative zeal. Jan Rypka describes the “Orientalists who were formerly inclined to regard this form [the Persian eulogistic qaida] as only hollow praise” as holding a “prejudiced view which is still but unwillingly relinquished,” though he himself goes on to speak of the “falseness of the panegyrics,” and to state that “there is no doubt that a panegyric could be sold more easily to the Persians than to the Arabs.”22 In the modern period admiration is grudgingly expressed for Anvari and Moezzi, whose poetic talents are universally acknowledged, but whose dedication of said talents to the praise of monarchs is apologetically regretted and sometimes critically condemned.23 Conversely, Nâ er Xosrow (d. c. 465-470/1072-1077), who used the qasida as a platform from which to propagate his Ismaili views, today enjoys high esteem as a sincere and engagé poet, even among critics who hold no particular brief 22

Jan Rypka, “History of Persian Literature up to the Beginning of the 20th Century” in Karl Jahn, ed. History of Iranian Literature (Dordrecht: D. Reidel, 1968), 94-5. His description of the patronage relationship assumes that court poets felt little real affection or loyalty for their patrons, and served multiple masters (successively or simultaneously), who sometimes were not on good terms, or acted treacherously toward one another. 23 Abbâs Eqbâl, however, in his introduction to Divân-i Amir al-šoarâ Mo ammad ebn Abd al-Malek Nayšâburi motaxalle ba Moezzi (Tehran: Ketâbforuši-ye Eslâmiya, 1318š/1939), argues that poets and poetry critics should be first and foremost concerned with the art of language, imagery, rhetoric, etc., and not worry so much whether a poet was a philosophical (or moral) genius.

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for Xosrow’s particular ideology. Indeed, most modern readers do not share his sectarian objectives, yet they tend to overlook the fact that Nâ er Xosrow did routinely praise the Fatimid caliph. Perhaps Nâ er Xosrow receives this exemption because he was not vying for position within a circle of panegyrical poets, and did not benefit from the luxuries of court life; on the contrary, he suffered the privations of missionary life in a provincial backwater. Sanâ’i and Xâqâni (d. 595/1199) are also seen as noble and honorable artists for the seriousness of their religious and ethical homilies, though both of them also composed royal panegyres. Perhaps our tastes recoil not so much at the practice of decorous flattery, as at the absence of ideological commitment; we simply cannot countenance poetic careers in which the poet seems willing to sell his rhetorical wares ad maiorem gloriam Regis. Hyperbolic praise of princes seems to contravene the ideals of sincerity and originality of expression that are now felt to be the touchstones of true and noble poetry.24 As such, the poets implicated in the system of patronage and panegyre are suspected of humbuggery or a Faustian bargain that makes them complicit in monarchical malfeasance. One Iranian reader succinctly summed up the modern public’s attitude toward the earlier court poets in the tersest sentence, when he commented with barely concealed exasperation after perusing the Divân of Farroxi: “ham-aš mad gofte” (He’s composed nothing but panegyrics!), but academic critics have sometimes expressed blunter views. Dr. Nâder Vazinpur’s critical indictment of panegyric poetry is stinging; his book titled “Panegyre, the brand of shame on the face of Persian literature” argues that the noble in character do not condescend to panegyre. 25 According to Vazinpur, panegyrical poets were primarily impelled to service of the court and king by need: material need, spiritual need, need for a 24

Perhaps post-structuralist and post-modernist modes of thought, in particular the subordination of the actor/author’s sovereignty within the empire of signs, or radical doubt about the existential integrity of a subjective authorial self, has swung the pendulum toward a more forgiving attitude on panegyric poetry. Samer Mahdy Ali, “Praise for Murder? Two Odes by al-Bu tur Surrounding an Abbasid Patricide,” in Beatrice Gruendler and Louise Marlow, eds. Writers and Rulers: Perspectives on Their Relationship from Abbasid to Safavid Times (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2004), 1-38, finds that the “polemic over sincerity” now seems “naïve and superficial at best” (2) after the studies of Julie Meisami, Suzanne Stetkevych, Stefan Sperl and Beatrice Gruendler. 25 “Mad dar har âl šiva-ye âzâdegân nist,” in Vazinpur, Mad , dâ-e nang bar simâ-ye adab-e fârsi (Tehran: Entešârât-e Moin, 1374/1995), 118. This book diagnoses panegyre by attempting to explain its root causes, as though a disease (the subtitle is bar resi-ye enteqâdi va ta lili az elal-e madi a-sarâ’i-ye šâerâne irâni [A critical and analytical study of the root causes of Iranian poets’ panegyrical poetry]). The author divides poets into four groups: 1) those who never composed panegyres – a small, select group, exemplified by Aâr, Rumi, Sayf-e Farâni and Erâqi; 2) the countless court poets who constantly praised kings, governors and others in power (this group is the real subject of the book); 3) poets who were not at court but composed poems in praise of rulers, such as Ferdowsi, Neâmi, Sadi, âfe, Jâmi, etc.; 4) poets who at some point in their life reached enlightenment and then foreswore the composition of panegyre and the selling of their poems, exemplified by Kasâ’i, Sanâ’i, Anvari, Xâqâni (pp86-115).

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protector, and the need to preserve one’s works. This relationship inevitably compromised the poets ethically and morally, because even those sultans of generally good repute, such as Mahmud of Ghazna and Sanjar the Seljuk were in actuality, tyrants.26 We have already considered how this view may in part derive from, and be complicit in perpetuating, a particular Western mode of conceiving the Asiatic barbarian. In my 1995 dissertation, I had argued for a more nuanced interpretation of the tradition of panegyrical court poetry, attempting to demonstrate that poets exercised more discretion and liberty within the patronage relationship than has commonly been supposed.27 My evidence for this was drawn primarily from the career of Sanâ’i, who composed panegyrics for a number of army commanders and officials of state, physicians (mostly those who had treated him personally), as well as judicial officials and jurists of a mystical bent (whom he admired for their piety). Having established his career by creating a market for the qasida and the ghazal in a juridical and mystical milieu in Balkh and Saraxs, Sanâ’i returned to Ghazna to assume the role not so much of panegyrist, but of spiritual advisor in verse to Sultan Bahrâmšâh. Sanâ’i was initially frustrated in his attempt to gain entry to the court, but eventually succeeded on his own terms, as a homiletic/mystic poet–with the result that he probably did not have to grapple with the question of sincerity in relationship to his praise in quite the same way other court poets may have.28

26

Vazinpur, Ibid., 138 and 350ff. Roy Mottahedeh had provided a perceptive description of the general relationship of clientage, or patronage, and the bonds of loyalty it created in Islamicate societies in his Loyalty and Leadership in an Early Islamic Society (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980). Various articles had considered poet-patron relations in particular: for the early Abbasid court, Stefan Sperl, “Islamic Kingship and Arabic Panegyric Poetry in the Early 9th Century,” Journal of Arabic Literature 8 (1977): 23-35; and for al-Mutanabb, Andras Hamori, “The Art of Flattery – Form and Argument in a Panegyric by alMutanabb,” (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University, Annual Lecture, 1985): 3-18. The practice of poetic patronage in the case of medieval Persian poetry was covered to some extent in Jerome Clinton, “Court Poetry in the Beginning of the Classical Period,” in E. Yarshater, ed. Persian Literature (Bibliotheca Persica, 1988), 75-95, and at various points in Julie Meisami, Medieval Persian Court Poetry (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987), e.g., 281 and 312 (on how changes in patronage can cause dramatic changes in style), and especially, Chapter 2, “The Poetry of Praise: The Qasidah and Its Uses,” 40-76. My thinking was also deeply informed in conversation with, and by the books and articles of, Jaroslav and Suzanne Stetkevych on the development of the qasida, and the meaning which inheres in the architectonic structure of the poem. See esp. J. Stetkevych, The Zephyrs of Najd: The Poetics of Nostalgia in the Classical Arabic Nasb (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), and on the patronage relationship in particular, see S. Stetkevych, The Poetics of Islamic Legitimacy: Myth, Gender, and the Ceremony in the Classical Arabic Ode (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2002). 28 J.T.P. de Bruijn first discerned and described the career development of Sanâ’i and his interactions with the Ghaznavid court, in his Of Piety and Poetry, op. cit. My “Reading, Writing and Recitation,” op. cit., chapter 2, also contributes to that discussion. 27

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I had argued that poets were at times able to manipulate the patron, or at least to negotiate the value of their poems from a position of some strength, and thereby regulate the symbolic exchange that was taking place.29 Perhaps the patron occasionally wound up, as it were, on the short end of the hemistich. However, when Prof. Heshmat Moayyad asked me at my dissertation defense in the autumn of 1995 whether the poets who panegyrized these rulers were insincere in their flattery, I was not able to give a conclusive answer. I alluded to the Qâbus-nâma’s (w. 475/1082) directive to compose praise suited to the particular patron’s achievements, and began my answer by pointing to the debate in Arabic over truthfulness versus lying in poetry as evidence of medieval awareness of the question of sincerity.30 The Rhetoric of Truth and Lying in Poetry Consider a Fourth of July orator, who goes on bombastically about “our great and blessed country, whose Founding Fathers under divine guidance created a new beginning for mankind.” This is surely humbug…the orator is not lying. He would be lying only if it were his intention to bring about in his audience beliefs that he himself regards as false, concerning such matters as whether our country is great, whether it is blessed, whether the Founders had divine guidance, and whether what they did was in fact to create a new beginning for mankind. But the orator does not really care what his audience thinks about the Founding Fathers, or about the role of the deity in our country’s history, or the like. At least, it is not an interest in what anyone thinks about these matters that motivates his speech. It is clear that what makes the Fourth of July oration humbug is not fundamentally that the speaker regards his statements as false. Rather…the orator intends these statements to convey a certain impression of himself. He 29

Beatrice Gruendler later made a similar point in her “Ibn al-R m’s Ethics of Patronage,” Harvard Middle Eastern and Islamic Review 3, 1-2 (1996): 104-60. Meisami, Medieval Persian Court Poetry, op. cit., 46, had earlier pointed to the poet’s role as mirror for the prince: “The poet does not merely record the noble deeds of his patron, but creates the motivation for them.” 30 See inter alia, Wolfhart Heinrichs, Arabische Dichtung und griechische Poetik. zim al-Qar anns Grundlegung der Poetik mit Hilfe aristotelischer Begriffe (Beirut: Orient-Institut der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft, 1969); Renate Jacobi, “Dichtung und Lüge in der arabischen Literaturtheorie,” Der Islam 49 (1972): 85-99; J.C. Bürgel, “‘Die beste Dichtung ist die lügenreichste.’ Wesen und Bedeutung eines literarischen Streites des arabischen Mittelalters im Lichte komparatistischer Betrachtung,” Oriens 23-24 (1974): 7-102; Vincent Cantarino, “Lie or Truth,” in idem, ed. Arabic Poetics in the Golden Age (Leiden: Brill, 1975), 24-40; Ross Brann, “‘The Dissembling Poet’ in Medieval Hebrew Literature: The Dimensions of a Literary Topos,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 107, 1 (1987): 39-54; and especially the monograph of Mansour Ajami, The Alchemy of Glory: The Dialectic of Truthfulness and Untruthfulness in Medieval Arabic Literary Criticism (Washington, D.C.: Three Continents Press, 1988).

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is not trying to deceive anyone concerning American history. What he cares about is what people think of him. He wants them to think of him as a patriot, as someone who has deep thoughts and feelings about the origins and the mission of our country, who appreciates the importance of religion, who is sensitive to the greatness of our history, whose pride in that history is combined with humility before God, and so on…. I do not believe that it adequately or accurately grasps the essential character of bullshit ... - Harry G. Frankfurt, On Bullshit (2005), 16-18. The medieval rhetoricians and critics repeatedly discussed this issue of truth versus lies in poetry, mostly siding with one of three basic postulates (or a combination thereof), as expressed by al-Marz q (d. 421/1030): the best poetry is the most truthful (a san al-šir adaquhu), the best poetry is the most untruthful (a san al-šir akdabuhu), or the best poetry is the most moderate (ahan al-šir aqaduhu). The criteria for measuring this quality was sought, for the most part, in the “meanings” of the poem, which reside in the level of the individual line, or metaphorical phrase, rather than in an entire poem. 31 For example, Qudma ibn Jafar (d. 337/948) in his Naqd al-šir claims to prefer untruthfulness in a poet, except where hyperbole (uluww) – which he identifies as exaggeration (mublaa) – shades into impossibility (al-isti la) and contradiction (al-tanqu ), as in the example of a line of panegyre which wishes eternal life (which is an impossibility) on the patron.32 Since wishes for the long life and never-ending protection of the patron were de rigeur, one suspects this example a trifle forced. Indeed others, such as al-mid (d. 370/980) in his alMuwzana bayna šir Ab Tammm wa al-Bu tur, did condone even absurd (mu l) exaggerations if they resulted in bon mots (nawdir), while at the same time condemning exaggeration and untruthfulness as reprehensible innovations of the new style in Arabic, arguing that ideas which approximate the truth are more congenial to the mind.33 Al-Jurjn (d. 392/1001), in his study of Mutanabb and his critics (al-Was a bayna al-Mutanabb wa xumih) preferred the path of moderation (qad / iqtid) over excess (ifr ), which he however allows can occur without defect (naq) and excess (itid’) if it follows certain rules. Beyond those customary limits (rusm), however, ifr will result in absurdity (i la) and overexaggeration (irq).34 Al-Askar (d. 395/1004) draws a distinction between truth, or perhaps sincerity (idq), which is required of prophets – and accuracy (iba), which does not exclude untruthful (kidb) meanings, since mublaa and uluww are commendable

31

Ajami, Alchemy of Glory, 2-3. Ibid., 19-23. 33 Ibid., 31-35. 34 Ibid., 37-40. 32

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features of the eloquence ( usn al-kalm) required of poets, as long as they do not descend into the impossible (mu l) and absurd (fsid).35 Clearly, then, there was some conception of truthfulness applied to poetry in the Arabic rhetorical tradition, at least at the level of a single metaphor or exclamatory expression (usually bounded by the borders of the metrical line, bayt), even if the critics disagreed on its necessity or desirability. However, not all critics were wholly content with the terms of this debate. Ibn Sn (d. 428/1037) sees the evocation of imagination (taxyl, taxayyul), or wonder (taajjub), as the goal of poetry, which is therefore concerned with the psychological stimulation of the emotions, rather than statements which can be evaluated by the logical metrics of truth or untruth.36 Al-Jurjn, in his Asrr al-bala also adopts this distinction, arguing however that poetry, even as a supra-logical mode of discourse, can acquire a semblance of truthfulness. 37 J.C. Bürgel presents ample evidence from the Arabic and Persian traditions for approaching poetry not as argumentation, but as enchantment, a form of licit magic.38 In view of the clearly ludic ends which poetry often serves, in for example rhetorical games of paradox (tayur) or subtlety (tala

uf), like praising the ugly (ta sn al-qab ) and portraying the beautiful as disgusting (taqb al asan),39 it would seem that the on-going concern over the question of poetry and truth stems in part from the Qur’an, where poets are denounced as liars, in part from an awareness that ancient Greek philosophy had debated the question, and in part because it was an established intellectual category through which one could examine premises of rhetoric and morality. Although the classical Islamicate debate on the matter was waged primarily in Arabic, Persian literary theory was of course also cognizant of this conceptual dichotomy.40 35

Ibid., 41-47. Ibid., 54-57. Na ir al-Din usi (d. 1274) seems to follow Ibn Sn on this matter, positing a utilitarian theory of poetry, the purpose of which is motivation (taxyil) of the addressee to do or not do a certain thing, or to create in him an emotion like contentment, anger, or simply a sense of pleasurable enjoyment. See usi’s Meyâr al-ašâr (dar elm-e aru va qavâfi), ed. Mo ammad Fešâraki and Jamšid Maâheri (Isfahan: Entešârât-e Sohravardi, 1363š/1983), 1. 37 Ajami, op. cit., 89. 38 See chapter 3 of his The Feather of Simurgh: The “Licit Magic” of the Arts in Medieval Islam (NY/London: New York University Press, 1988). 39 Geert van Gelder, “Beautifying the Ugly and Uglifying the Beautiful: The Paradox in Classical Arabic Literature,” Journal of Semitic Studies 48, 2 (2003): 321-351. Van Gelder notes that entire anthologies were devoted to this topic, recognized as a genre of their own, in which poets might lampoon the moon, or ridicule the object of praise, portraying what is false as true (tawr al-b il bi rat al- aqq), in the words of al-J i, 325-6. 40 Van Gelder, ibid., 326 cites Arui’s approval, in his ahâr maqâla (ed. Qazwini, p. 30) of the technique whereby a poet makes something beautiful (niku) appear ugly (zešt), and vice versa [from the beginning of the chapter on poets]. The critical questions addressed by the Persian and Arab rhetoricians are compared 36

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The Dynamics of Panegyre After a brief allusion to the above debate at my dissertation defense, I went on to suggest that the Persian qasida was not a static entity, but had evolved over the centuries, responding in part to changing sensibilities about the rhetoric and language of encomium, as well as developments in the ceremonial forms of praise. At the time, however, I could not point to any precise examples, and concluded that in order to gauge the extent to which my supposition might hold true, one would have to consider specific poets and their response to various political circumstances at the court where they practiced their art.41 So far in this paper, I have provided some anecdotal evidence from “fictional” narratives about how poets conceived of sincerity in patronage. In what follows, I will attempt a more specific and quantifiable response to the question. Perhaps the impression that one panegyre, as a generic enterprise of Persian poetry, is differentiated from another example of panegyre primarily by the composing poet’s particular style, skills and inventiveness, is still not uncommon. If, however, we assume that individual instances of panegyre are not simply ritual enactments of an archetypal unchanging paradigm of praise, but respond to exterior realities and meta-poetic specifics, we might track such changes as a practical criterion for judging the extent of their truthcontent, or to put it another way, the sincerity of their praise. But Persian literary criticism has only recently begun to address the various formal structures of panegyre, the architectonics and production of meaning within a given qasida, and the diachronic development of the panegyrical tradition as a whole.42 Whether the panegyric poets strove by Benedikt Reinert, “Probleme der vormongolischen arabisch-persischen Poesiegemeinschaft,” in Arabic Poetry: Theory and Development, ed. G. von Grunebaum (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1973), 72-105, esp. 81-93. Van Gelder, in his Beyond the Line: Classical Arabic Literary Critics on the Coherence and Unity of the Poem (Leiden: Brill, 1982), 142-3, emphasizes the indebtedness of Persian critics to their Arab counterparts somewhat more than Reinert. 41 Julie Meisami has offered some specific examples of this process, especially in her articles “Ghaznavid Panegyrics: Some Political Implications,” Iran 28 (1990): 31-44; and “The Poet and his Patrons,” op. cit. 42 Vazinpur, for example, addresses only two pages to the various fixed forms of panegyric poetry (309-10). However, some steps have been taken in this direction, for example in S. Sperl and C. Shackle, eds. Qasida Poetry in Islamic Asia and Africa, 2 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 1996) and Beatrice Gruendler, Medieval Arabic Praise Poetry: Ibn al-Rûmî and the Patron’s Redemption (London/NY: RoutledgeCurzon, 2003), but for the Persian qasida in particular, see Jerome Clinton, “Esthetics by Implication: What Metaphors of Craft Tell us about the ‘Unity’of the Persian Qasida,” Edebiyt 4, 1 (1979): 73-96; Mo ammad Reâ Šafii-Kadkani, Mofles-e kimiâ-foruš: naqd va ta lil-e šer-e Anvari (Tehran: Soxan, 1372š/1993); Michael Glünz, Die panegyrische qada bei Kaml ud-Dn Isml aus Isfahan: eine Studie zur persischen Lobdichtung um den Beginn des 7./13. Jahrhunderts (Beirut: Orient-Institut der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft, 1993); Sunil Sharma, Persian Poetry at the Indian Frontier: Masud Sad Salmân of Lahore (New Delhi: Permanent Black, 2000); and Julie Meisami, Structure and Meaning in Medieval Persian and Arabic Poetry: Orient Pearls (London/NY: Routledge/Curzon, 2003), especially chapter 3.

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for sincerity, or were content to offer the equivalent of patriotic humbug, can only be discerned within a context, after a prevailing historical norm for the Persian panegyrical qasida is established. Was the classical qa‡ida, once established and canonized at the Ghaznavid court, a more or less immutable fixed form, or do the idiolects of individual poets, the social and political factors which inform particular poems, etc., shape the language and stylistics of praise in distinctive and interesting ways? The Persian Qasida The increased power and autonomy of various Iranian dynasties on the eastern edges of the Abbasid empire, coupled with an increased sense of Iranian cultural and linguistic pride, led in the 10th century to the rebirth of a courtly tradition of specifically Persian poetry. The poems of praise, some quite famous, which survive from the fourth/tenth century have either not been preserved in full, or were in significant respects different from the “classical” Persian qasida. Rudaki at the Samanid court is often described as the first panegyrical qasida writer, but the Persian qasida, as a fixed form and genre of panegyre, crystallized at the Ghaznavid court of Ma mud and Masud in the early fifth/eleventh century, and subsequent poets seem most often to allude to and draw upon these early Ghaznavid models of the qasida, rather than topically similar poems of Rudaki or Rabenjani, etc. This is no doubt partly due to the active encouragement of panegyric poetry by Ma mud of Ghazna (d. 421/1030), who attracted a stable of poets to his court and created an august age and institution, which he bequeathed to his immediate successors, Sultan Masud I (d. 433/1041) and Sultan Mo ammad (r. briefly in 421/1030 and 432/1041). The poets who canonized the Ghaznavid qasida, including among others, Asjadi, Farroxi, aâyeri, Manuehri, and On ori, derived the forms and motifs of their Persian qasidas (either directly or indirectly) mostly from the model of the Arabic qa‡da (especially the two-part form as practiced by al-Mutanabb), and only somewhat from the 10th century Persian panegyrics. 43 Somewhat later practitioners of the art of panegyre, in particular Moezzi, Anvari and Xâqâni, have contributed to our generic notion of how a royal panegyric poem should be constructed, but they were all keenly aware of and responsive to the Ghaznavid models, as were the poets who followed them, even up to the revival of the panegyric qasida, well after the form had been displaced by the ghazal as the pre-eminent poetic genre, at the Qajar court with the efforts of poets like abâ and Qâ’âni. 43

Persian rhetorical manuals (even historical works, such as Târix-e Bayhaqi) quote al-Mutanabb in abundance, and reflect a binary assumption about the structure of the qasida, rather than the tripartite structure of the pre-Islamic Arabic qada (nasb/ra l/faxr), concerning which see the above-mentioned works of J. Stetkevych and S. Stetkevych. Mo ammad Reâ Šafii-Kadkani, ovar-e xiâl dar šer-e fârsi (Tehran: Nil, 1350š/1971), 378-9, sees the qasida as a non-native form in Persian literature, with no precedent in the Sasanian period.

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There is no treatment of the qa‡ida qua holistic form in the early Persian manuals of prosody and poetics, which are essentially catalogs or primers of rhetorical devices. They are concerned with the formal features of a poem (rhyme, radif, meter); the isolation of various particular lines in the poem which perform a particular structural or formulaic function – the first line (ma la), the transition (maxla or goriz-gâh) from the introit (nasib, tašbib, taazzol) to the praise section, and possibly the last line or last few lines (maq a); and various virtuosic displays of paranomasia and other kinds of linguistic or metaphorical parallelism. But they do not pay a great deal of attention to how these elements are put together and cohere, or what they mean in the larger picture. On this question, the view of the medieval critics has been summed up as follows: The Persian qasida is a varied thing, consisting of a number of topics (maâni), including description of nature, union with or separation from a beloved, funeral laments, satire, panegyric, wisdom/philosophy, ethics. All these divergent topics (maâni-ye parišân) can be juxtaposed by force of the rhyme, the unity of form, and of the meter, without anyone feeling anxiety over their topical incompatibility (nâ-hamvâri-ye in maâni).44 To this description, we may add a few more specifics. As noted, the Persian qasida is usually bi-partite with an introit (called variously tašbib or nasib by the poetic manuals), usually on the themes of spring, wine-drinking or a description of a beautiful but often unattainable beloved, followed by the mad , or praise of the patron, which typically ends in a one- to three-line doâ in which the poet calls down prayers and blessings on the patron.45 Just prior to this prayer, the poet often makes allusion to the patron’s beneficence and his reputation for generosity, which, of course, is a complimentary, though highly conventional, way of encouraging the patron to richly reward the poet. If he can find a way to ask for it nicely, the poet is also permitted by the poetry manuals to ask for a specific reward. Rašid al-Din Vavâ (d. 578/1182) describes this art (anat) under the rubric (borrowed from Arab rhetorical manuals) of` osn-e alab, as the poet asking something of the mamdu (the patron, literally “the one praised”) in a line (bayt), but gilding the request with elegance and sweetness, so as not to breach the requirements of decorum

44 45

M.R. Šafii-Kadkani, ovar-e xiâl, op. cit., 380. For On ori, the introit is often lacking, with the entire poem focused on encomium of the patron, whereas, Manuehri, in a consciously Arabo-philic way, sometimes includes the ra il, the medial section of the preIslamic Arabic qada.

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and respect (ta im).46 A poet was allowed to describe – in practice it is mostly to complain of – his own circumstances for the patron towards the end of the praise section of the qasida in a pericope known as a asb-e âl, which might stir up the patron’s sympathies for the human condition of the poet and allow the poet to hint at his specific needs. Indeed, a separate genre of begging from the ruler, moltamasât, distinct from panegyre (mad ), amorous poetry (azaliyât), satire (ahâji) and marâsi (elegies for the dead), was identified at least as early as the 8th/14th century.47 But this is a later normative description, and the poets at the Ghaznavid court likely did not yet have such details codified in Persian manuals of prosody and versification to guide them. Indeed, the word qaida may not yet have been deeply engrained as a fixedform concept in Persian (though, obviously, the word and the structure were already very well familiar in Arabic literature). During the 10th-12th centuries CE, Persian poets categorized their poems more often by mood and topoi than by form, with the most common distinction being mad versus azal, panegyre versus lyric/love poetry. The word qaida does not often appear as a technical term during this period, though many poetic and prosodic technical terms do occur in the text of these poems. Poets of this era usually refer to individual poems as šer (“poem”), and also as bayt (line/lines) or do-bayti, or occasionally na m (verse, vis-à-vis prose).48 The word qad does appear in one poem by Abu al-Haysam Gorgâni (4th/10th century), explaining the poet’s “motive” in composing his long, 89-line, series of philosophical questions, and although he clearly does not mean it as a poetic term, it may have been read as such by later authors. 49 In commenting on this particular poem, which must have been written in the end of the fourth century or the beginning of the fifth, both Nâser Xosrow, writing in his Jâme al- ekmatayn (462/1070), and Ebn-e Fondoq (d. 565/1169), writing a century later, refer to this poem as a qaida in the technical sense, though Abu al-Haysam’s student, Mo ammad b. Sorx, writing in the beginning of the fifth/eleventh century had called it simply šer.50 46

See adâyeq al-se r fi daqâyeq al-se r, ed. Abbâs Eqbâl (Tehran: Ketâbxâna-ye Sanâ’i and ahuri, 1362š/1984), 33-4, where Rašid al-Din Vavâ cites an Arabic line by al-Mutanabb, a single unattributed Persian verse and another one by Bu al-Maâli Râzi as examples of this art. 47 Reference by name to the moltamasât as a distinctive genre is found in a manuscript dated 741/1340 copied out by amza ben Abd Allâh al-usi, as cited in Šafii-Kadkani, Mofles-e kimiâ-foruš, op. cit., 116. 48 For a fuller discussion of these terms, see F. Lewis, “Reading, Writing and Recitation,” op. cit., Chapter 1. 49 Abu Haysam Gorgâni /Jorjâni refers to the form of his poem as “verse” (na m), and its content as “speech” (soxan), but says: so’âl kardam qad-am taannot nist / I posed questions, my aim is not to stymie (condescend). See Gilbert Lazard, ed. Ašâr-e parâkanda-ye qadimitarin šoarâ-ye fârsi-zabân (Tehran: Qesmat-e Irânšenâsi-ye Anstitu-ye Irân va Farânsa, 1341š/1962), 62:78. 50 See Dabi Allâh afâ, Târix-e adabiyât dar Irân (Tehran: Ferdowsi, 1956-61), 1:623-4, quoting from the book titled: Šar -e qaida-ye fârsi-ye Xwâja Abu al-Haysam A mad ebn asan-e Jorjâni, mansub ba Mo ammad ebn Sorx-e Nayšâpuri, ed. Henri Corbin and Mo ammad Moin (Tehran: Qesmat-e Irânšenâsi,

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In the chapter on poetry (dar rasm-e šâeri) in his Qâbus-nâma (w. 475/1082), On or alMaâli Kaykâvus mentions two specific fixed forms, the tarâna (most probably meaning the do bayti or robâi) and the qaida, while most of the terms he mentions pertain to the theme or content: poetry: mad (panegyre), azal (love lyric), hejâ (satire), marsiat (lament) and zohd (asceticism).51 The qaida form is associated with the theme, or rhetorical aim, of mad and hejâ, which are to be recited differently from azal and marsiat, since the rhetorical orientation to the subject of the satire or panegyre are on the opposite ends of the emotional continuum from the lyric and lament.52 He also mentions that panegyric, if you wish to make money for it, must be recited in the presence of the patron with good cheer and proper attire.53 Šams-e Qays Râzi, in his work on prosody and poetics, begun about 617/1220 but not completed – due to the Mongol invasions – until about 630/1232,54 seems to conceive of the qasida as the privileged (or “default”) form of Persian poem, almost synonymous with the more general term, šer,55 but does clearly see the qasida as a particular form or genre of its own. Qaida, is a noun in the form fail plus the “a” ending (represented orthographically by the silent final letter “h”), which signifies its conceptual unity (as in šair/šaira or dabi /dabi a), but in the function of a maful, meaning the poet’s object (maqud) in presenting various topics (maâni) and diverse descriptions, including panegyre, satire, gratitude, complaint and so forth. The word qaida is thus derived from qad, or directing one’s attention and turning towards some thing or place.56

Anstitu-ye Irân va Farânsa, 1334š/1955), 2. Probably following this phraseology, Nâ er Xosrow says: qaida-i ka gofta bud Xwâja Abu al-Haysam…, in afâ, ibid., 2:894, quoting from the edition of Ketâb-e jâme al- ekmatayn of H. Corbin and M. Moin, (Tehran: Qesmat-e Irânšenâsi, Anstitu-ye Irân va Farânsa, 1332š/1953). 51 On or al-Maâli Kaykâvus ebn Eskandar ebn Qâbus ebn Vošmgir, Qâbus-nâma, ed. Said Nafisi, 6th ed. (Tehran: Ofset-e Marvi, 1366š/1987), 137-40. He appears to associate tarâna and azal, but not mad , with light, popular meters and rhymes, devoid of difficult language, and appealing equally to the elite and the common folk, 138:2-5. 52 Ibid., 139:10-11 and 14-17. 53 Ibid., 140:2-5. 54 al-Mojam fi Maâyir ašâr al-ajam, ed. M. Qazvini and Modarres-e Raavi (Tehran: Ketâb-foruši-ye Tehrân, 1338š/1959). 55 al-Mojam distinguishes the forms robâi, qaida, azal and qe a (or moqa

eât – he describes a qaida written by Farroxi in the meter of the do-bayti, as well as moqa

eât composed by some poets in this meter, 122). The azal and qe a are seen to be derived from the qaida. Mojam, 199 describes Bahrâme Gur as author of some Arabic qe as (and qe a-ye tâzi), as well as having been the first to compose poetry (ašâr) in Pârsi. 56 Ibid., 201-202.

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The Length of the Qasida Šams-e Qays gives a brief discussion of the various fixed forms of Persian poetry (omitting, however, the mosamma and tarji-band), in which he describes the qasida as follows:57 un abyât motakarrar šod va az pânzdah vo šânzdah dar godašt ânrâ qaida xwânand va har a az ân kamtar bovad ânrâ qe a guyand va dar qaâyed-e pârsi lâzem-ast kay bayt-e ma la moarra bâšad yani qâfiat-e har do merâ dar oruf va arakât yeki bâšand va ellâ ânrâ qe a xwânand har and az bist bayt dar godarad… when the lines are repeated and exceed 15 or 16, it is called qaida, and anything less than this is known as a qe `a. In Persian qasidas it is a requirement that the opening line be homoteleutonic, that is to say that the rhyme in both hemistichs must be exactly the same, otherwise it is called a qe a, even if runs above twenty lines. Though 15 or 16 lines is the minimal requirement to be considered a qasida, he later tells us it should normally have at least 23 lines. Related to the length of the poem, is the question of rhyme: it is a glaring violation of versification to repeat a word in the rhyme position, unless the qasida exceeds 23 lines, or renews the ma la in the middle of the poem.58 Later critics and rhetoricians likewise confine most of their comments on the qasida to the etymology of the word and the number of lines it should have. osayn Vâe-e Kâšefi (d. 910/1505), for example, says it is preferable that the minimum number of lines of the qasida be 31, and the maximum 99, though it is best for it to fall somewhere in between these two.59 Perhaps forty, as in so many other things, is an ideal number for fulsome praise. Dowlatšâh-e Samarqandi in his “Biography of the Poets” (w. 892/1487) relates a story in which a certain â eb Mokrem b. al-Alâ, a vizier in Kerman during the reign of Masud of Ghazna, was approached by a poet (Šebl al-Dowla) from Nayshapur with a qasida of praise in Arabic. The noble patron, apparently without hearing the entire poem, asked “How many lines are in this qasida?” The poet answered, “There are over forty lines.” Upon hearing this number, he ordered a servant to give the poet a leathern purse (badra) of gold, adding an apology that “while each individual line of your qasida deserves a purse of gold in reward” (har bayt-i râ az abyât-e qaida-ye to badra-i zar ela mi-bâyad dâd), he had a cash-flow problem, and did not at the moment have forty purses of gold on hand in his house.60

57

Ibid., 201. Ibid., 287. 59 Badâye al-afkâr fi anâye al-ašâr, ed. Mir Jalâl Kazzâzi (Tehran: Našr-e Markaz, 1369š/1990), 71. 60 Takerat al-šoarâ-ye Dowlatšâh-e Samarqandi, ed. Mo ammad Abbâsi (Tehran: Ketâbforuši-ye Bârâni, [1337š/1958]), 12-13. This passage comes as part of Dowlatšâh’s defense of poetry, in which he 58

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To summarize the view of the pre-modern rhetoricians, the bare minimum of fifteen or sixteen lines qualifies a poem to be technically considered a qasida (rather than a qe a) if it begins with a line in which both hemistichs observe the rhyme. Normally, however a Persian qasida should include at least 23 lines, though it ought to run, according to Kâšefi’s vantage point in the 15th century, to at least 31 lines. The dictum of Kaykâvus that a poem on whatever theme must fully expound that theme, and should never leave the discourse incompletely delivered (soxan ka gu’i...dâd-e ân dar soxan tamâmi be-deh va har gez soxan nâ-tamâm ma-guy) may well suggest that the length of a particular qasida depends somewhat on the structure of its argument or the internal coherence of its theme.61 This sounds not very dissimilar to what Ibn Rušd (d. 595/1198), writing well after the heyday of the Ghaznavid qasida, says in his Arabic commentary on Aristotle’s poetics (al-Šar alwas ): “The [eulogistic] ode must be of such magnitude [i am] as to be whole and complete. A whole, complete poem would have a beginning, a middle, and an end.” He explains that moderation is required for each of the three parts of the Arabic qada, but that the middle part is the best part, and the conclusion should summarize the content of the poem.62 In Praise of Morality Qudma b. Jafar in the 10th century Arabic context declares the physical appearance of a person off limits for panegyrical or satirical verse, indicating that praise or vituperation should take moral or intellectual qualities as their subject.63 Šams-e Qays repeats much the same idea.64 Beyond these rules of engagement, however, there is evidence from the 10th century that truthfulness was also an explicit concern of Persian poets in the panegyrical context; a line ascribed to Daqiqi boasts of telling the truth and not lying in his panegyre (mad ).65 Šams-e Qays relates an anecdote attributed to Persian sources in which Bahrâm-e

explains that the Qur’an did not prohibit poetry per se, that the Prophet condoned it, and that wise and generous kings should reward it liberally. 61 Note that Ruben Levy interpreted the passage differently in his translation: “Whatever the form of your verse-composition…let it be in the best style of which you are capable. Never utter anything of inferior style.” Mirror for Princes: The Qbs Nma (NY: E.P. Dutton, 1951), 183. 62 Ajami, Alchemy of Glory, op. cit., 57-8, citing Abd al-Ra mn al-Badaw, ed. Aris tls Fann al-šir, maa al-tarjama al-arabiyya al-qadma wa šur al-Frb wa Ibn Sn wa Ibn Rušd (Beirut: Dr alaqfa, 1973), 212-3. 63 Van Gelder, “Beautifying the Ugly,” op. cit., 338. Van Gelder notes that this principle was commonly violated in poetic practice. 64 Mojam, op. cit., 358. 65 Lazard, ed., Ašâr-e parâkanda, op.cit., 141:2. Though the ascription to Daqiqi is doubted, we may assume the line dates to the same period. Daqiqi several times addresses the question of panegyre (madi ), dressing his panegyric in fine clothes (150:67), contemplating writing one panegyric for a certain patron

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Gur, after he has become the king, neither composes nor listens to poetry, and even forbids his children and relatives from it, insofar as “the basis of poetry is deception and compulsion (kedb o zur) and its foundation is egregious exaggeration and extreme hyperbole (mobâlaat-e fâ eš va olovv-e mofre ) and therefore the great religious philosophers have objected to and condemned it....”66 Šams-e Qays therefore gives us a clear expression of early anxiety about the ethics of panegyre, and indicates that its practice in Persia is an innovation of the Islamic period.67 He goes on in this vein, connecting the disapproval of specifically panegyric poetry with a primeval scene reminiscent of Milton’s Paradise Lost: While the first being to compose ascetic (zohd), homiletic and religious verse (mowa at-e nafs va tasbi va taqdis-e aqq) was one of the angels nigh unto God, the first being to praise himself in poetry and pay honor to another was Iblis, cursed be he” (naxost âfarida-i kay dar šer xwištan râ be-sotud[a] va dar ân bar digari mofâxerat kard Eblis bud,alayhe al-lana). 68 On or al-Maâli Kaykâvus, evoking the terms of the Arabic debate on truthfulness and lying in poetry advises his son and potential poets that:69 ammâ bar zohd va tow id agar qâder bâši taqir ma-kon, ka ba-har do jahân niku-st va dar šer doru az add ma-bar, har and ka mobâlaat-e doru dar šer honar-ast. As for ascetic and religious verse, if you are able to write such, do not withhold yourself therefrom, for it is of benefit in both worlds, and do not lie immoderately in poetry, even though the exaggeration of a lie is considered an artifice in poetry. This passage notably translates the Arabic term kib into the Persian doru and seems clearly sympathetic to the view that the more truthful and pious the poetry, the better. We have seen already how, in the pronouncements of Solân Valad, the praise of potentates was considered undesirable among poets of a religious bent. Still, this distaste for panegyre (153:99), acknowledging the comparative superiority of Rudaki’s madi (156:139-40), and Šahid’s (161:175) to his own. 66 Mojam, op. cit., 199-200. 67 Rypka, op. cit., 94, was of the opposite opinion, seeing a continuous tradition of praise and advicegiving, stretching back not only to Middle Persian, but to antiquity, with Xenophon mentioning the practice in his Cyropaedia. 68 Mojam, op. cit. 200. 69 Qâbus-nâma, op. cit., 139.

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might be overcome by the hope of fame or reward that association with a monarch’s name might bring with it, and when poets known for their homiletical and mystical verse did find patrons they thought worthy (or at least not unworthy) of encomium, the dynamic of a righteous and therefore panegyric- and patronage-reluctant poet praising a given king most certainly worked to the advantage of the patron’s reputation. Unless, of course, that praise were seen to be grudgingly given, which may perhaps be the impression left by the (backhanded?) words of Sadi, when he protests in the exordium to the Bustân (w. 654/1256) – in the very opening of the section in praise (mad ) of Abu Bakr b. Sad b. Zangi – that while he dislikes praising kings, he is also rather career-minded:70 marâ tab az in now xwâhân na-bud / sar-e med at-e pâdešâhân na-bud vali na m kardam be nâm-e folân / magar bâz guyand âheb-delân ka Sadi ka gu-ye balâat robud / dar ayyâm-e Bu Bakr-e ben Sad bud To this genre, my temperament did not incline, I had no mind for panegyre of kings. But in the name of so-and-so I versified, that those of taste and sense might later own that Sadi, who takes the cake in eloquence, lived in Abu Bakr’s reign, who was Sad’s son When Sadi later praised Hulegu Khan, who brought down the Abbasid caliphate and ended the Salghurid dynasty, his praise for the Salghurid Bu Bakr ben Sa`d-e Zangi, or his elegy mourning the Caliph al-Musta im, slain by Hulegu, may have seemed somewhat hollow in hindsight.71 Indeed, we may wonder how consciously a poet may have crafted the language of praise for one patron in light of what he had said for another patron, and to what extent readers might have compared the rhetoric a poet used for different rulers.72 In Praise of Aptness Though the position of a poet at court is clearly lower in the hierarchy than the ruler and most lesser nobles who would possess the means to patronize poetry, there was much 70

Bustân, based on the edition of M.Ali Forui, v. 2 of Kolliyât-e Sadi, 4 vols. (Tehran: Eqbâl, 1363/1984), 8. 71 This point is made by Rypka, “Persian Literature,” op. cit., 252. 72 Samer M. Ali, “Praise for Murder,” op. cit., provides a probative case study of two poems by al-Bu tur, one a ri’ for the murdered Caliph al-Mutawakkil, accusing al-Munta ir bi-llh, his successor Caliph, of the crime and urging support for a different candidate. But two months and one pilgrimage later, alBu tur is praising al-Munta ir as a hero. However one ultimately explains this situation, each poem was obviously read in light of the other.

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concern that the terms of encomium applied to a particular patron be suitable, and not overexaggerated. The good poet should not practice indiscriminate and untruthful flattery, but was intent upon negotiating with the words as well as with the patron he chose and so, he could not blindly affirm that naked emperors had sumptuous clothes. 73 For example, Maysari in his Dâneš-nâma (a medical treatise in verse, written 367-70/978-81) says that he thought long and hard about picking out a patron, a wise and aware king, who would buy (xaridâr šavad) his poem’s sound knowledge, that is to say who would accept or be worthy of its wisdom and reward the poet accordingly: farâvân bâ del-am andiša kardam / xeradmandi o dâneš piša kardam ka be-gozin-am šahi dânâ vo bidâr / ka hast in xub dâneš râ xaridâr74 He finally settled on the Sepahsâlâr Nâ er-e Dowlat, who had resuscitated the ruins of Iran and was superior to other kings in ten ways: wisdom, knowledge, righteousness, glib speech, justice, good disposition, manliness, knighthood or riding skills, beneficence and patience.75 The Qâbus-nâma offers the following advice, making selectivity and the appropriateness of the terms of praise for a particular patron into a literary principle:76 boland hemmat bâš va sazâ-ye har kasi be-dân va mad -i ka gu’i dar xwor-e mamdu guy va ân kasi râ ka har gez kârd bar miân na-basta bâšad ma-guy ka šamšir-e to šir afkanad o ba-nayza kuh-e bi-sotun bar dâri o ba-tir muy be-škâfi va ânka har gez bar xar-i na-nešasta bâšad asb-e u râ ba doldol o borâq o raxš o šabdiz mânanda ma-kon. Va be-dân ka har kasi râ a bâyad goft, ammâ bar šâ`er vâjeb bovad ka az ama-e mamdu âgâh bâšad va bedânad ka u-râ a xwoš âyad va tâ to ân na-gu’i ka u xwâhad, u to-râ nadehad ka to-râ xwoš âyad. va aqir hemmat ma-bâš va dar qaida xwod-râ xâdem ma-xwân ellâ dar mad -i ka mamdu ba-dân arzad Be of high aim and know what is befitting each person. When you compose a panegyre, compose it appropriate to the patron. Don’t say of him who has never worn a dagger at his belt “your sword slays lions and your spear shatters the mountain of Bisutun and you can split a hair with your arrow.” 73

Since the rhetorical tradition recognizes a category of mad šabih-e ba amm, “praise which is similar to blame,” prior panegyrics for other rulers may color the meaning, or value, of later panegyrics, and vice versa. 74 Lazard, ed., Ašâr-e parâkanda, op. cit., 183:97-8. 75 Ibid., 99-105. 76 Qâbus-nâma, op. cit., 139.

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And as for he who has never so much as sat on an ass, do not compare his horse to Doldol, Borâq, Raxš and Šabdiz. [i.e, the legendary mount of Ali, the supernatural mount of the Prophet, the brave horse of Rostam, and the swift steed of Širin]. Know what should be said to everyone, but the poet must be aware of the patron’s expectations and know what makes him happy. Unless you say what he wants, he won’t give you what makes you happy. Don’t abase yourself and don’t call yourself “servant”, except in a panegyric for a patron who is worthy of it. Šams-e Qays mentions two types of rhetorical faults: using an unseemly metaphor in praise of the patron, and also unreasonably exaggerated praise.77 He explains with several quotes the latter excess, echoing terms from the Arabic discussion of truth and lying in poetry: A further type of fault is when in the descriptions of a panegyric or a satire or other poem, one exaggerates beyond the point of rational possibility, or such that it requires one to overstep the bounds of religious propriety.78 Another example (under the rubric erâq) is cited from the poetry of Anvari, in which the encomium is said to be suitable only for the Prophet, and an overstepping of the limits of praise if said about anyone else. One of the defects (oyub) of the art of panegyric is, therefore, to fail to recognize that different patrons have different ranks, depending on their circumstances, exalted or debased (tafâvot-e darajât-e mamdu ân moxtalef ast, bar mowjebe extelâf-e a vâl-e išân dar ertefâ va etteâ-e motafâvet), which includes descriptions that go to the extreme (olovv) of exaggeration (mobâlaat) and overstep the limits of the patron’s degree ( add-e jens-e mamdu ), whether in invective or encomium.79

77

Chapter 5: Dar oyub-e qavâfi va owâf-e nâ-pasandida kay dar kalâm-e man um oftad, in Mojam, op. cit., 283, begins with questions of rhyme, but comes to a consideration of incorrect forms of words and contractions, as well as inappropriate diction and imagery (odul az jâdda-ye avâb dar šer), 297ff. Under the category of tarkibât-e nâ-xwoš va esteârât-e bâred va taqdim va ta’xirât-e nâ-del-pasand va maâni-ye vâhi dar šer, one of the examples Šams-e Qays gives (Mojam, 315) is the following line from Abu al-Faraj Runi, written on the occasion of Sayf al-Dowla Ma mud’s appointment as governor of India: hemmat-e boland bâyad kardan ka to hanuz /bar pâya-ye naxostin az nardabâni-yâ (See also, Divân-e Abu al-Faraj Runi, ed. Mahdavi Dâmâni, p. 8), “A great effort is required, for you are still / on the first rung of the ladder.” Šams-e Qays comments that while it is appropriate to say that a patron is on the first or the highest platform (pâya), to say that a patron is on a ladder is wrong/ugly. 78 Mojam, op. cit., 317: …dar bai az owâf-e mad va hejâ va ayr-e ân andân olovv konad ka be- add-e este âlat-e aqli resad yâ tark-e adabi-ye šari râ mostalzam bovad. 79 Ibid., 358.

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As Marilyn Waldman has pointed out in her study of Bayhaqi, one must be attentive to the generic expectations of Muslim texts written in affirmation and legitimization of the political power of the day, for authors can convey personal attitudes by bending of the horizon of expectations: The aesthetics of premodern Islamicate society fostered variations within a given form, more and more as time passed. Whenever approaching genre writing, there is obviously a necessity to separate what is de rigeur in terms of structure, content and style–what is “stylized”–from what is spontaneous; and even when something is de rigeur, to evaluate any subtle variation from the norm.80 The subtle differences in the form a speech takes, including most especially what is not said when one might ordinarily expect that it be said, is therefore an important index by which we might evaluate the degree of an author’s enthusiasm, or sincerity, in a given act of generic or ritual speech. Here it is important to remember that the recitation of a royal qasida at court, in the presence of the king and the other notables, is a theatrical event, one which provides the actor/author much room for interpretation of the text expected, in this case panegyre. In any culture, the giving of ceremonial gifts provides ample leeway in selecting the value, circumstantial appropriateness and personal aptitude of the gift. There are several things that one might consider in looking for poetic discretion, historical development, or différance, in Persian panegyre. These would include the form of the poem selected (i.e., a narrative masnavi, robâi, mosamma , qe a, ghazal or qasida) for inscription to the patron; the particular images and symbols of monarchy presented; what things are or are not affirmed about a particular patron; the meters chosen for certain types of poems (we know that, as in the musical modes, certain meters are associated with certain moods); the choice of rhyme and radif (or the absence of the latter) for a given theme, etc. Meisami has concluded on the basis of Farroxi and Moxtâri’s divans, that the proportion of panegyrics dedicated to second and third-tier officials, rather than directly to the monarch, increases in the later Ghaznavid period and that poets become more specific about requesting specific rewards. This may be due to a broadening of the patronage base, or a decrease in the perceived value to the Sultan of poetic panegyre.81 We may also wish to note, however, whether different ideals are presented for the various types (jens) of patron, 80

Marilyn Waldman, Toward a Theory of Historical Narrative: A Case Study in Perso-Islamicate Historiography (Columbus: Ohio State Univ. Press, 1980), 14. 81 “The Poet and his Patrons,” op. cit., 103 and 105. Another consideration may be that as poets took on the job of collecting their own poems (rather than leaving it to the court recorder), more poems addressed to non-royal patrons were preserved.

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according to their functions: is the language used and mirror held before viziers, treasurers, field commanders, etc., noticeably tailored to their function? How might the imagery of such praise differ from the praise offered to Sultans, Shahs, Crown princes, etc.? One rather simple index that has not, to my knowledge, been taken into consideration previously, might be the extent of the panegyrical speech, that is the length of the poem and its performance at court. Though we cannot know for certain how long individual poems took to declaim, we may assume some correspondence between the number of lines in a poem and the length of its ceremonial performance. The length of a qasida is, furthermore, one of the relatively few features of the qasida qua poem that the medieval Persian manuals of prosody and poetics do address. The statistics compiled below show that, as the Ghaznavid empire shrank in size and power, the qasidas written for the Ghaznavid court also shortened significantly, as though verbal praise were measured out, by some unspoken agreement, in a vaguely proportional relation to the relative politico-military situation of the sovereign. If this is true, then political factors, above and beyond stylistic idiosyncracies of different poets and changing fashions, may directly account for certain transformations in the qasida. A caveat, of course, is in order: we do not know how complete the divâns that have reached us may be. The failure to collect and transmit a few either very long or very short qasidas into the oeuvre of a poet will of course considerably skew the statistics. But, the details that are provided in the footnotes do tend to suggest that the individual poets did tend to compose qasidas that fall into a rang of “typical lengths” for various patrons. The Shrinking Ghaznavid Panegyric After the death of Ma mud of Ghazna (r. 388-421/998-1030), the famous patron of Persian letters, his son, Masud (r. 421-32/1030-41), lost a great portion of the Ghaznavid lands to the Seljuks in the battle of Dandânqân (1040). Masud’s son, Mowdud (r. 432-40/10411048) was, however, able to stabilize the greatly contracted domains of the empire and devote his attention to shoring up control over the Indian territories. During the long reign of Ebrâhim b. Masud (r. 451-92/1059-99), the former glories of the empire were somewhat restored as the state coffers once again filled with the plundered splendors of India, and peaceful, even friendly, relations were established with the Seljuks in the north and west. Masud III (r. 492-508/1099-1115), continued to enrich the capital with the plundered splendors of India, building a new palace which was completed in 505/1112, the tiled walls of which were inscribed with panegyrical verses for Ma mud of Ghazna and each of his royal descendants, all of them in the meter motaqâreb, the epic/heroic meter of the Šâhnâma. But when Masud III died in Shavvâl 508/March 1115, there was a struggle for succession between his sons. Širzâd assumed the throne for a brief year (508-509/11151116), until he was overthrown and killed by his brother, Malek Arslân. Malek Arslân (the

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son of a Seljuk princess, Mahd-e Erâq Jowhar Xâtun) had all of his remaining brothers imprisoned or blinded, except Bahrâmšâh, who was away at the time. Bahrâmšâh went to the court of the Seljuk Sultan Sanjar, where he ingratiated himself, won the admiration of Sanjar and sought his help in seizing the Ghaznavid throne. Sanjar, himself, headed the expedition against Malek Arslân, and entered Ghazna on 20 Shavvâl 510/25 February 1117. As C.E. Bosworth describes the scene: When Sanjar made his triumphal entry into Ghazna, Bahrâm Shâh had to walk in front of the mounted Seljuq sultan. He now ascended the Ghaznavid throne as sultan, but as tributary to Sanjar, his own name only coming fourth in the khu ba after those of the Abbasid caliph al-Mustahir, the supreme Seljuq sultan Mu ammad b. Malik Shh and Sanjar himself; tribute was fixed at 1,000 dnrs a day (Rwand) or 250,000 dnrs a year (usain). The boast of the poet Sayyid asan, who is said to have recited an ode before Sanjar on the occasion of Bahrm Shh’s enthronement containing the following verse: The herald has arisen and has proclaimed from the seven heavens, that Bahrâm Shâh is the monarch of the world!” was thus a singularly empty one. The Seljuq army also began an orgy of plundering in Ghazna, looting palaces of the great men, and stripping silver plates from the walls of houses and silver irrigation ducts from the gardens....Sanjar himself during his forty days’ occupation of Ghazna carried off a great amount of treasure accumulated by the Ghaznavid monarchs, amongst which is mentioned five crowns, seventeen gold and silver thrones and 1,300 settings of precious metals and jewels....as Husain and Bundr note, previous to this, Ghazna had been a virgin city, never taken from the time of the Ghaznavids’ first appearance there in the later 4th/10th century.82 Bahrâmšâh paid the tribute, which was a considerable drain on the royal treasury, except in 529/1135, when he tried to assert his independence and suspended the payment, which resulted in Sanjar reoccupying Ghazna, and his soldiers once again plundering the city. Sanjar, however, allowed Bahrâmšâh to return, in submission, to his throne at Ghazna. After initial success against the neighboring Ghurid ruler Sayf al-Din Suri in 544/1149, Bahrâmšâh’s capital was eventually sacked by the Ghurids, during the rule of Alâ al-Din Jahân-suz (“the world-torcher”) in the following year. 82

Summarized from Clifford E. Bosworth, The Later Ghaznavids: Splendour and Decay. The dynasty in Afghanistan and northern India, 1040-1186 (NY: Columbia University Press, 1977), 89-97, quote from 97.

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Would it not be astounding if these major Ghaznavid reversals of fortune left absolutely no trace on the panegyrical literature’s celebration of power and glory? I will argue below that, at a very minimum, these circumstances are reflected in the length of qasidas delivered to Bahrâmšâh. For Farroxi (d. after 421/1032) the average length of the 41 qasidas he composed for Ma mud of Ghazna (r. 389-421/ 999-1030) was 45 lines.83 For Ma mud’s son and ultimate successor, Sultan Masud, Farroxi wrote a total of twelve surviving qasidas, averaging 40 lines.84 Farroxi also dedicated 15 royal panegyres to Sultan Mo ammad, averaging 40 lines apiece; prior to his accession to the throne, while he was still governor, Farroxi had already composed 27 poems for Mo ammad, averaging 40 lines per poem.85 This would make a grand total for Farroxi’s royal panegyrics of 4001 lines in 83

Following the edition of Mo ammad Dabir-Siâqi, Divân-e akim Farroxi-ye Sistâni (first edition: Tehran: Mo ammad osayn Eqbâl, 1335š/1957; revised edition, 4th printing: Tehran: Zavvâr, 1371š/1993). For Ma mud, whose service he entered by no later than 408/1017, Farroxi composed 1838 lines in 41 qasidas (avg. 45 lines/poem), as follows: 40 lines (Q1), 52 lines (Q10), 56 (Q17), 37 (Q18, victory at Somnath), 35 (Q19), 46 (Q30, return from India), 47 (Q31, dedication of garden and palace), 46 (Q32, praising the army), 119 (Q34, âzi wars near the Ganges), 175 (Q35), 57 (Q36, hunting), 35 (Q37), 35 (Q38, gratitude for a horse gifted to the poet by the Sultan), 59 (Q39), 39 (Q40a), 28 (Q40b), 69 (Q41, a threnody), 32 (Q69), 36 (Q103, victory at Qala-ye Hezâr), 36 (Q104a, the hunt), 38 (Q107), 21 (Q111), 39 (Q114), 19 (Q117, composed after 13 years of service to Ma mud, requesting more funds after a two-year hiatus in payment), 39 (Q126), 63 (Q127), 42 (Q128), 50 (Q129), 32 (Q130), 46 (Q131, spring and praise), 40 (Q132), 34 (Q133), 44 (Q134, a poem of forgiveness for annoying the king, with a asb-e âl, not certain for which monarch), 23 (Q172, for an unnamed Shah, uncertain ascription to Farroxi), 22 (Q174, for an unspecified Sultan), 34 (Q176), 24 (Q177, monâ era), 28 (Q178), 34 (Q179), 43 (Q189), 44 (Q190). Cf. Meisami, “The Poet and his Patrons,” 94, whose calculations, based on the Abd al-Rasuli edition (Tehran: Mabaa-ye Majles, 1311š/1932), differ somewhat from those adopted here; she counts 43 qasidas for Ma mud, 39 for his brother Amir Yusof, one to another brother and governor of Khorasan, Amir Abu al-Moaffar Na r, 46 to Mo ammad and 12 to Masud (including both before and after their accession). She also mentions a slightly different tabulation by G. Tetley: 44 to Ma mud, 45 to Mo ammad, 41 to Yusof, and 12 to Masud. These differences are probably due to the use of various editions of the Divân as well as uncertainty over precise assignation of poems in which the patron’s name is not specifically stated, or where more than one addressee is named. I have provided the specifics in the notes so that others may more easily see and, where necessary, correct the calculations. 84 For Sultan Masud, Farroxi composed 483 lines in 12 poems (avg. 40 lines/poem), but if we discount Q173 with its 27 lines, written when Masud was only a child, we are left with 456 lines in 11 poems (avg. 41 lines/poem), as follows: 52 (Q67a), 39 (Q67b), 68 (Q70), 46 (Q71), 30 (Q72), 32 (Q102), 36 (Q120, Jašn-e sada), 35 (Q151, calling him back to Ghazna from Isfahan after the death of Mo ammad), 47 (Q152, conquests and killing of Šir), 37 (Q208), 34 (Q211). Meisami, “The Poet and his Patrons,” 98, notes that for Masud the tone of the panegyrics is more formal and less intimate than for Mo ammad. 85 For Sultan Mo ammad after his accession, Farroxi composed 595 lines in 15 poems (avg. 40 lines/poem), as follows: 31 (Q22), 32 (Q23, accession), 46 (Q42a), 50 (Q50), 39 (Q104b), 30 (Q105), 31 (Q113), 43 (Q135), 40 (Q136), 50 (Q137), 33 (Q140), 36 (Q193), 48 (Q194), 54 (Q200), 32 (Q202). While he was still Amir Abu A mad Mo ammad, Farroxi composed 1085 lines in 27 panegyrical poems for an average 40

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95 poems, for an average of almost 42 lines per poem. For state officials other than the Sultan, Farroxi composed more than one hundred qasidas, at an average length of 35 lines, as follows:86 1) Amir Abu Yaqub Yusof b. Nâ er al-Din Sepahsâlâr, the brother of Sultan Ma mud and head of the army in Khorasan (from 412/1021), also a provincial governor, with Abu Sahl Dabir (see official # 11, below) as his vizier: 1429 lines in 38 poems (an average 38 lines/poem).87 2) Abu al-Qâsem A mad b. asan Maymandi, the Vizier: 585 lines in 16 poems (37 lines/poem).88 3) Abu al-asan Man ur, son of asan Maymandi: 125 lines in 3 poems (42 lines/poem).89 4) Abu al-asan ajjâj Ali b. Fal b. A mad: 196 lines in 5 poems (39 lines/poem).90

lines/poem, as follows: 50 (Q3), 35 (Q4), 13 (Q21), 64 (Q42b), 55 (Q44), 40 (Q45), 45 (Q46, hunt poem), 53 (Q47, id al-fe r + tajdid-e ma la of Q48), 36 (Q49), 40 (Q52), 28 (Q53), 42 (Q54), 35 (Q55), 33 (Q56), 44 (Q57), 36 (Q112), 50 (Q138, addressed at first to the king, his father, it would seem), 53 (Q139, when he was still a child, perhaps for birthday or successor designation day – if we discount this long poem as juvenilia, the average length will drop), 31 (Q181), 43 (Q182), 37 (Q195), 48 (Q196), 37 (Q197), 38 (Q198), 30 (Q199), 43 (Q201), 26 (Q214). There are, in addition, a wine poem of 17 lines (Q20) and a Tarji-band (poem 216) for Mo ammad, but this will not significantly impact the average. See Meisami, “The Poet and His Patrons,” 96-7, for a description of some of these poems and the close relationship between poet and patron. 86 The numbering of these officials is purely for comparison’s sake with On ori and the officials he praised, and has no chronological or statistical significance. 87 Amir Abu Yaqub was imprisoned by Sultan Masud, his nephew, in the fortress of Sakâvand, where he died in 423/1032. Poems addressed to him include the following number of lines: 41 (Q5), 50 (Q6), 47 (Q7), 31 (Q8), 37 (Q12), 52 (Q58), 28 (Q59), 58 (Q60, on birth of son), 38 (Q61), 49 (Q62), 33 (Q63), 32 (Q64), 34 (Q65), 34 (Q66), 36 (Q100), 34 (Q106), 36 (Q109), 52 (Q115), 37 (Q116), 36 (Q118), 44 (Q119), 49 (Q141), 65 (Q142, asking intercession for Abu Yusof with Amir Mo ammad, including asb-e âl), 36 (Q143), 34 (Q144), 33 (Q145), 33 (Q146), 40 (Q147), 33 (Q148), 39 (Q149), 34 (Q180), 35 (Q183), 24 (Q184), 36 (Q203), 34 (Q204, for Mehregân), 26 (Q205, on regaining health after illness), 16 (Q206, describing his garden), 23 (Q207, for id). There is also a Tarji-band (Poem 215). See Meisami, “The Poet and his Patron,” op. cit., 94-96; as mentioned, she counts 39 qasidas for Amir Abu Yaqub. 88 Abu al-Qâsem Maymandi, vizier to both Ma mud and Masud, assuming the position in 401/1011, and returning to it under Masud after being imprisoned by Ma mud in 416/1025. He died in 424/1033. To him the following poems are dedicated: 37 (Q73), 38 (Q74), 31 (Q75), 39 (Q76, for his son, Jalil), 32 (Q77, for his son, Jalil), 40 (Q101), 50 (Q121), 39 (Q153, after six years of not being vizier), 31 (Q154), 32 (Q155, spring poem), 46 (Q156), 21 (Q157, monâ era), 33 (Q185), 45 (Q209), 32 (Q13). A further 39 lines for an unnamed vizier are probably dedicated to him as well (Q29), and Xwâja-ye bozorg (the official listed as #18 below from the title of Q13) may also be an address to him. 89 For Abu al-asan Man ur: 39 (Q79), 41 (Q80), 45 (Q171). 90 For Abu al-asan ajjâj: 47 (Q81), 34 (Q160), 43 (Q161), 33 (Q186), 39 (Q15), plus one Tarji-band (poem 217).

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5) Jalil Abd al-Razzâq b. A mad b. asan Maymandi, Abu al-Fat : 135 lines in 4 poems (34 lines/poem).91 6) For Ayâz, the beloved slave, one poem (Q78) of 36 lines. 7) Abu Bakr Ali b. asan Qohestâni, Âre-e Sepâh-e Ma mudi, Amid al-Molk: 118 lines in 4 poems (29 lines/poem).92 8) Abu Bakr Abd Allâh b Yusof a iri, the Nadim of Sultan Ma mud: 340 lines in 11 poems (31 lines/poem).93 9) Amir Abu al-Moaffar Faxr al-Dowla A mad b. Mo ammad, Vâli-ye aâniân: 191 lines in 4 poems (48 lines/poem).94 9a) Amid Asad Kadxodâ-ye Amir Abu al-Moaffar: 60 lines in 2 poems (30 lines/poem).95 10) Abu al-Moaffar Na r b. Seboktegin, brother of Sultan Ma mud, and Sepahsâlâr of Khorasan (d. 410/421): one poem (Q150) of 38 lines. 11) Abu Sahl Dabir, Abd Allâh b. A mad b. Lakšan, vizier of Abu Yaqub Yusof: 186 lines in 6 poems (31 lines/poem).96 12) Amid Sayyed Abu A mad Tamimi: 75 lines in 2 poems (38 lines/poem).97 13) Abu Ali asanak, the Vizier: 164 lines in 6 poems (27 lines/poem).98 14) Abu Sahl Erâqi,99 one poem (Q122) of 30 lines. 15) Abu Sahl A mad b. asan amdavi, Ra’is al-ro’asâ: 102 lines in 3 poems (34 lines/poem).100 16) Sayyed Abu al-ayyeb ben âher, one poem (Q124) in 30 lines. 17) Abu Man‡ur Davâti Qarâtkin, âkem-e orjestân, one poem (Q168) of 58 lines. 18) an unnamed notable, a retainer at the court of the Shâh, Xwâja-ye Bozorg,101 one poem (Q187) of 26 lines. 91

For Jalil Abd al-Razzâq: 29 (Q158), 40 (Q9), 34 (Q14), 32 (Q24). For Abu Bakr Ali b. asan: 20 (Q82), 20 (Q97), 47 (Q162), 31 (Q166). 93 For Abu Bakr Abd Allâh, the Nadim, whose comes from Sistân, like Farroxi: 34 (Q83), 35 (Q84), 35 (Q85), 28 (Q87), 36 (Q163), 19 (Q164), 29 (Q165), 32 (Q188), 31 (Q16), 31 (Q25), 30 (Q26). 94 For Amir Abu al-Moaffar Faxr al-Dowla A mad, the Governor of aâniân and a vassal of Ma mud: 58 (Q86), 39 (Q88), 41 (Q110), 53 (Q169, the famous bâ kâravân-e olla). These were all composed in 406/1016 between Nowruz and Mehregân. See Meisami, “The Poet and His Patrons,” op. cit., 93 for a description. 95 For Amid Asad Kadxodâ, who introduced Farroxi to his master, the Governor, also composed in the spring and autumn of 406/1016: 27 (Q92), 33 (Q2). 96 For Abu Sahl Dabir: 36 (Q89), 28 (Q90), 29 (Q99), 30 (Q125), 29 (Q159), 34 (Q167). 97 For Amid Sayyed Abu A mad Tamimi: 43 (Q91), 32 (Q123). 98 For asanak, the Vizier: 32 (Q93, accession to the vizierate and his investiture [xalat]), 35 (Q94), 23 (Q95), 25 (Q96), 34 (Q170), 15 (Q28). 99 Identified in the index as different from the other Abu Sahls (above, in #11, and below, #15). 100 Abu Sahl, Ra’is al-ro’asâ: 35 (Q175), 38 (Q212), 29 (Q213). 92

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19) Amid âmed b. Mo ammad al-Mohtadi, one poem (Q210) of 21 lines. We can thus calculate that from the 111 poems Farroxi wrote to state officials other than the monarch and crown princes, we have 3945 lines of verse, averaging 36 lines per poem. In contrast, for the royal patrons, we found 4001 lines in 95 poems, averaging out to some 42 lines per poem for kings and crown princes. The poet’s total qasidas as they have been tabulated here consists of 206 separate poems, with a cumulative 7946 lines, at an average of 39 lines per poem. Onori (d. c. 430/1039), whose tendency was to foreshorten the qasida by eliminating or reducing the tašbib, and begin the poem in media panegyre, averaged 43 lines per poem in the 41 qasidas he devoted to Ma mud.102 Only two poems by On ori for Masud survive, averaging 22 lines,103 which makes the total of 43 royal qasidas with 1819 lines, for an average of 42 lines per poem. Meanwhile his qasidas for viziers, state officials and notables consist of 1076 lines in 27 poems, for an average of 40 lines per poem, as follows (following the same numbering for these officials as given under Farroxi, above): 1) For Amir Abu Ya`qub Yusof b. Nâ er al-Din Sepahsâlâr, the younger brother of Sultan Ma mud and head of the army: One poem (Q23) in 50 lines. 2) Abu al-Qâsem A mad b. asan Maymandi: 118 lines in two qasidas (59 lines/poem).104 3) Abu al-asan Man ur: One poem (Q33) in 36 lines. 10) Amir Abu al-Moaffar Na r b. Nâ er al-Din Seboktegin, brother of Sultan Mahmud: 783 lines in 21 qasidas (37 lines/poem).105

101

Xwâja-ye Bozorg is probably the same as A mad b. asan Maymandi, # 2 above, judging from the title of Q13. 102 Following the edition of Mo ammad Dabir-Siâqi, Divân-e Onori-ye Balxi (Tehran: Ketâbxâna-ye Sanâ’i, 1342š/1963; 2nd printing 1363š/1984). This includes 1776 lines in 41 qasidas for Ma mud (avg. 43 lines/poem), as follows: 36 lines (Q1), 19 (Q4, monâ era), 32 (Q9, Nowruz spring poem), 44 (Q10), 29 (Q11), 39 (Q12), 54 (Q13, spring poem), 73 (Q14), 36 (Q17 for an unspecified Shah on the occasion of Mehregân, likely Ma mud), 46 (Q20, in summer or fall, the month of Tir), 58 (Q21), 40 (Q22, victory ode), 36 (Q24, id), 33 (Q25, id), 59 (Q26, victory ode), 27 (Q27, army ode), 24 (Q28, id), 31 (Q29, army ode), 33 (Q32), 162 (Q34), 50 (Q35, describing horse), 31 (Q42, Mehregân), 76 (Q43 in reply to aâyeri), 27 (Q44, Nowruz), 32 (Q45, fat -e orjestân), 31 (Q46, victories and wine on id), 75 (Q50), 49 (Q51), 38 (Q52, spring), 37 (Q56, monâ era), 33 (Q57), 48 (Q58), 33 (Q59), 55 (Q60), 38 (Q61), 37 (Q63), 44 (Q64, spring), 26 (Q66), 39 (Q67), 35 (Q68), 32 (Q70). There are no poems for Sultan Mo ammad. We may note, however, that based on the legend that he had composed 30,000 lines, the existing Divân of On ori may not preserve all of his oeuvre. 103 For Sultan Masud: 29 (Q5), 14 (Q37). 104 For Abu al-Qâsem: 81 (Q30, on his new building and garden), 37 (Q65).

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On ori did not compose poems for officials 4 through 9 or 11 through 19 mentioned above as patrons of Farroxi, but he did compose panegyres for two additional Ghaznavid officials apparently not addressed by Farroxi: 20) Abu Jafar Mo ammad b. Abi al-Fal: One poem (Q38) of 40 lines. 21) Mo ammad b. Ebrâhim-e â’i, a sardâr of Ma mud who fought in Marv, Khwarazm, India, etc.: One poem (Q39) of 49 lines. In toto, the 70 panegyrical poems for both sultans and lesser officials run to 2895 lines, giving an overall average of about 41 lines per panegyrical qasida in the practice of On ori. Brief mention must also be included of the one, or possibly two qasidas of aâyeri-ye Râzi. The first, a 79-line qasida sent to Ma mud of Ghazna from the Buyid court at Rayy, where the poet was retained, supposedly earned him a thousand dinârs. It also sparked an invective reply from On ori in 76 lines, to which aâyeri supposedly retorted in 96 lines.106 Manuehri (d. c. 432/1041), who came on the scene rather later, after the death of Ma mud, has eleven qasidas explicitly mentioning Sultan Masud of Ghazna as their object of praise. These contain 422 lines, for an average of 38 lines per poem. There are a further six poems to an unnamed monarch (šahriâr); these may have been composed for Masud before his accession to the throne, or on less formal, non-state occasions. In any case, these six poems contain 154 lines for an average of 26 lines (20 is the median length). If indeed intended for Masud, the overall yield for Manuehri's royal panegyres is an average of 34 lines per poem.107 105

Amir Abu al-Moaffar Na r was the Sepahsâlâr of Khorasan, but died young, prior to Mahmud: 44 (Q2), 44 (Q3, monâere), 38 (Q6, calls him Shah in lines 7-8), 32 (Q7), 39 (Q8), 69 (Q15, mentions him with Ma mud), 44 (Q16), 35 (Q18), 44 (Q19), 38 (Q31), 37 (Q36, Nowruz), 26 (Q40), 24 (Q41), 28 (Q47, on the five festivals of the Persians and Arabs, but name of the patron is not mentioned), 34 (Q48), 24 (Q49 not specifically named), 20 (Q53), 39 (Q54), 38 (Q55), 46 (62), 40 (Q69). 106 The three poems are provided in the Dabir-Siâqi edition of Divân-e Onori, 174-92; the two preserved aâyeri poems yield an average 88 lines/poem, though the second poem of aâyeri is of somewhat questionable authenticity, and may in any case be considered a poem against On ori, rather than for Ma mud. See François de Blois, “aâ’eri Râzi” in Encyclopaedia Iranica. 107 Following the edition of Mo ammad Dabir-Siâqi, Divân-e Manuehri-ye Dâmâni (Tehran: Ketâbforuši-ye Zavvâr, 1326š/1947, 5th printing 1363š/1984). Of the poems addressed directly to Sultan Masud, we have 422 lines in 11 qasidas, as follows: 39 (Q8, refers to the sorties of Seljuk soldiers in Khorasan and must date between Shabân 426 and Ramadan 431), 28 (Q9), 40 (Q16, spring), 67 (Q17, dated to Sada festival of 17 Rabi I in 430), 21 (Q22), 23 (Q25), 18 (Q26), 47 (Q29, Nowruz), 40 (Q39), 54 (Q40, composed in 426), 45 (Q41). Beyond these eleven a further five may be for Masud, but do not directly name him: 35 (Q21, spring and prob. for Masud), 47 (Q35, an Arabic qa da set in the desert, with no specific named patron), 20 (Q36,

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It would seem that Manuehri did not experience whatever difficulties might attend the composition of a panegyric for one ruler after having praised his predecessor. In Manuehri’s verse, Sultan Masud does not seem any less puissant than Ma mud had been, and there seems to be no hint of inaptitude or subtle mockery intended by the implicit comparison of Sultan Masud to his storied father:108 on qovvat-e in sol ân v-in dowlat o in hemmat v-in maxbar-e kerdâri v-in man ar-e didâri biš az hama šâhân-ast dar mâi o mostaqbel biš az hama širân-ast dar širi o dar šâri Because the power of this Sultan, this fortune and these efforts and this source of reported deeds and visible sights is greater than all the kings in the past and future is greater than all lions in brave prowess and in kingship The average length of poems Manuehri dedicated to viziers, governors, treasurers, generals and the like is, however, slightly higher, by two lines per poem, than the panegyrics dedicated to Sultan Masud. If this is indeed statistically significant, we may venture the reason for it (and a similar phenomenon is sometimes observed with other poets, as well): perhaps poets and their lesser patrons (that is state officials and landed nobility) would normally anticipate a smaller number of poems being dedicated to them than to a Sultan or even vizier, and so compensated the smaller frequency of composition with greater length. There are numerous cases where a qasida is addressed to a lesser official with the hope that he will use it as a means to gain entrée for the poet to the court; for an unnamed Šahriâr), 20 (Q43, Spring, for an unnamed patron), 12 (Q53 for an unnamed Šahriâr). Including these would give us a total of 556 lines in 16 poems (avg. 35 lines/poem). Not included in these tabulations are poems 3, 4, 5, 6, and 32, which contain no praise and are not qasidas, but rather wassailing songs. Qasida 20 (at 20 lines) is likewise not praise, but like Rudaki’s Mâdar-e may, for a wine harvest festival, though a dedication to the memory of an unnamed šahriâr, probably Masud comes at the end (if we include this in his tally, it gives 576 lines to Masud in 17 poems, avg. 34 lines/poem). Qasida 44 (28 lines) is addressed to an unnamed patron on Nowruz, perhaps Bu Sahl Zowzani. Qasida 54 (24 lines) praises an unnamed patron in Rudaki-like terms, discoursing on musical and poetic terms. Qasida 55 (18 lines) repents of writing panegyres altogether. 108 Divân-e Manuehri, op. cit., 104 (Q41). Although Owfi’s Lobâb al-albâb, ed. E.G. Browne and M. Qazvini, 2 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 1903 and 1906), 2:53-4, describes one Manuehri poem as addressed to Ma mud, and Dowlatšâh and Amin Râzi both call him a poet at Ma mud’s court, Dabir-Siâqi finds no evidence of any poems for Sultan Ma mud, and does not believe that Manuehri ever attained the court of Mo ammad b. Ma mud, either.

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if so, one might expect a long and virtuosic display of encomium. In any case, Manuehri’s qasidas for lesser state officials total 1217 lines in 33 poems (avg. 37 lines/poem), as follows: 22) Abu al-asan Omrâni: 98 lines in 3 poems (33 lines/poem).109 23) Fal b. Mo ammad osayni (identity uncertain): 100 lines in 3 poems (33 lines/poem).110 24) A mad b. Abd al- amad, Vazir-e Masud: 199 lines in 5 poems (40 lines/poem).111 25) For an unnamed Xwâja, but perhaps for the Vizier A mad b. Abd al- amad (#24, above): one poem (Q2) in 32 lines. 26) Abu al-asan b. asan: one poem (Q11, Nowruz) in 27 lines.112 27) Abu al-asan b. Ali b. Musá: one poem (Q50) in 9 lines. 28) Abu arb Baxtiâr b. Abi Jafar Mo ammad b. Ebrâhim: 101 lines in 3 poems (34 lines/poem).113 29) Xwâja âher, Dabir: 60 lines in 2 poems (30 lines/poem).114 30) Xwâja Abu al-Qâsem Kasir: One poem (Q18, Nowruz) in 44 lines. 31) Ali b. Mo ammad: One poem (Q19, spring) in 50 lines. 32) Ali b. Obayd Allâh âdeq, Sepahsâlâr-e Mašreq: One poem (Q30) in 65 lines. 33) Abu al-Abbâs: One poem (Q24, for a wine banquet) in 13 lines. 34) Espahbod Manuehr b. Qâbus: 68 lines in 2 poems (34 lines/poem).115 35) On ori: One poem (Q33) in 75 lines. 35a) Defense of self from jealous poets: One poem (Q34, dated to 427) in 49 lines. There are 124 lines in two poems about poets and poetry (56 lines/poem). 36) Xwâja Mo ammad: One poem (Q37, id al-fe r) in 29 lines. 37) Malek Mo ammad Qa ri: One poem (Q42, Nowruz) in 47 lines.

109

This is not the vizier of Masud, as given in previous editions of the Divân, but Ra’is-e Mo’ayyad Ali Mo ammad (see taliqât, 244). His poems include: 21 (Q1, spring poem), 65 (Q46 for Ali b.Omrân [or Emrân], the same, or a related individual?); 10 (Q47, perhaps the poem has been truncated in transmission?). 110 For Fal b. Mo ammad osayni: 50 (Q10, spring), 22 (Q49), 25 (Q56). 111 This vizier of Masud was a patron of the poet (unlike A mad Maymandi, whose favor the poet did not attain). These poems must date from 424 A.H. or later, after he became Vizier: 55 (Q7, wine/autumn poem), 35 (Q14), 10 (Q15, spring), 22 (Q23, spring), 73 (Q28, dating to 425 or 426). 112 This is not Maymandi, according to Dabir-Siâqi, but an unknown person (see taliqât 244). 113 He was one of the governors of the Âl Ziyâr and a follower of Falak al-Maâli Manuehr b. Qâbus in Semnân and Dâmân. Poems for him include: 31 (Q12, jašn-e sada, wine), 35 (Q38, Mehregân), 35 (Q45, Nowruz). 114 He is not the son of osayn Maymandi as has been sometimes alleged: 26 (Q13, spring), 34 (Q48). 115 For Espahbod Manuehr: 30 (Q27, military poem), 38 (Q31).

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38) Abu Sahl Zowzani: 111 lines in 3 poems (37 lines/poem).116 39) An unnamed patron: One poem (Q52, on the art of jam va taqsim) in 40 lines.117 The overall sum of Manuehri’s royal panegyres and panegyres for lesser state officials tabulates to 1793 lines in 50 poems, for an average qasida of 36 lines. Abu al-Faraj Runi (fl. late 11th-early 12th century CE), a panegyrist active two or three generations later, during the reigns of ahir al-Dawla Ebrâhim b. Masud (r. 451-492 / 1059-99) and Alâ’ al-Dawla Masud III b. Ebrâhim (r. 492-508 / 1099-1115), seems to have imposed a policy of panegyrical restraint and slightly devalued the royal qasida, composing five poems for Ebrâhim, averaging only 26 lines, and nine poems for Masud III, averaging 27 lines.118 For state officials and notables, the average qasida produced by Abu al-Faraj Runi contained 23 lines.119 Averaged together, all these court panegyres of Abu alFaraj total 747 lines in 30 qasidas, or about 25 lines per poem. Sanâ’i (d. 525/1131), who had left Ghazna to establish his poetic credentials after unsuccessfully attempting to gain the favor of Masud III, returned to Ghazna in about 520/1126 from the Seljuk domains to the north, and spent the last five years of his life at the court of Bahrâmšâh. He wrote 23 qasidas of praise dedicated explicitly to Bahrâmšâh, the longest of which is 59 lines, and the bulk of which are between 13 to 20 lines, giving us an overall average of only 20 lines per poem. If we factor in a further eight poems which do not explicitly mention Bahrâmšâh, but are most probably composed in honor of him, we arrive at a total of 31 poems, the average length of which is only 18 lines – less than half the length of the qasidas dedicated by Farroxi and On ori to Sultan Ma mud, and over twenty-five percent shorter than even Abu al-Faraj’s abbreviated qasidas for Sultans Ebrâhim and Masud III (average 27 lines/poem). By way of contrast, we find one qasida for the Seljuk Sultan Sanjar in Sanâ’i’s Divân which runs to 47 lines, and another qasida for a vizier of 116

For Abu Sahl Zowzani: 33 (Q51, Nowruz), 50 (Q57). See also Q44 in 28 lines which Dabir-Siâqi feels is for him. 117 There seem to be two additional lines to this poem. 118 Following the edition of Ma mud Mahdavi Dâmâni, Divân-e Abu al-Faraj Runi, šâer-e qarn-e panjom-e hejri (Mashhad: Ketâbforuši-ye Bâstân, 1347š/1968). In royal panegyrics by Abu al-Faraj, there are 373 lines in 14 poems (avg. 27 lines/poem). For Sultan Ebrâhim, there are 130 lines in five poems (avg. 26 lines/poem), as follows: 26 (Q39), 32 (Q47), 24 (Q52), 27 (Q53), 21 (Q60). For Masud b. Ebrâhim, 243 lines in 9 poems (avg. 27 lines/poem), as follows: 35 (Q13), 21 (Q22), 17 (Q36), 25 (Q37), 25 (Q43), 37 (Q51), 21 (Q54), 38 (Q57), and 24 (Q70) lines. 119 Abu al-Faraj’s qasidas for lesser Ghaznavid officials tabulate to 374 lines in 16 poems (avg. 23 lines/poem), including: For Sayf al-Dowla, 224 lines in 10 poems (avg. 22 lines/poem) as follows: 21 (Q3), 21 (Q4, in honor of the governorship of India), 21 (Q6), 28 (Q8), 22 (Q21), 17 (Q25), 23 (Q40), 21 (Q48), 21 (Q64), 29 (p189). For âher Ali Meškân, one poem (Q9) in 27 lines. For Ali b. asan, one poem (Q24) in 21 lines. For Man ur b. Said b. A mad Maymandi there are 102 lines in 4 poems (avg. 26 lines/poem): 22 (Q5), 25 (Q14), 28 (Q38), 27 (Q45).

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Sanjar running to 50 lines, though the attribution of both poems to Sanâ’i has been called into question.120 In one poem, Sanâ’i alludes to the fact that his panegyrics are shorter than expected, and gives a rhetorically pleasing but nevertheless disingenuous explanation or excuse. This qasida (Q308, erâ o ruz-e bahâr ay negâr-e xargâhi) opens with nine lines of complaint about the haughty and martial attitude of his object of desire, in language that could be either addressed to a beloved or to a person of superior standing, like a king. In line ten we arrive at the maxla, and transition into the panegyrical section proper, which consumes all of two lines. Introducing the final two lines of panegyric which are to follow, Sanâ’i says: adis kutah kardam ka in hadis-e to-râ / o omr-e došman-e sol ân nekust kutâhi I have made a long story short, for the story of you is seemly, like the life of the Sultan’s enemy, when it is brief. It was not out of either congenital or pious and mystical reticence that Sanâ’i curtailed the praise of Bahrâmšâh in his qasidas, for in Chapter Eight of the adiqat al- aqiqat we find over 600 consecutive lines entirely in praise of Bahrâmšâh.121 Though Sanâ’i sometimes gripes about certain lesser patrons behind their back (e.g., Qe114), he praises Bahrâmšâh with religious imagery, claiming that praise of him is a door to paradise (ad. 501:6) and comparing his qualities to that of the prophets (ad. 520:11) – specifically to Joseph and the tyranny he suffered at his brothers hands (ad. 506); to Ali in regards to his courage and knowledge (ad. 502:12); and even to the spirit of the Prophet on the merâj (ad. 505:19). Sanâ’i is not even reluctant to compare Bahrâmšâh to the Mahdi of the age and the Jesus of the hour (ad. 520:12).

120

Following the 2nd edition of Modarres-e Raavi, Divân-e Abu al-Majid Majdud ebn Âdam al-Sanâ’i alaznavi (Tehran: Ketâbxâna-ye Ebn Sinâ, 1962), Sanâ’i has 32 panegyres either explicitly or apparently dedicated to Bahrâmšâh, totaling 590 lines (avg. 18 lines/poem). These can be further broken down into the 23 qasidas which explicitly and exclusively mention Bahrâmšâh as addressee, comprising 462 lines (avg. 20 lines/poem), as follows: 16 (Q4), 20 (Q23), 19 (Q32), 14 (Q40), 18 (Q46), 18 (Q73), 27 (Q80), 27 (Q90), 16 (Q109), 29 (Q116), 59 (Q124), 20 (Q151), 19 (Q238), 19 (Q230), 10 (Q246), 12 (Q247), 18 (Q255), 17 (Q265), 13 (Q277), 17 (Q281), 15 (Q286), 12 (Q308), 21 (Q309). To this total one further qasida (Q58) of 21 lines might be added, which is dedicated to both Amir Dowlatšâh, the heir, and Bahramšâh. The eight poems which do not explicitly mention Bahrâmšâh but are probably dedicated to him include a mix of ghazals and qasidas, totaling 107 lines (avg. 13 lines/poem), as follows: 8 (137), 8 (203), 8 (305), 17 (Q11), 7 (Q41), 12 (Q74), 12 (Q150), 35 (Q226). 121 Ketâb-e adiqat al- aqiqat va šariat al- ariqat, ed. Modarres-e Raavi (Tehran: âpxâna-ye Sepehri, 1329š/1950), 501-41

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There is not space here to go into all the various lesser patrons for whom Sanâ’i composed encomiums. Suffice it to say that following Sanâ’i, this new form of truncated royal panegyric, somewhere between a collapsed qasida and a ghazal to which a couple of lines of panegyre has been appended, actually won recognition as a new adaptation of the qasida. In some respects it may represent a development of the shorter convivial wine ode, or other poems offered on lighter occasions, not necessarily ritual occasions of state. Abd al-Vâse Jabali (d. 555/1160), who seems to have been much influenced by Sanâ’i – indeed, to the extent that he may actually have passed off some of Sanâ’i’s poems as his own – composed one ten-line poem which contains his taxallo and looks formally very much like the classical ghazal, but is wholly devoted to panegyre (the word mad is explicitly mentioned), and refers to it as “a new kind of qasida” (now-qaida’i).122 asan-e aznavi, known as Sayyed Ašraf (d. c. 556/1161), was the poet laureate of Bahrâmšâh.123 He wrote a total of 38 qasidas which are dedicated in one way or another for Bahrâmšâh, averaging 28 lines per poem. The longest of these is the victory ode commemorating Bahrâmšâh's defeat over Suri the Ghurid in 544/1149, which was a shortlived celebration, as Suri’s successor, Alâ al-Din Jahân-suz, sacked Ghazna the very next year. Sayyed asan has also composed a number of other poetic forms for Bahrâmšâh, including one qe a and one tarji-band, but more importantly, following the example of Sanâ’i, Sayyed asan wrote 15 panegyrical ghazals for Bahrâmšâh, most of which are identical to amatory ghazals, except that the last two lines include praise of the ruler. These panegyrical ghazals, or collapsed, “new kind of” qasidas, are an average of eight lines in length.124 If we tally all the qasidas and ghazals written in praise of Bahrâmšâh by Sayyed 122

Divân-e Abd al-Vâse Jabali, ed. abi Allâh afâ, 2 vols. (Tehran: Entešârât-e Dânešgâh-e Tehrân, 196062), 233. In one 17-line poem, answering the qasida sent to him by another poet, he speaks of several poetic terms, including nazm, qaida, madi , revâyat-e šer (the recitation of poetry) and even mentions movašša (227-8). 123 Following the Mo ammad-Taqi Modarres-e Raavi edition, Divân-e Sayyed asan-e aznavi, molaqqab ba Ašraf (Tehran: Dânešgâh-e Tehran, 1328š/1949), asan-e aznavi has 861 lines in 33 qasidas (avg. 26 lines/poem) for Bahrâmšâh, as follows: 11 (Q7), 27 (Q8), 16 (Q9), 37 (Q10), 27 (Q11), 14 (Q13), 22 (Q19), 16 (Q21), 22 (Q22), 18 (Q23), 27 (Q24), 31 (Q30), 30 (Q32), 21 (Q35), 14 (Q36), 27 (Q37), 16 (Q38), 36 (Q41), 35 (Q50, replying to Rašid Vavâ), 20 (Q51), 28 (Q52), 38 (Q62), 27 (Q63), 18 (Q68, for one of the pâdešâhs, unnamed), 21 (Q69), 31 (Q70), 64 (Q72), 27 (Q80), 25 (Q83), 46 (Q82, not explicitly naming him), 20 (Q85), 26 (Q91), 23 (Q97). There are an additional number of five relevant qasidas with 188 total lines (avg. 38 lines/poem) that could be added to this total, including a victory ode of Suri in 544 A.H. (Q43) at 94 lines; a hunting poem (Q47) in 19 lines; a spring poem (Q53) not explicitly naming the ruler in 12 lines; a qasida (Q34) for both Bahrâmšâh and Qavâm al-Din asan (probably a treasury official) in 40 lines; and a lament for a dead son (Q66) in 23 lines. Adding these together will yield 1049 lines for Bahrâmšâh in 38 qasidas (avg. 28 lines/poem). 124 The 15 ghazals dedicated to Bahrâmšâh, most of them outright praise in the last two lines consist of 122 lines (8 lines/poem), are as follows: 8 (1), 9 (2), 10 (4), 7 (7), 7 (22), 10 (26), 7 (28), 8 (30), 10

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asan, we wind up with 1171 lines in 53 poems, for an average of 22 lines.125 Sayyed asan, who fell out of favor in connection with the sacking of Ghazna, also composed a number of encomiums for other royal patrons, including the following: Xosrowšâh, son of Bahrâmšâh: 131 lines in 4 poems (33 lines/poem).126 Abu al-Fat Dowlatšâh: one poem (Q81) in 22 lines. Masudšâh: one poem (Q89) in 15 lines. For the Seljuk Sultan, Sanjar: 100 lines in 4 poems (25 lines/poem)127 For Ma mud b. Mo ammad Xân, nephew of Sanjar, 87 lines in 4 poems (22 lines/poem).128 For Atsez, the Khwarazmshah: 43 lines in 2 qasidas (22 lines/poem)129 Averaged together, the 16 qasidas Sayyed asan dedicated to these other royal patrons comes out to 398 lines, for an average of 25 lines per poem, which is slightly longer than the panegyres dedicated to Bahrâmšâh (22 lines). In the twenty qasidas Sayyed asan dedicated to non-royal patrons, such as viziers, governors and the like, we count 500 lines, for an average length of 24 lines per poem, broken down as follows: Qavâm al-Din Abu Mo ammad âher, vizier of Bahrâmšâh: 59 lines in 2 qasidas (30 lines/poem).130 Abd al- amad: 25 lines in 2 qasidas (13 lines/poem).131 Abu Jafar Mo ammad b. Abd al-Majid, Ghaznavid official: one poem (Q72) in 28 lines. Montaxab al-Molk, Abu Ali asan b. A mad: 165 lines in 7 qasidas (24 lines/poem).132 A mad b. Omar (father of above, Ghaznavid official): 63 lines in 3 poems (21 lines/poem).133 (33), 7 (35), 8 (39), 7 (49), 8 (56, this is structured somewhat differently, with the name of Bahrâmšâh occurring in the middle of the poem, which is also the case for 70), 9 (70) and 9 (69). 125 This total naturally excludes the qe a and the tarji-band. 126 For Xosrowšâh: 42 (Q19, mentions Bahrâmšâh), 19 (Q39), 36 (Q67), 34 (Q92, replying to Amir Moezzi) 127 For Sanjar: 19 (Q14), 31 (Q20), 32 (Q26), 18 (Q33). 128 For Ma mud b. Mo ammad: 19 (Q14), 31 (Q20), 32 (Q26), 18 (Q33). 129 For Atsez: 23 (Q65), 20 (Q45). 130 For Qavâm al-Din: 36 (Q46), 23 (Q73). 131 For Abd al- amad: 18 (Q48), 7 (Q49). 132 For Montaxab al-Molk: 17 (Q55), 38 (Q56), 25 (Q75), 17 (Q82), 21 (Q87), 16 (Q88), 31 (Q96). 133 For A mad b.Omar: 18 (Q76), 21 (Q77), 24 (Q79).

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For the ulema who were fighting: one qasida (Q57, mentions Bahrâmšâh) in 56 lines. Jamâl al-Din A mad, the Qâi: one poem (Q64, a lament) in 30 lines. Abu al-Maâli (a Ghazna official): one qasida (Q74) in 27 lines. Elegy for a notable: one marsia (Q86) in 11 lines. Sepahsâlâr Ali al-osayn Mâhuri: one qasida (Q90) in 36 lines. Averaging both royal and lesser poems we find 2069 lines of encomium in 89 praise poems in the oeuvre of asan-e aznavi, for an average of 23 lines/poem. There is one qasida dedicated to Bahrâmšâh which has been attributed, though not without question, to Azraqi-ye Haravi (fl. 2nd half of fifth/eleventh century), 134 a poet active from the middle fifth/eleventh century at the Seljuk court. This 30 line-long poem, short in comparison to the average length of 53 lines per qasida in Azraqi’s panegyrics for other patrons (1314 lines in 25 poems), might have been written either while Bahrâmšâh was visiting Sanjar, or after he was installed in Ghazna. In addition to this one poem of 30 lines for Bahrâmšâh of Ghazna,135 Azraqi’s other royal panegyres include: Arslân Shâh: one qasida of 44 lines. Toânšâh the Seljuk: 775 lines in 14 qasidas (55 lines/poem).136 Mirânšâh ben Qâvord: 449 lines in 9 poems (50 lines/poem).137 Amir of Gur: one qasida (pp76-8) of 46 lines. Conclusion Statistics could also be compiled from the divâns of Moxtâri, Masud Sad Salmân, and Abd al-Vâse Jabali at the Ghaznavid court, as well as Moezzi, Adib-e âber at the Seljuk court, and
According to the edition of Said Nafisi, Divân-e Azraqi-ye Haravi (Tehran: Ketâbforuši-ye Zavvâr, 1336š/1957), which collects 2674 lines of verse, with 67 poems classified as qasidas. Nafisi dated the beginning of his literary career at the court of Amirânšâh to c460/1068, and then at the court of Toânšâh from c467/1075. Azraqi was acquainted with Abd Allâh Ansâri (1006-1088), to whom one poem is dedicated. For the controversy surrounding his date of death (the 1070s, the 1120s, or a medial solution of c. 492/1100), see Encyclopaedia Iranica, s.v. “Azraqi.” 135 There is a later Seljuk Bahrâmšâh, but he did not reign until 565/1170, well after the death of Azraqi. 136 For Toânšâh: qasidas of 65 lines (pp30-32), 65 (pp27-30), 66 (pp16-18), 63 (pp11-13), 60 (pp8-11), 51 (pp1-3), 38 (pp46-7), 80 (pp48-9), 60 (51-3), 17 (pp53-4), 71 (pp65-8), 53 (pp74-6), 56 (pp90-2), 30 (pp923). 137 For Mirânšâh, qasidas of: 44 lines (pp26-7), 63 (pp18-21), 53 (pp3-15), 50 (pp68-70), 56 (pp70-2), 54 (pp76-80), 61 (pp81-3), 29 (pp85-7), 39 (pp88-90).

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renowned poets writing at other courts during the latter half of the sixth/twelfth century, such as Anvari, Xâqâni, Kamâl al-Din and Jamâl al-Din E fahâni, ahir-e Fâryâbi, Rašid alDin Vavâ etc. Based on my cursory review of their divâns, it seems that Xâqâni composed somewhat longer qasidas for the Šervânšâhs in western Iran than were composed for the early Ghaznavids, while the qasidas of Anvari and Kamâl al-Din seem more-or-less comparable in length to the qasidas of Farroxi and On ori. The qasidas of Jamâl al-Din may prove somewhat shorter on the whole than those of the early Ghaznavid poets, perhaps roughly similar in length to the poems of Abu al-Faraj Runi written for the middle Ghaznavid rulers, but certainly longer than those of Sanâ’i and Sayyed asan written for Bahrâmšâh. Because royal qasidas, as presentation poems for formal occasions, were probably physically preserved at court in the court records, the relative length of panegyrics within the internal (intra-mural) context of the cultural dynamics of a given court is probably highly significant. The comparison of poems from one court to the next can nevertheless be fruitful, as poets often do seem keenly aware of the panegyrics being composed at rival courts.138 If we allow our initial disapproval or dissatisfaction with the panegyrical mode to keep us from looking closely at the poems (or at least from looking too closely at the mad section, proper), we see a monolithic form, “The Qasida,” a uniform set of tropes and symbols, and a morally suspect rhetorical intention, or a quixotic one of making the monarch conform to an ideal. In any case, all these approaches assume to some degree that the praise of the monarch or patron is offered without regard for truth or accuracy. Perhaps, however, there are indices of difference we can recover and explore, though it requires moving beyond our initial estrangement from the epideictic and generally panegyric orientation of the Persian qasida, and attending closely to the rituals of praise (are there divergent sub-genres of qasida, with different expectations of mad , for investitures, victory odes, hunting poems, annual festivals, wine banquets, etc.?) and the nuances of what is and is not said. Such an approach may not make panegyrical qasidas seem grossly more sincere (and more palatable to minds shaped by notions of Romantic genius and classless societies, etc.), but it may at least make them more intriguing. While it may be true of some qasida poets that ham-aš mad gofte (“it’s nothing but panegyrics”), it may be that there is far more being said between the lines of the generic occasions and poetic lines of praise about how they conceived and understood their project of panegyre.

138

See Franklin Lewis, “The Rise and Fall of a Persian Refrain” in Suzanne Stetkevych, ed. Reorientations/Persian and Arabic Poetry (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994), 199-226.

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Novelty, Tradition and Mughal Politics in Nau‘’s Sz u Gudz Sunil Sharma Boston University The sabk-i Hind school of classical Persian literature is almost always equated with the ghazal, appropriately so since this was the privileged form for poets of the post-Timurid age. However, other classical poetic forms like the qasdah and the masnav were also utilized in courtly and non-courtly spheres of production.1 The courtly masnav continued on its independent course of development with poets composing Shhnmah-like verse narratives or imitating Nizm Ganjav and Amr Khusrau in the field of romantic tales.2 The masnav form in classical Persian literature is particularly associated with the topic of courtly ethics since the narrative form provides a (pseudo-) historical framework for discussion of the themes of kingship and justice, and is important for understanding the extent and dynamic nature of Mughal court poetry. This paper is a study of a masnav by the poet Muhammad Riz Nau‘ Khab shn (d. 1609 C.E.),3 who came to India from Iran towards the end of the sixteenth century, and was patronized by the Mughals. Nau‘ is the author of a masnav entitled Sz u gudz, the story of a sati (or suttee), i.e., a Hindu widow who burns on the funeral pyre of her husband, a controversial and chiefly premodern practice in India.4 This work is of interest in several respects. First, the choice of theme shows the exoticization of Hindu culture by an Iranian poet who was attempting to be innovative while working within the parameters of the limited poetics of the masnav. 1

For the poetics of the sabk-i Hind school of Persian poetry, see Ehsan Yarshater, “The Indian Style: Progress or Decline,” in Persian Literature (New York: Bibliotheca Persica, 1988), and Paul E. Losensky, Welcoming Fighn: Imitation and Poetic Individuality in the Safavid-Mughal Ghazal (Costa Mesa: Mazda, 1998). 2 For a survey on the masnav form, see J.C. Bürgel, “The Romance,” in Persian Literature (New York: Bibliotheca Persica, 1988), 161-78. 3 Nau‘ was a disciple of Muhtasham Kshn (d. 1587), the Safavid poet known for his Shiite elegies. For the various traditions of Nau‘’s life and work found in biographical dictionaries, see Ahmad GulchnMa‘ni, Krvn-i Hind (Mashhad: Æstn-i Quds-i Razav, 1369/1990), v. 2, 1471-87; also see the introduction to Dvn-i Mull Nau‘ Khabshn (Tehran: M, 1374/1995), ed. Amr Husain Zkirzdah, 13-36; Sz u gudz (Tehran: Bunyd va Farhang-i Irn, 1348/1969), ed. Amir Hasan Abidi, 9-16; Muhammad ‘Al Khaznahdrl , Manzmahh-yi Frs, qarn-i 9 t 12 (Tehran: Rauzanah, 1375/1996), 96-99, 595-597. 4 Technically, sati refers to the burning of a wife on a husband’s funeral pyre. In this story, the characters are betrothed lovers and not married to each other. For the social and historical aspects of sati in India, see Sakuntala Narasimhan, Sati: A Study of Widow Burning in India (New Delhi: Viking, 1990) and Lata Mani, Contentious Traditions: The Debate on Sati in Colonial India (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998).

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Additionally, the context in which the work was produced illustrates the complex institution of the patronage of literature and the relationship between poetry and politics during the Mughal period. Further, it adds another chapter to the vast subject of Nizm and his imitators. In this last respect, this study is located within the larger framework of Heshmat Moayyad’s work on Nizm and his followers in a series of articles published in Irnshinæs under the title, “Dar madr-i Nizm.”5 The tradition of courtly masnavs in Persian goes back at least to the eleventh century Ghaznavid court. The topics of these romances were often culled from Firdaus’s Shhnmah, as well as from legends of Iranian or Arabian origin, or even Hellenistic sources.6 The most respected and popular poet in this genre was Nizm (d. 1202) who chose some of the above-mentioned themes for his romances that are included in his khamsah. His most successful follower, active a few decades after him, was Amr Khusrau Dihlav (d. 1325), who wrote his own khamsah that had the very same topics as Nizm. Branching out in a new direction, Amr Khusrau also established the tradition of writing narrative verse on contemporary events such as the romance about the love of his patron’s son, prince Khizr Khn, for the Hindu princess Deval Rn (called ‘Ishqyah or ‘Ashqah). 7 Another poet of Delhi and a friend of Amr Khusrau, Hasan Dihlav (d. 1338), also wrote a masnav, ‘Ishqnmah, on the love of a young Hindu couple, in which in an instance of role reversal, it is the surviving male protagonist who joins his female beloved on her funeral pyre.8 It was two and a half centuries later at the Mughal court, beginning with Akbar’s reign (r. 1556-1605), that poets seriously took up the tradition of Amr Khusrau and Hasan in choosing Indian themes for Persian romances. Faiz (d. 1595), the court poet of 5

Irnshinsi (English title page: Iranshenasi): Hasht bihisht—Haft akhtar 2 (1990): 135-59; Maryam va Shrn dar shi‘r-i Firdaus va Nizm 3 (1991): 526-39; Naqd bar Lail va Majnn-i Nizm 4 (1992): 528-42; Muqallidn-i Khusrau va Shrn-i Nizm 5 (1993): 72-88; tash Qandahr, saryandah-yi Gul-i rangn 7 (1995): 293-302. 6 Bürgel, “The Romance,” 162-25. 7 See Aziz Ahmad, “Epic and Counter-Epic in Medieval India,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 83 (1962), 471, for the historical significance of this work. 8 See M.I. Borah, “A Short Account of an Unpublished Romantic Masnav of Amr Hasan Dihlav,” New Indian Antiquary 2 (1939-40): 258-62. Borah writes, “[O]ur poet is indebted to Nizm for the main idea of his poem, but he has selected a theme of his own. The old Persian legends, which had been worn threadbare by other writers, did not afford sufficient scope for his imagination. He wanted to discover a new field for his poetic interpretation and he found it in the Hindu tales,” 258. Zabhullh Saf considers this as the precedent for Nau‘’s work, Tarkh-e adabyt dar rn (Tehran: Firdaus, 1364/1985), v.5:2, 887. Apart from the theme of burning, the two works are very different in style and purpose. In the Timurid poet Ahl Shrz’s (d. 1435) romance, Gul u naurz, the female protagonist also immolates herself on her lover’s funeral pyre but the backgrounds of the characters and the setting of the tale are not specifically Indian; see Manzmahh-yi Frs, 160-61.

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Akbar, began working on his own khamsah, of which one completed masnav is the story of Nala and Damayant from the Sanskrit epic Mahbhrata. 9 These Persian poets exploited the ‘exotic’ nature of their environment to come up with ever new themes, just as the earlier Persian poets had done when they chose to versify the loves of Shrn and Khusrau or Lail and Majn n. The Mughals made a concentrated effort to express their distinct character in the arts, on the one hand to legitimately secure their rule in northern India, and on the other to forge a distinct identity that would set them apart from the other imperial polities such as the Safavids, Ottomans, and the Deccani kingdoms. At the same time, by patronizing Persian literature they could still be part of the larger Persianate world. Muzaffar Alam writes, “Throughout the Mughal age, the poet thus showed awareness that the realm of the new poetry expanded much beyond its erstwhile frontiers.”10 This idea, seen time and again in Mughal texts, is reflected in a line from Nau‘‘s ghazal: I have written so much poetry about the rose and nightingale that India has become the envy of Shiraz and Khurasan.11 The court literature of this period catered to the tastes of patrons but was also linked with politics, and the study of Sz u gudz shows that Nau‘’s work was most certainly written in response to a conscious effort to build a literary tradition. The plot of Sz u gudz is remarkably simple in comparison to the intricate narratives of the romances of Nizm and Amr Khusrau.12 Comprising 492 bayts in the meter bahr-i hazaj, it is the story of a Hindu boy and girl who are betrothed as children and deeply in love with each other. When they grow up, the man confesses to his father that he is impatient to be united with his beloved, and the father quickly arranges their wedding. On the day of the wedding, the groom is killed while the wedding party is passing by an imposing building that falls on them. The grief-stricken woman insists on becoming a sati (although the wedding had not taken place yet), but her family attempts to dissuade her. The emperor Akbar hears about this and himself tries to talk her out of 9

See Z. Desai, “Nal Daman of Faidi,” Indo-Iranica 11 (1958): 43-56. Muzaffar Alam, “The Pursuit of Persian: Language in Mughal Politics,” Modern Asian Studies 3, 2 (1998), 340. 11 Dvn, 224. 12 The text was critically edited by Amir Hasan Abidi and is also included in the poet’s dvn. Major portions of it were translated by Mirza Y. Dawud and Ananda K. Coomaraswamy under the title, Burning and Melting, Being the Sz-u-Gudz of Muhammad Riz Nau‘ of Khabshn (London, 1912). Few classical Persian romances have been translated into English, especially not those from the Mughal period. The translation of Dawud and Coomaraswamy, despite its Victorian style, is largely accurate and readable. 10

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Unknown Artist, Woman Committing Suttee, folio from a manuscript of the Suz u Gudaz of Naw'i Khabhushani, early 17th century. Ink and opaque watercolor on paper; 32 x 20.7 cm (12 5/8 x 8 1/8 in.) Harvard University Art Museums, Arthur M. Sackler Museum, The Norma Jean Calderwood Collection of Islamic Art, 2002.50.7. Photo: Imaging Department, copyright President and Fellows of Harvard College.

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her intended act. She remains firm and is not even tempted by the riches he offers her. Finally, Akbar is convinced of the strength and independence of her resolve, and sanctions the sati, which takes place under the supervision of Prince Dniyl, who also attempts to stop her in vain. An interesting feature of the story is that the lovers do not have names; they appear to represent an ‘ideal’ or even ‘stereotyped’ Hindu couple. Although the protagonist of the tale is the Hindu woman, of equal importance in the narrative are Nau‘’s patrons, the emperor Akbar and his son, Prince Dniyl. After the customary praise of God and the prophet Mohammad in the opening sections of Sz u gudz, Nau‘ describes the circumstances that motivated him to write the romance. One evening when he was at home, he heard a knock on his door; his visitor turned out to be a hoopoe bird (hudhud) sent by Prince Dniyl to summon him to court. The hudhud is actually a peacock that talks sweetly like a parrot. Significantly, the hudhud is the harbinger of good news, for he was once the go-between for Sulaimn and Bilqs, the queen of Sheba, while the peacock and parrot are connected with India. Nau‘’s physically leaving the beautiful Persian garden for the Indian world is a happy move for him, “From the Western place of sorrow, like an eager glance, I reached the Eastern place of joy.” 13 Dniyl welcomes him graciously, addressing him as brahmanzdah and tells him: Old and hackneyed tunes irritate the wounds of lovers. How long [must we hear] the tale of the candle and the moth? How long with empty desires and these stories? Old stories are better not heard at all, speak first of what you have seen. You are a bird of spring with fresh appearance, rejuvenate poetry with something new [tzahg’].14 Bring forth new songs from your beak so that the rose and thorn can melt into themselves. The story of Farhd and Shrn has become old like a party that is over or last year’s calendar. There is nothing left but the name of Lail, nor anything save the mention of Majn n. Make an excursion to the fire temple and observe the ways of idols and temples.15 13 14

Dvn, 294. M. Alam calls tzahg’ a “major tenet of the Mughal poetry” in “The Pursuit of Persian,” 338; also see Losensky, Welcoming Fighn, for a detailed discussion of this concept, 195-204.

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It is a common device for poets to offer elaborate explanations for the composition of their works and the selection of their themes.16 The trope of newness was very much part of the poetics of Mughal poetry. In Faiz’s Nal Daman, which predates Nau‘’s work by a few years, Akbar commissions a new work from his poet laureate: Bring forth a spark from your heart and kindle your pen, cast a new spell in poetry and compose a work with new blood. In India there is a story of love, give it life to return, rejuvenate the old tale of the love of Nal for the lovely Daman.17 In another masnav, Markaz-i advr, Faiz espouses his “doctrine of originality”: So that poetry may be adorned by you, there must be new meanings and old words.18 Nau‘ has Dniyl ask for a story to which the poet has been a witness, as if to emphasize that the real and the local is fresher and more relevant for the time. Ironically, it is precisely the image of the moth and nightingale, which Nau‘ mocks as being trite, that he will repeatedly exploit. In the foreword to the translation of this text, Coomaraswamy writes about Dniyl’s command to Nau‘ from an art historian’s point of view: The Prince’s words exactly reflect the tendencies which are equally clearly recognizable in Mughal painting—an interest in the present moment, in what is going on, in individual character and romance. Weary of the rather insipid, or at least, hackneyed types of Persian art, the Mughal Painters developed an already great tradition of portraiture, in the direction of increased actuality.…The Mughals were realists, in a very modern sense.19 Applying this feature to the literature of the Mughal court works only to a limited extent. Behind the pose of seeking something new there is not actual weariness of the old, but the attempt to clothe it in a new way to create a literature for a new dynasty.

15

Dvn, 295. The whole setting of Nau‘’s visitor and his inspiration for his work is reminiscent of Nizm’s Khusrau u Shrn (Tehran: T s, 1366/1987), ed. Bihr z Sarvatyn, 110. 17 Quoted in Z. Desai, “Nal Daman of Faidi,” 46. 18 Welcoming Fighn, 195. 19 Burning and Melting, 5-6. 16

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The poet does not spend too much time on the love story itself. The love of the Hindu couple is presented as a given by the narrator. The two loved each other since their betrothal as children, and even before they began their earthly existence: Two angelic Hindu children, human yet with celestial temperaments. From childhood their milk was the longing for love, and fidelity (vaf) nursed love’s cradle. They broke their pens on the tablet of existence in practicing letters of love and idol-worship.20 As the years pass and they grow up, the young man longs to be united with his beloved and boldly tells his father of his desire: Let my beloved live with me, Grant her the role of moth to my candle … Allow my unlawful wish, otherwise I will enter the door of sin. God forbid I become a stranger to religion and cause harm to the idol and temple. I shall set your Somnath on fire and break your idols. I will make bloody the face of the idol, I will deprive the temple of its idol. I will hang the ancient [temple] bells like caravan bells on a she-camel. I will burn my sacred thread like a candle’s wick and wash the sandalwood from the idol’s cheeks. I will steal passion for the idol from hearts and I will seal eyes from seeing the path to the sanctuary. I will seek asylum from the Brahmin’s polytheism and ask forgiveness for my kufr. I will make the Ka‘bah of Islam my goal and desire the sweetness of martyrdom.21 20

Dvn, 299. This love between two children is reminiscent of the legendary love story of Lailñ and Majnýn, first versified by Nizm in Persian. Majn n is the quintessential crazed lover in Persianate poetry; in Nau‘’s work the Hindu woman takes on his role. 21 Ibid., 300-01.

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This is a startlingly strong speech for a Hindu whose devotion to his religion is usually presented as an ideal in Persian poetry. Nau‘ uses all the established Persian poetic stereotypes of the Hindu, as an ardent idol-worshipper, one who wears the zunnr (sacred thread), even throwing in a reference to Somnath, the legendary Hindu temple that Sultan Mahm d sacked repeatedly in the early days of Ghaznavid rule. The Hindu describes his relationship metaphorically as one between the moth and the candle, an old poetic image that takes on new dimensions in this romance. The man’s father accedes to his wish but this haste turns out to be his undoing. The inauspicious building becomes the agent of fate as it crashes down upon the party, killing the lover, whose demise results in social and personal upheavals: “When this unpleasant news had spread in the town, it was as if it were set on fire.”22 It is with the man’s death that we see the Hindu woman, who until this point is a silent and passive character and beloved, transformed into a passionate lover par excellence. When she hears about the death of her beloved, she is grief-stricken and decides on becoming a sati. Everyone tries to dissuade her but she is adamant: She said, “Even if the idol were to stop me, I would no longer bow before it. If the Brahmin dares to prevent me, he is not a Brahmin but the shaikh of shaikhs … Nobody has control over another’s life— isn’t it my own life, not somebody else’s? As long as I am alive how can I live with the shame [that] my beloved burns and I am alive?”23 Her words echo those of her beloved when he was trying to persuade his father to hasten their union. She is not motivated by religious duties or social customs but by her feelings of grief and love. When Akbar summons her, she spurns the material riches he offers her: “Her lips pierced only the pearl of fire and she spoke of nothing but burning.”24 She is thus able to prove her steadfastness and independent resolve. Only when Prince Dniyl is escorting her back to the funeral pyre does she begin to express her impatience with the obstacles she is encountering: She said to the prince, “You have dishonored me. You have changed the day of celebration to night by sorcery. 22

Ibid., 306. Ibid., 308-09. 24 Ibid., 311. 23

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My beloved will be upset by my delay, the fire will die from waiting for me. For those who are the ahl-i ‘ishq, going into the fire is the easy part of love.”25 Nau‘ describes her immolation in some detail, commenting on her character: Anyone whose heart has been scorched by love’s flames should learn chivalry [javnmard] from this woman. She blazed like a storm of love, she gave up her life for a dead man. Nau‘, you should be ashamed of being a man, You should be ashamed of this base life.26 The quality of javnmard is an integral part of the hero’s nature in romances and epics, and here it is applied to the Hindu woman since she has shown unswerving fidelity to her beloved until the end. As was characteristic with poets writing in the sabk-i Hind style, there is a complex and almost dizzying word-play on images of fire and love, moth and nightingale throughout the romance. Nau‘ builds on poetic clichés and stretches metaphors as far as possible. But aside from employing these rhetorical devices, Nau‘ has presented the Hindu woman as an arresting and complex character, in whom is found the actual embodiment of the connected images of love and fire. Coomaraswamy subscribes to the trite and misused idea that all of Persian poetry is Sufi in nature,27 by which the poet’s agency in the creation of the text is greatly diminished and the text is removed from its proper context. Although the image of burning as used in the trope of the moth and 25

Ibid., 312-13. Ibid., 315. The woman’s behavior is not entirely perverse. Love, the driving force behind her action, in the words of Meisami, “is the power that integrates macrocosm and microcosm; correspondingly, in romance the individual’s personal experience of love, his quest for fulfillment, reflects at once his own moral qualities and his place in the larger order of things,” Medieval Persian Court Poetry, 137. 27 “It is scarcely necessary to remark that the poet writes throughout as Sufi, and finds in this burning human love a symbol of the affection of the souls towards God: for him all pure Love is one and the same thing, the realisation of Unity,” 5. Annemarie Schimmel writes, “Although Sufism, and especially the theories of wahdat alwujud, has certainly contributed to a blurring of borders between the external religious forms … one should not draw far-reaching consequences from their constant use in poetry. These images express the predominance of love over law, of the spirit over the letter, but they were used by the most law-bound poets to flavor their verses. One has to distinguish carefully between poetic language and metaphysical systems,” Mystical Dimensions of Islam (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1975), 286. 26

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candle appears frequently in mystical poetry to describe the state of fan (annihilation of the self), here it is used to different ends. Even before the story begins, images of brightness and fire are used to set the scene and construct a setting that is pervaded with passion and the inner zeal of the poet himself.28 The “new” world is thus represented as being infused with the vitality of life and light, and love is the emotion that reigns there. The Hindu woman’s impassioned state is indicative of two levels of feelings in her: she is both the moth that desires to burn, and the flame that is burning passionately. In extending this discourse on love and fire, after the sati is over, the text of Sz u gudz continues with a verbal exchange (munzarah) between a fish and a salamander,29 each trying to prove that it is a more sincere lover. Sati as perceived in this work is a poetic construction and is not meant to represent any reality in the life of a Hindu woman as dictated by religious law or social pressures. The image of the Hindu woman and moth both burning themselves enjoyed some popularity among Mughal poets,30 and it seems that its earliest appearance is in the poetry of Amr Khusrau: Khusrau in the game of love, don’t be outdone by a Hindu woman who burns herself alive for a dead one.31 This is the same idea that Nau‘ expressed almost three centuries later. S’ib (d. 1670) who was active a few decades after Nau‘, combines both images together: The fire of love rises high in the ashes of India; a woman in this fiery place burns herself for her husband. and:

28

It is probably no mere coincidence that fire and all forms of light were important elements in Akbar’s personal religious practices connected with the dn-i ilh. See Akbar: The Great Mogul, 164, for a discussion of his fascination with light. In this regard, one of Nau‘’s qasdahs to Akbar has the refrain ftb (sun), Dvn, 341-42, which seemed to be generally popular at this time. 29 “One other animal is even more drawn to the fire than the moth: that is the salamander. From the days of the ancient Greek scientists onward the salamander was regarded as being so cold it could extinguish fire. In fact its greatest pleasure was to live in the midst of flames; hence the lover who lives in the fire of love feels happy like a salamander and never complains,” Annemarie Schimmel, A Two-Colored Brocade: The Imagery of Persian Poetry (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1992), 199. 30 For a list of these, see A. Schimmel, A Dance of Sparks: Imagery of Fire in Ghalib’s Poetry (New Delhi: Ghalib Academy, 1979), 90. 31 Quoted in Krvn-i Hind, 2: 1481.

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No one is as manly in love as a Hindu woman; to burn in a flame is not for every moth.32 The moth and Hindu woman are interchangeable images here. The trope of burning is taken a step further in a Persian couplet of Ghlib Dihlav (d. 1869) in which he proclaims that he wants to be cremated like a brahmin because “not-burning” would mean that he has not experienced love: Burn my bier, for I am not less than a brahmin, I cannot carry into my tomb the shame of not-burning.33 In Persian poetry, burning and fire-worship have generally been associated with both Zoroastrians and Hindus, i.e., non-Muslims, an aspect that enhances the exotic nature of this work. When Nau‘ wrote his work, he was conscious of this whole tradition behind him, and thus was able to work every possible image of fire and infidel into the masnav in a way that borders on excessiveness. The golden age of the reign of Akbar forms the social background of the story. After the explanation of the commissioning of the work, Nau‘ writes: During the reign of the Jesus-throned king from whom Jesus took lessons in culture, Lord of the world, the just king, whose justice was known all over the world. … If [even] an ant was threatened by some injustice he would shield it with his hum-like arms; If a thorn pricked somebody’s foot, he applied ointment to it with his own hands.34 Akbar is called the teacher of Jesus, whose breath has the power to bestow life. With the description of his justice that extends to even the lowest creature in his kingdom, the stage is set for his encounter with the Hindu woman. His position as a preserver of justice plays an important role in her crisis, which becomes both a personal and a social one. His only personal appearance in the romance is in a scene at court when he summons and interrogates her. Akbar hears the woman’s plea to be allowed to burn with her lover and 32

Ibid. Also see Yunus Jaffery, “Sat dar shi‘r-i S’ib-i Tabrz,” Armaghn-i adab (Tehran: Mauq ft-i Duktur Mahm d Afshr, 1376/1997), 284-89. 33 Dance of Sparks, 70. 34 Dvn, 298.

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Sunil Sharma

weeps at her state. He tries to tempt her from her resolve with riches but she resists, and when he is convinced of her firm resolution, “[He] granted her wish but not from his heart.”35 Such a picture of the Mughal emperor is in keeping with the standards of the early Islamic mirrors for princes, especially with the delineation of the ideal king in Nasr al-Din Tusi’s Akhlq-i Nsir, written in the thirteenth century and popular at the Mughal court. T s advises a king to be readily available to all his subjects: “The king should not keep petitioners at a distance; nor should he listen to the denunciations of informers without evidence. Let him not barricade the doors of hope and fear against mankind in general.”36 In Sz u gudz, Akbar’s summoning the Hindu woman rather than having someone petition him on her behalf displays a sensitivity to and awareness of the needs of his subjects. Elsewhere T s discusses the relationship between justice and love: “the need for Justice (which is the most perfect of human virtues) in preserving the order of the species, arises from the loss of Love.”37 The Hindu woman’s personal loss threatens to affect the harmony of the society and her encounter with Akbar allows him to dispense justice and restore order. Meisami has written that “the verse romance deals with specific ethical concerns…that were shared by the poet and his audience.”38 In this way, Akbar’s inclusion in the narrative is a necessary and deliberate attempt to portray him as the ideal just ruler, a belief that survives in Indian folklore to this day. When the Hindu woman finally gets Akbar’s approval for sati, the emperor commands Dniyl to supervise the affair. In a mini-reenactment of the scene with Akbar, Dniyl himself unsuccessfully tries to dissuade the woman from the act of immolation. Nau‘ describes the prince as: The flower of good fortune, the spring of prosperity, the envy of men and jinns, Prince Dniyl, The light of the royal dynasty, and the glow of the countenance of hope, at the king’s command went along with that impatient one.39 Despite the fact that Dniyl was Nau‘’s patron, it is a bit excessive for the poet to refer to him in such grandiose terms, and thus the character of the prince in the romance is quite problematic. The youngest of Akbar’s three sons, Dniyl was also the son-in-law of Nau‘’s first patron, Akbar’s general ‘Abdurrahm Khn-i Khnn, a Maecenas for poets and artists, only equaled by Akbar himself. Dnyl did not have a particularly 35

Ibid., 311. The Nasirean Ethics (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1964), tr. G.M. Wickens, 233. 37 Ibid., 196. 38 Medieval Persian Court Poetry, 180. 39 Dvn, 312. 36

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distinguished career and historians mention him only in reference to his alcoholism and general ineptitude in carrying out the administrative and military duties assigned to him.40 In Sz u gudz, he appears to have a role that is clearly linked to his being the patron of this work. By the time this work was written,41 Akbar’s middle son, Murd had died of alcoholism in 1599, and his eldest son, Salm (later the emperor Jahngr), had rebelled against his father and even set up a separate rival court at Allahabad.42 At this time, Akbar gave Dniyl more responsibilities and, albeit unsuccessfully, had his excessive drinking monitored. During this period Dniyl was Akbar’s only hope for a successor and was virtually the heir apparent. Commissioning a work in which his father appears as a model ruler and himself as a dutiful son following in the footsteps of his father would reflect Dnyl’s ambitions to be the king of Hindustan. It is also possible that Akbar or the Khn-i Khnn commissioned this work for the instruction of the prince.43 In any case, Nau‘ has carefully crafted a narrative that deals with the issue of justice that would have been of great significance to the son and heir of a ruler like Akbar. Tragically, Dniyl died at the age of thirty three, a year before Akbar, in 1604. Muslim sources have had a fascination with the practice of sati as seen in the works of al-Br n, Ibn Batt t and Jyas.44 Historians have lauded Mughal emperors from Akbar to Aurganzeb for their efforts to ban this practice. 45 In the chronicle of Akbar’s reign, Akbarnmah, Abulfazl narrates an incident concerning a Rajput princess who was being forced to commit sati but is saved by Akbar’s intervention. 46 The difference from the plot of Sz u gudz is that while the Rajput woman was being pressured into sati, the heroine of the romance chose the action of her own free will and even ignored the pleas of her family to desist. Abulfazl goes on to discuss this practice: In the wide country of India, on account of truth-choosing, and jealous honour, when the husband dies, his wife, though she have spent her days 40

Vincent A. Smith, Akbar: The Great Mogul, 1542-1605, 2nd ed. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1919), 316. The date for the composition of this romance is not mentioned in any sources. It is probable that it was written just before 1604, when Prince Dæniyæl died. 42 Akbar: The Great Mogul, 301-32. 43 Abidi is of the opinion that Akbar commissioned this work since in the introductory portions he is the one who is eulogized, 23. However, writers of tazkirahs state that it was commissioned by Dniyl. The evidence suggests that the situation is more complicated than this. 44 A. Rashid, Society and Culture in Medieval India, 1206-1556 A.D. (Calcutta: Firma K.L. Mukhopadhyay, 1969), 144-45. 45 S.M. Ikram, Muslim Civilization in India, ed. Ainslie T. Embree (New York: Columbia University Press, 1964), 236. 46 The Akbarnama of Abu-l Fazl, tr. H. Beveridge (Delhi: Low Price Publications, 1989), v. 3, 594-5. The first printed edition of the Akbarnmah (Lucknow, 1867/8) included the text of the Sz u gudz as an appendix, indicating that this work has been closely connected with the chronicle of Akbar’s reign. 41

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Sunil Sharma

in distress, gives herself to the fire with an expanded heart and an open brow. And if from wickedness (tardman) and love of life she refrain from doing this, her husband’s relatives (khweshwandn) assemble and light the flame, whether she be willing or unwilling. They regard this as preserving their honour and reputation. From the time that this ever-vernal country has been kept verdant and fresh by the justice of the world’s lord [Akbar], vigilant and truthful men have been appointed in every city and district in order that the two classes of cases may be continually kept distinct, and that forcible burning may not be permitted.47 The romance Sz u gudz exemplifies the practice of this law. Akbar is represented as being sensitive to the practices of his Hindu subjects but also does not want the rights of any of his subjects to be abused. The delicacy of this issue is balanced by the staged nature of the courtly setting of the romance. The practice of sati was certainly linked with the politics of Muslim rule in India, but Nau avoids passing a judgment on it by stereotyping the characters and working within a circumscribed poetic tradition. The Mughal miniatures from manuscripts of this text are the oldest visual representation of the practice of sati.48 Perhaps that has often led modern scholars to regard this work as an historical account of the medieval Muslim, but specifically Mughal, attitude towards sati. This is one of the reasons that Coomaraswamy came to be interested in the text. In his foreword, he states that the reason for the translation is “to make real to those to whom they have been incredible, the perfection of the Indian woman’s ideal, and the unifying truth of the religion of Love in whatever form it appears.”49 As an art historian of India, Coomaraswamy’s interest in this work lay in its miniatures and only marginally in its contents. His impatience with the formal aspects of the romance is clear in the foreword: “The lengthy invocations and extravagant eulogies are rather wearisome, and the elaborate euphemisms that occur even in the most tragic descriptions, are often annoying.”50 In addition to depicting the Indian woman’s “ideal,” [T]his little book is of profound interest as a contribution to our knowledge of the psychology of the attitude of Musulmn rulers of

47

Ibid. In the third part of the Akbarnmah, the ’n-i Akbar, which is virtually a mirror for princes, when speaking about the custom of the Hindus concerning widows, Abulfazl makes further distinctions among the circumstances in which sati can occur, The ’n-e Akbari (Delhi: New Taj Office, 1989), tr. H. Blochmann and H.S. Jarrett, 2: 355. 48 Burning and Melting, 3-4. 49 Ibid., 6. 50 Ibid., 5.

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Northern India in the time of great Akbar, towards the Hindus and the Hindu faith. These Hindus were for the orthodox Musulmn, and are spoken of in the present work as, idolaters and infidels; notwithstanding which we find in this poem a spirit not merely of tolerance but of deep sympathy.51 Coomaraswamy takes the ideal of the golden age of tolerance and cultural exchange between Muslims and Hindus during Akbar’s reign as the inspiration and intrinsic aspect of the story, without a proper contextualization of the text in the milieu in which it was produced. Just as with the practice of sati, references to “idolaters” and “infidels” to describe Hindus are clichés of the poetic tradition and do not reflect any social reality. By using such images so extensively in this story, the poet is actually attempting to highlight the exotic nature and setting of his plot. Nau‘’s Sz u gudz is a work that is new in its subject but conventional in form. As the creation of a foreigner at the Mughal court who was at home in the Persian literary tradition, Nau‘’s romance is located in the interplay of the politics of Mughal patronage of poetry and the history of the masnav. The ideas of kingship and justice that applied to the Mughal court, especially in the case of the Emperor Akbar and Prince Dniyl, are dealt with in an innovative way by Nau‘ by manipulating the genre of romance.52 His Hindu characters are types that are encountered in Persian romances, and are not individualized in any distinguishing ways. The Hindu woman serves to bring out the ethical concern that “just as the individual cannot seek his own perfection in independence, so society cannot perfect itself without justice toward its individual members.”53 Thus, it is imperative to look at specific works and in their proper contexts before passing judgment over the literary problems concerning a whole school or entire period of literature. Although Nau‘’s work has direct relevance to the Mughal court, whose literary products can be viewed as the synthesis of several cultural traditions, it is important to remember that Persian poetry produced in India until the eighteenth century had a wide readership in the unified world of Persian literature extending from Turkey to India. Nau‘’s technique and craft is steeped in the tradition of the masnav, and as a poet, he is actually a successful and innovative example of an imitator of Nizm.

51

Ibid., 12. Later masnavs on sati (or satnmahs as Abidi calls them) are few and non-courtly, Abidi, 23-29; for a list of these also see Khaznahdrl , Manzmahh-yi Frs, 96-99. 53 Medieval Persian Court Poetry, 171. 52

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Situating the Khorasani Dialects within the Persian-Dari-Tajiki Linguistic Continuum Youli Ioanessyan Oriental Institute, Russian Academy of Sciences, and St. Petersburg University The three closely related languages–Modern Persian, Dari (Farsi-Kabuli) and Tajiki–form a vast continuum of dialects, stretching from western Iran to Afghanistan and Central Asia. Linguistically it is very hard to draw a geographical line or define a geographical border between the dialects of Persian proper, those of the Dari language and those of Tajiki, a line or border based on purely linguistic factors, as these dialects overlap and merge into one another. It is therefore more reasonable to conceive of these dialects as a single linguistic continuum within which groups can be defined. In R. Farhadi’s book on Persian as spoken in Afghanistan, 1 a rough classification of the whole mass of the dialects of Persian, Dari and Tajiki is suggested. According to this classification, the Persian continuum can be divided into two major groups: Western and Eastern. The former includes the Persian dialects of western and central Iran, while the latter includes the remaining dialects, namely those of eastern Iran (Khorasan and Sistan), all the Dari dialects of Afghanistan, and the Tajiki of the former Soviet Central Asia. A brief look at this classification is enough to reveal an unequal distribution of dialects between the two groups, as the Eastern group covers a geographically much vaster area than the Western. However, even this classification does not present the eastern dialects as homogenous, insofar as the Eastern group includes two subdivisions: 1) the Khorasani, which covers eastern Iran and western Afghanistan; and 2) the Afghano-Tajiki, which encompasses central and northern Afghanistan and the former Soviet Central Asia.2 The purpose of the present article is to prove that the Khorasani dialects deserve a much more prominent place in the classification than that of just a sub-division, and that they form a group of their own. For their similarities to Western dialects are no less significant than their similarities to Eastern dialects. On the other hand, their peculiarities within the Persian-Dari-Tajiki continuum are of such a degree and quality as to make them equally different from both extreme groups: Western and Eastern. All these factors 1

A. R. Farhadi, Le Persan parlé en Afghanistan. Grammaire du Kâboli Accompagneé d’un recueil de quatrains populaire de la Region de Kâbol (Paris, 1955). In the present article the Russian version of the book is referenced: R. Farhadi, Razgovorni Farsi v Afganistane (Moscow, 1974). 2 The term Khorasan implies in the present article the province of Khorasan in modern Iran and the neighboring territories in Afghanistan.

Youli Ioanessyan

are enough reason for Khorasani dialects to claim an independent place or position for themselves in the classification. Since we can not compare every single dialect with all other dialects, for time’s sake the comparison will be made of some Khorasani dialects with the Tehrani dialect as a typical representative of the Western and the Kabuli as a typical representative of the Eastern group. For the analysis of the dialects in question we will be using the Herati material recorded by the author of the present article in Afghanistan (in the form of colloquial texts) and materials of the Khorasani dialects from Iranian Khorasan, collected from the published works of the great Russian scholar - V.A. Ivanow. 3 Let us now consider features, which the Khorasani dialects share with the Western group and which distinguish them (dialects) from the Eastern group : Vowels and Diphthongs 1. The historic majhul vowels and diphtongs generally evolve with a progressive tendency toward gradual merging together of the phonemes [ê] and [i]; [ô] and [u]; and the changing of the diphthongs [ay] > [ey], [av] > [ou], [öu]. The historic []

Western i

Khorasani i /ê

Eastern ê

“white”

sefid

safêt / safit (sab.) safid / safêd (her.)

safêd (kab.)

sib

sib / sêb

sêb (kab.)

rixt

rix / rêx (msh.)

rêxt- (kab.)

“apple” rd

Pret. (past 3 pers. stem) sing. of the verb “pour, spill, shed” The historic []

Western u

Khorasani u/ô

Eastern ô (7)4

“mountain”

kuh

ku / kô (her.)

kô (kab.)

Imperative sing. Of the verb “say”

begu

bugu / bogô (sab.)

Bogô

3

As material in the present article is compiled from different published sources, the transcription lacks uniformity, for which I apologize. 4 The situation in the Tajiki dialects is more complicated.

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Situating the Khorasani Dialects

Diphthongs: The historic [ay] and [av]

Western

Khorasani

Eastern

ey

ey/y/äy

Ay

“reed”

ney

ney / näy (bir.)

nay (kab.)

“obvious”

peydå

peydâ / päydâ (her.)

paydâ (kab.)

ou

ou (öu) /aw

aw/av

“new”

now

“around”

dour-e

now / nöu /naw (bir.) döur-e/däur-e (her.)

naw (kab.) dawr-e (kab.)

2. A number of positional alternations (of vowels).

A progressive tendency towards a / ä changing into  / e at the end of words: Western

Khorasani

Eastern

“street”

kuèe

kuèe/kuèä (msh.)

kôèa (kab.)

Past participle of the verb, “to do”

kärde

karde/kärdä (bir.)

ka(r)da

“root”

riše

riše/riš/riša (her.)

rêša

The changing of â into o, u after nasal consonants: Western

Khorasani

Eastern

“house”

xune

xune (her.) xunä (bir.)

xâna (kab.)

“almond”

bâdum

bâdum (her.)

bâdâm

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In the dialects of the Eastern group the sounds h, and ‘ influence the preceding vowel in a way that the historic [$], [%]; [ ], [<] change into a majhul vowel - ê or ô respectively. No such change is observed either in the Western group or in the Khorasani dialects. In the latter, I (<>  ) stays unchanged in the given position, while e (< \ ) often assumes a more open articulation changing into a more open sound, which excludes any possibility of being classed as a variant of the majhul, for wherever ê is preserved, it is normally a very narrow sort of [e]. Examples, illustrating the above mentioned case include: Western

Khorasani

Eastern

“rosary”

täsbih

tespi (her.)

Versus: tazbê (kab.)

“resting”

täfrih

Tafri

tafrê

“knot”

gereh

gLr^

gerê

“armored personnel carrier”

zerehpuš

Zärapuš

zerêpôš

“mist”

Meh

mäh (msh.)

--

“guest”

mehmån/mehmun

mähmun

mêmân

Consonants The existence of one phoneme – [_] in Khorasani, as well as in the Western dialects,5 versus two different phonemes – [q] and [J] (gh) in the Eastern

5

Western

Khorasani

Eastern

“wonderful, uncommon; poor”

_arib

_arib (her.)

Jarib (kab.)

“near”

_arib

arib

qarib

This consonant in the dialect of Tehran is normally a back velar or front uvular stop. When it occurs intervocalically it tends toward a uvular fricative {J}. The two allophones are in free variation, however (see Wheeler. M. Thackston, Jr. An Introduction to Persian [Bethesda, MD, 1993], 27).

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Situating the Khorasani Dialects

Morphology: 1.

An active use of the indefinite enclitic –i / -ê , added to nouns and adjectives in combination with the numeral yak / yek , or also without the latter, is another feature linking the Khorasani and the Western dialects versus the Eastern dialects:

Bir.

yak märd-i bu, såwarkäsh-i.6 I yak dukhtar-i dåsh... (‘There was once a man who lived on gathering thorny plants. He had a daughter...’)7

Her.

M^ am dige âdam-L mazdurkâr-i budom – (‘I was already a hired laborer’)

Kab.

tâ yagâdam garm-o-sard-e rôzgâr-a na-èašid-a âdam na-mê-ša 8 (‘until a man experiences the ‘ups’ and ‘downs’ of life, he will not become a man’) az-qât-e kabal-â yak xâr-poštak bar-âmad 9 (‘a hedgehog came out of the grass’.)

In the Western group the same indefinite enclitic is regularly used: ketåb-i xub - ‘a good book’, bäe-yi - ‘a child’, kuh-i - ‘a mountain,’ etc. In the Eastern dialects, however, the indefinite state is expressed by the numerative yak only 2. The ‘ezafe’ can often be dropped in the Khorasani dialects. In the Herati dialects, for

example, one might hear: tanxâ šâgerd (‘an apprentice’s salary’), pLyar m^ ( ‘my father’). In Birjandi, one might hear: nawåchä pämbä 10 (‘a handful of cotton’), ru u nunu nishas (‘[she] sat on the bread’). 11 In the Tehrani dialect the ‘ezafe’ is often omitted, especially in prepositions: ru miz (‘on the table’), bišin palu man (‘sit next to me’).12 This phenomenon is not observed in the Eastern dialects. 6

Såwar is thorny grass used, when dry, for fuel. W. Ivanow, “Persian as Spoken in Birjand,” Journal and Proceedings, Asiatic Society of Bengal (New Series), 24, 4 (1928), 255. Passages from Ivanow’s works are presented in this article in a slightly modified translation. 8 A. R. Farhâdi, Razgovorni, 206. 9 Ibid., 200. 10 Ibid., 251. 11 Ibid., 255, 258. 12 L. Peisikov, Tegeranski Dialekt (Moscow, 1960), 86. 7

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Another feature which links the Khorasani dialects to the Western versus the Eastern is the use of the suffix -e / - / -^ , pleonastically added to nouns without actually changing the meaning. In the Herati dialect, for example, we find: ami doxtaré doxtar-e pâdšâzâde bud (‘this girl was a girl born into a royal family’); and in Birjandi: yak kachale-yi bu, yak pusar-L tåjLre-yi (‘there was a bald man and also

3.

the son of a merchant’),13 cf.., i kachalä bä puser-L tåjLra guf... (‘the bald man said to the merchant’s son...’). 14 Compare the same forms in the Tehrani dialect: mådäré, pesäré, doxtäré, nokäré, käèälé, etc.15 This suffix is not found in the dialects of the Eastern group. Verbs 1. It is remarkable that, in contrast to the Eastern group, both the Khorasani and the Western dialects add the continuous prefix mi / mê- to the verbal element in compound verbs formed with dar-, bar / war :

Khorasani

(her.) var-midâre – pres. 3 pers. sing. of the verb “take up, pick up” (bir.) där-miåd – pres. 3 pers. sing. of the verb “come out”16

Western

(teh.) där-miräftäm – imp. 1 pers. sing. of the verb “run away”17 vär-midåššän18 – imp. 3 pers. pl. of the verb ‘take up, pick up’

Eastern

(kab.) medrâyom, mebrâyom, namêwardârom 19 – pres. 1st pers. sing. of the verbs ‘enter’, ‘come out’, ‘take up’, respectively (the latter with the negative prefix).

13

Ivanow, ibid., 264, 265. Ibid. 15 Peisikov, op. cit., 100]. 16 Ivanow, op. cit., 255. 17 Thackston, op. cit., 83. The transcription is slightly modified. 18 Peisikov, op. cit., 72, 63. 19 Farhâdi, op. cit., 118, 119. 14

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Situating the Khorasani Dialects

2. The Past Participle in Khorasani dialects has only the –a / - / -e 20 ending, like in Western dialects. In contrast to the Eastern dialects, it does not take on the suffix -gi:

Khorasani

(her.) mor_-e baryânkade (< beryânkarde) – ‘broiled chicken’ dasmâl-e gardan-i am ba gardan andâxte-ye – ‘his scarf is thrown over his neck’.

Western

(teh.) käpk-e košše – ‘a killed partridge’

Eastern

(kab.) èâ-ye kandagi-ra por kadêm – ‘we filled the dug pit’ i peran bâftagi – ‘this shirt is woven’.

Vocabulary The Khorasani vocabulary also merits attention, though here we will mention only a few grammar-related words, such as prepositions and modal words. A number of prepositions used in Khorasani dialects, which the latter share with the Western group, are not found in the Eastern dialects: (English)

Birjandi

Herati

after

dembål-e 21

dombâl-e

in front of, before inside, within; toward

jelöu22

jelöu -e

tu(-ye) / tu-yL23

tay-ye / tey-ye

tu / tô24

wâsetê / wâsê (<wâseta-ye)

for, for the sake of in the direction of

Mashhadi

ru bä25

ru b^

20

The three forms are just phonetic variants of the same morpheme, corresponding to the -e of the Tehrani dialect. We do not consider the phonetic aspect here. 21 Ivanow, op. cit., 257, 269. 22 The ‘ezafe’ is omitted. Ibid., 256. 23 Ibid., 255, 256, 257, 266. 24 Massè, op. cit., 83, 85. 25 Ivanow, op. cit., 256.

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The use of the modal word of duration (h)ey / (h)ay is also one of the features which link Khorasani dialects with the Western: (her.) didom ke ey unâ nun mixore – ‘I saw that they kept (lit. keep) eating’; (bir.) hay miraft-u hay miraft 26 – ‘he went and went’; (teh.) äz män hey miporsid 27 – ‘he kept asking me’. No such word is used in Eastern dialects. PECULARITIES OF THE KHORASANI DIALECTS Having considered some traits which the Khorasani dialects share with the Western group and which therefore distinguish both these groups from the Eastern, let us now turn to the peculiarities of the Khorasani dialects, which make the latter unique in the entire linguistic continuum of Persian-Dari-Tajiki. Phonetics The Western and Eastern groups are characterized by the division of vowels into stable and unstable. This implies that the stable vowels which historically have originated from the long vowels - [], [], [|], [], [], never lose their quality and length. In Khorasani dialects all vowels are equally given to change and alteration. However, alterations and reduction occur according to certain rules: 1. If a syllable is not stressed, the â (historically the long []) merges with (historically

the short [~]), changing into any allophone of the latter: (her.) _alinbâf - ‘carpetweaver’ versus _alinbafi - ‘carpet weaving’, (qay.) mêšnasom - pres. 1 pers. sing. of the verb ‘know,’ versus the imperative singular form of the same verb, bešnâs28; (msh.) gädâ - ‘beggar’ versus gädai - ‘beggary’ 29; (sab.) bäšä - subj. 3 pers. sing. of the verb ‘be’ versus the imperative sing. of the same verb, with the negative prefix: mäbâš30; 2. The reducing effect of [r] on the neighboring vowel, which causes it either to lose its

length considerably or to drop out completely. This also includes the vowels corresponding to the long vowels of classical Persian: 26

Ibid., 253. Peisikov, op. cit., 96-97. 28 R. Zomorrodian, “Le Système verbal du Persan parlé à Qâyen,” Studia Iranica 3, fasc. 1 (1974), 92. 29 Massè, ibid., 95, 102. 30 Ivanow, “Rustic Poetry in the Dialect of Khorasan,”.Journal and Proceedings, Asiatic Society of Bengal (New Series) 21, 3 (1925), 37, 35. 27

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(her.) arkät/arkat < harakät - ‘movement’ betoršun < betarâšând - pret. 3 pers. sing. of the verb ‘shave, scrape’ with the prefix and the causative suf. (msh.) mäträši < mitarâšid 31 - ibid., imp., 3 pers. sing; (her.) èer/èere/è^r - ‘why’; (her.) yak-i-r (< yak-i-râ), note: the reduction of the vowel regularly occurs in the encl. object marker -râ; cf. (sab.) mu-r32 – 1st pers. pron. with the encl., (qay). i-r33- dem. pronoun with the same marker; (her.) bor/borô – imperative sing. of the verb ‘go’ (msh.) bur byâr 34 – ‘go and bring’; (msh.) pinjrä – ‘window’ 35; (msh.) prid 36(< parid) – pret. 3 pers. sing. of the verb ‘fly’; (sab.) tarf-e 37 (< taraf-e) – ‘in the direction of’; (her.) terkestun (< târikestân) – ‘a very dark place’. These alterations, the reduction and even dropping of sounds corresponding to long vowels of classical Persian as well as short, indicate that all the vowels of Khorasani dialects are equally given to qualitative and quantitative change. Therefore none of them can be considered stable - a conclusion leaving no ground for the division of the vowels into two classes: stable and unstable. This has been confirmed by a recent laboratory examination of the vowels of the Herati dialect, which revealed that there are no long or short phonemes (which does not preclude certain sounds being positionally longer or shorter than others), at least in the sense in which they exist in the Kabuli dialect.38 Morphology 1. A noticeable and remarkable feature of the Khorasani dialects is the enclitic use, or the

possibility of the enclitic use, of the demonstrative 3rd pers. pronouns (singular and plural). In the Herati dialect these have fully replaced the 3rd pers. pronominal enclitics: eš / aš, ešân. In other dialects of the same group the more traditional enclitics are still 31

Massè, op. cit., 114. Ivanow, “Persian of Birjand,” 287. 33 Zomorrodian, op. cit., 111. 34 Massè, op. cit., 82. 35 Ibid., 32. 36 Ibid., 85. 37 Ivanow, “Persian of Birjand, 307. 38 See Y. A. Ioannesyan, “Glasniye geratskovo dialekta dari v kolitchestvennom otnoshenii,” Pismenniye namyatniki i problemi istorii i kulturi narodov vostoka (PP I KNV), 22, P. II (Moscow, 1989): 89-92. 32

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very much in use, however, the above mentioned phenomenon is observed in them too. These personal/demonstrative pronouns when used as enclitics are most often employed in the possessive function: (her.) âkem xod-i ni-ye, _amândân ba jâ-in-e – ‘the governor himself is not present, the commandant is in his place’ Note: xód-i corresponds to xod-eš / xod-aš, and jâ-in-e corresponds to jâ-yeš ast; (her.) miš bu barê nar-e mifruše barê mâdêm fâydé-yu – ‘if sheep were born, [he] would sell the male lambs, while the female lambs would be his [net] profit’ (i.e. he would keep them for breeding). Note: fâyde-yu corresponds to fâyede-yeš; (her.) dán-inâ wâ rafte bu – ‘their mouth was widely open,’ dan-inâ (< inhâ) corresponds to dahan-e ešân; (msh.) kuzi šeru‘ kärd bä mäyl-onâ bä raqsidän va mo‘llaq zädän39 – ‘the hunchbacked person started to dance and tumble on their request’; (bir.) i sär kL buridän maastä kL Lshkäm-u pârä di – ‘when they cut the head off, they wanted to tear the stomach’ 40; 2. Another feature is the use of the prefix be- (with phonetic variations) in the Past Absolute (Preterite), Past Narrative and Remote Past Absolute (beside other forms):

(her.) ami bârâ ke boftâde bud b^m ru-ye sangâ, ami bârâ beèindim – ‘we gathered all the packs, which had fallen on the stones’; (bir.) påin åmádä läw-L ow benLshástä di dä tuy-L ow yak aks-L mâ-yi eftidä – ‘[they] dismounted, and sat on the bank; they saw in the water a reflection of a moon’41; 3. A frequent use of the prefix -ak in different forms of verb:

a. It is a part of the present stems of the verbs ‘fall’ and ‘stand; stop’: (her.) miftekam, miftiki, miftek etc.; mistkom, mistiki; bestekam, bistiki, nastiki etc. In the Iranian part of Khorasan such forms as muftake and mistake were recorded by W. Ivanow. 42

39

Massè, op. cit., 112. Ivanow (1928), 264. 41 Ibid., 257. 42 Ivanow (1925), 252. 40

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b. -ak can be joined to the imperative of any verb (the final -k may drop): (her.) pâk bošurak, tamiz ko, bâz bLyâya, xošk konak – ‘wash [him] well, make clean, then come back and rub [him] dry’; (her.) i-râ bobor dar bâzâr söudâ kone – ‘take it to the market and sell’; Note: the forms bLyâya and kone have originated from bLyâyak and konak with the dropping of the final -k. It can be presumed with a high degree of certainty that the same factor accounts for such verbal forms as kuney / kunäy etc., recorded by Ivanow in the Iranian part of Khorasan: (her.) där wå kuney där wå kunäy – ‘open the door, open the door.’43 Quite remarkable are cases of the reduplication of -ak: (her.) bestekak, bLyâragak (imperative).44 4. The use of a verbal prefix –i / ê in the in the 3 pers. singular:

(bir.) yak ruz-i yak chårwå-yi tu ulangi sar dådä shu kL becharädê – ‘once a donkey was left to graze on a lawn’45; (bir.) bad yek jäwälduz wä mäshk-esh zä kL öu mesharedi – ‘then they poked it with a packing needle, and water began to drop from it’ .46 In the Herati dialect it is used only in irrealis constructions or conditional sentences: ag^ kas-i kampaxte budi, kol-e pul-eu xalâs mišod b^m râ – ‘were a person to have little cotton, all his money, [obtained from selling it], would run out on the way [home]’. It would be proper to suggest that this prefix can well be identified with the prefix - of classical Persian. One more characteristic feature of Khorasani dialects is the use of the peculiar preposition, meaning ‘with.’ It is recorded by Ivanow in Iranian Khorasan in the form xud / xod / xot: (bir.) xud ham – ‘with one another’;47 43

Ivanow (1928), 274. For more details about some verb stems in Khorasani dialects refer to Ioannesyan, “Ob Obshtchich osobennostyach nekotorich glagolnich osnov geratskovo dialekta dari i ryada persidskich dialectov,” PP I PIKNV. XX. P. II, (Moscow, 1983): 63-66. 45 Ivanow (1928), 270. 46 Ibid., 269. 44

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(sab.) xad-xad-eš harf (gap) meza 48 – ‘he was speaking/talking to himself’; In Herati, this has many phonetic variations: pâyâ xo-r b^ saxti x^d-e dandânâ xo wâ kad – ‘with difficulty did he untie the strings, [binding his legs], with his teeth.’ This preposition is sometimes mistaken for the reflexive pronoun xod.49 Conclusion The Khorasani dialects are quite distinct and definable within the linguistic continuum of the Persian-Dari-Tajiki dialects. Thus, the assumption of the closer relation of the former to the Eastern group is not confirmed by an analysis of fuller linguistic data. Rather, they appear to be equally close to and distant from both -the Western and Eastern groups, as represented by the Tehrani and Kabuli dialects. Consequently, they occupy an intermediate (middle) position between the mentioned groups, forming a group of their own, which given their position, both linguistic and geographical, can be defined as Central. The latter conclusion necessitates an adjustment of the existing classification of the Persian-Dari-Tajiki dialects to reflect this reality. Abbreviations:

47

bir. her. kab. msh. qay. sab. teh. -

Birjandi Herati Kabuli Mashhadi Qayeni Sabzewari Tehrani

Ivanow (1925), 256; (1928), 254. A. M. Shafai, “O nekotorix fonetitcheskich, leksitcheskich i morfologitcheskich osobennostyach sabzevarskovo dialekta” in Problemy iranskoy filologii (Baku, 1977), 28. 49 For more detailed information about this preposition and its possible etymology, see I. M. Oranski, “Taj. kati/qati - oset. (dig.) xässä,” Iranskoye yazikoznaniye (k 75-letiyu prof. V.I. Abayeva) (Moscow, 1976): 148-159. 48

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The Political Realm’s Literary Convention: The Examples of ‘Ishq and Iqbl Biancamaria Scarcia Amoretti University of Rome ‘La Sapienza’ This paper aims to verify an ongoing literary code in modern Persian poetry when tackling topics of a political or ideological nature.1 A couple of preliminary statements are necessary. The first concerns the task accomplished by poetry, in the present and in the past, as a means of diffusion of ideas as a political instrument. In the Muslim world, oral tradition has been more persistent than elsewhere, while poetry and music have always been interconnected,2 and where musical realms pertain not only to the cultured elites, but to all social strata, such a role is particularly important.3 In spite of the deep changes that have taken place in Muslim societies in the past two centuries – besides the striking case of Umm Kulth m4 and her support of ‘Abd al-Nsir’s policy – to confirm our hypothesis, it would suffice to mention Mahm d Darwsh’s verses dedicated to Beirut, and their impact on the people of that city during the 1982 Israeli siege. Such poems were immediately put to music, sung, and consequently spread by one of the most

1

The words of Fard Bey, quoted in E.G. Browne, The Press and Poetry of Modern Persia, Partly Based on the Manuscript Work of Mrz Muhammad ‘Al Khn ‘Tarbiyat’ of Tabriz (Cambridge 1914), xxiixxiii, can state the reason for such a hypothesis: “Poetry is one of he most active agents in awakening nations from their lethargy and in inspiring them with the spirit of vitality… It therefore behoves the poets to abandon the habit of composing laudatory poems and panegyrics…and to employ their lofty and God given talents for the service and education of the people …” 2 Cf. Adonis, Introduction à la poétique arabe (Paris 1985), 17-37. 3 It is always useful to make reference to Ibn Khald n who, in his Muqaddima, defines the meaning of poetry among the Arabs of the jhiliyya: “[T]he Arabs thought highly of poetry as a form of speech. Therefore, they made it the archive of their sciences and their history, the evidence for what they considered right and wrong, and the principle basis of reference for most of their sciences and wisdom,” Muqaddima, tr. F. Rosenthal (New York, 1958), vol. III, chap. VI (54), p. 374. In principle, something similar can be said for any society influenced by Islam, as pointed out also by the Encyclopédie de l’Islam, 2nd ed., “Shi‘r.” 4 Besides the biographies of the singer, such as the ones by M. al-Sayyid Sh sh, Umm Kulthm, Hayt Nam (Cairo 1976), for example, or the pages that approach her from a sociological perspective, as in V. Danielson, “Artists and Entrepreneurs: Female Singers in Cairo during the 1920s,” in Women in Middle Eastern History, ed. N. Keddie and B. Baron (New Haven 1991), 297-301, more significant here, seems to be the fictionalized biography by Selim Nassib, which I have consulted in a French translation, Oum (Paris 1994).

Biancamaria Scarcia Amoretti

popular Arabic singers, and became a kind of patriotic hymn, representing an ideal shared by all, regardless of any political or religious differences.5 The second statement is related to Persian as a language. In fact, I do not think that the role of Persian as a common language for a great part of the Muslim intelligentsia, at least until the 1930’s, has been sufficiently emphasized.6 This justifies a topic through which I intend to express my gratitude, however inadequate, to Prof. Heshmat Moayyad, my Persian teacher during his first year at the Istituto Orientale of Naples, who often specifically concentrated his academic interests on modern Persian literature.7 We are obliged to somehow choose authors for our sampling field. Muhammad Riz Mrz ‘Ishq (1893-1924), within the context of a general overview of Persian literature, represents a break and a new trend.8 His attitude is motivated primarily in political and ideological terms. In fact, to change the code or means of expression, and to break away from old literary genres seems crucial to him in order to diffuse new ideas, independent of traditionally consolidated forms and styles, and to come closer to the language of the public to whom the underlying ideological message is addressed. His plays confirm this. True to his objectives, his namyishnmahs are essentially poetic texts, to be recited, of course, but above all, memorized and declaimed before a

5

I am speaking of the famous poem, sung by the very popular singer, Marcel Khalfa, Bayrt tuffh/wa’lqalb la yadhak/wa hisarn waha/f ‘lam yahlak…. On Mahm d Darwsh as poet, and therefore politician, cf. Mahm d Darwsh, Palestine, mon pays. L’affaire du poème, avec la participation de S. Bitton, M. Peled, O. Avnéri (Paris 1988). Even more congruous here are the remarks of Sh. Kadkani on “poetry after the second World War” as reported in Hillman’s review of History of Persian Literature from the Beginning of the Islamic Period to the Present Day, ed. G. Morrison (Leiden-Köln 1981) in “Iranian Studies,” vol. XV, ns. 1-4 (1982), 251-60. 6 In fact, it seems plausible to associate and interpret the “literary Renaissance” of the Constitutional period, cf. V. Kubíková, “Persian Literature of the 20th Century,” in J. Rypka, History of Iranian Literature (Dordrecht, 1956), 362-389, in the light of the links between the Persian intellectuals and the Iranian community of Istanbul, cf. Les Iraniens d’Istanbul, eds., Th. Zarcone, F. Zarinebaf-Shahr (Paris/Istanbul/Louvain 1993), or of the role of cultural mediators played by the Azeris as ‘border people,’ inhabitants of the border region, in the diffusion of Western political ideas through the prevalent, though not exclusive, use of Persian. Regarding Indian regional contexts, cf. H.I. Sadarangani, Persian Poets of Sind (Karachi 1956) and The Growth of Indo-Persian Literature in Gujarat, ed. M.H. Siddiqi (Baroda 1985). 7 Specifically, we make reference to two of his works: Once a Dewdrop: Essays on the Poetry of Parvin E’tesami (Costa Mesa 1994) and Stories from Iran: A Chicago Anthology, 1921-1991 (Washington, DC 1991). 8 V. Kubíková, op. cit., 386, quotes the opinion of Machalski, one of the greatest experts on matters concerning ‘Ishq’s poetry, according to whom, because of his “… highly ingenious variations in the strophic form of the musammat, new rhymes, experiments with syllabic verse, etc., he can be considered significant for the moulding of the new style.”

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participant public that is directly engaged. All this is well known,9 and is not mentioned here because the aesthetic success of the poet’s attempt is at stake or the value of his lyric poetry. In another context, but still within the suggested framework, ‘Ishq’s biography contains an important element: his trip to Istanbul. It is not by chance that his Nawrznmah is dar tawsf-i bahr-i Istnbl (on the description of Spring in Istanbul). That is to say that ‘Ishq and his work implies a somewhat cosmopolitan dimension, pervasive of Muslim intellectual environments up to the beginning of the 20th century, to which the widespread use and knowledge of Persian contributed substantially. Among the various examples that substantiate the fact that Persian was also part of basic literacy curricula, involving the Arabic world as well,10 and not only the areas traditionally subjected to the cultural role of Persian or its hegemony, I would like to quote Mawln Muhammad ‘Al (1878-1931), a famous Indian Muslim who was politically connected and directly relevant to the second example analyzed here, Muhammad Iqbl: As I did not belong to an ‘lim family, all I had to do was to read with my old red-bearded pedagogue…half a dozen or more textbooks in Persian, like the Gulistn and Bostn of Sadi; the letters of Aurangzeb, Nizami’s Sikandarnama or Epic about Alexander’s conquest of Persia; Firdausi’s more famous Shahnama and some prose works composed in less intelligible and more ornate though not more graceful Persian than Sadi’s [my italics], such as Zahuri’s Sihr nasr or that delightful but malicious lampoon of Nimat Khan-e Ali on Aurangzeb and his conquest of the Shia kingdoms of the Deccan….These were purely cultural and literary, not religious studies.11 Muhammad Iqbl (1873-1938) can be considered ‘Ishq’s contemporary. In his case, the political role of the poet and its ample span due to the use of Persian are even more explicit if compared to ‘Ishq. In fact, if Iqbl is defined especially as the spiritual

9

In any case, such remarks are also very well reported in Encyclopaedia Iranica, v. VIII, fasc. 6, by A. Karimi-Hakkak, “Eshq,” 638-40. There is also a monograph by Muhammad Q’id, ‘Ishq (Tehran: Tarh-i naw, 1998; revised 2nd edition, 2001). 10 Cf., for instance, A. Pellitteri, Islam e Riforma (Palermo 1998), 91, where the author gives us a cultural profile of Tawfq Efend al-Ayy b (d. 1932), who taught the great intellectual Damascene reformer, Rafq Bey al-‘Azm (d. 1925) and Idem, ‘Abd al-Rahmn al-Kawkib (1853-54/1902). Nuovi materiali bio-bibliografici (Roma 1998), 10. 11 My Life: A Fragment: An Autobiographical Sketch of Maulana Mohamed Ali, ed. and annotated by Mushirul Hasan (Delhi 1999), 49.

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founding father of Pakistan,12 others like the above-mentioned Muhammad ‘Al whose political career, at some point, was dedicated to Islam,13 refer to him in a very different light, at least according to Bausani’s interpretation of Iqbl’s views on Islam.14 In spite of his fame as an Urdu poet, Iqbl himself admits that he uses Persian when seeking a wider audience,15 beyond the Indian subcontinent. Again, Mawln Muhammad ‘Al explains the fact: …there was one man who not only equaled my enthusiasm for Iqbal, but surpassed it….it was my brother whose speeches during his propaganda were so full of Iqbal’s poetry which he would chant in his ardent love of it.… But when he found that this time Iqbal had written verse in Persian which needed a little brushing up of all he and I had learnt of that language in the maktab of our read-bearded pedagogue at Rampur ages ago, he swore with full-throated ease at his favourite. Nevertheless, we started reading his Asrr-i khud…and gradually his anger was appeased 12

Cf. M.H. Khatana, Iqbal and Foundation of Pakistani Nationalism, 1857-1947 (Lahore 1992); Iqbal, Jinnah and Pakistan: The Vision and the Reality (Lahore 1984). 13 My statement mainly depends on the fact that Muhammad ‘Ali (cf. EI²), a legalist Muslim, owes his celebrity, outside the Indian context, to his engagement in the “Khilafat Movement,” in favour of the Ottomans, defeated in the First World War. 14 A. Bausani (Muhammad Iqbal, Il poema celeste, a cura di A. Bausani, Bari 1965, p. 23 of the “Introduction”) sketches out the spiritual course of Muhammad Iqbl, in these terms: “In Iqbal’s philosophy, there was (around 1910) a real conversion from Sufic pantheism to personalized theism of primitive Islam, from God/substance to God/person. This conversion will lead him from contemplation to action in a moral context and in politics there will be a shift from a vague pan-Indianism, which made him write before 1905 a ‘hymn to India’ towards a growing awareness of Indian Islam as ‘nationhood’.” But, on Iqbl’s view of Indian history, see also Hussain Riaz, Iqbal, Poet and his Politics (New Delhi 1987), 137-147, in particular Iqbal’s appreciation of Aurangzeb who “reaffirmed the distinct nationality of musalmans in India” (141) and, for a different perspective on the same question, Rafiq Zakaria, Iqbal, the Poet and the Politician (New Delhi 1993) 1-15. 15 The choice of Persian as his poetical language begins, as far as we know, in 1915 after his visit to Europe. His first poem in Persian, the Asrr-i khud, is precisely the one in which (almost paradoxically) he criticizes the greatest representative of Persian lyricism, Hfiz, “as the personification of a world imbued with decadent mysticism…which determines the annihilation of the Ego, the weakness before the invading enemy, and surrender before injustice under the pretext of universal love,” cf. A. Bausani, Storia delle letterature del Pakistan (Milan 1958), 189. The question of Iqbal’s shifting into Persian and of his mastery of the language is far from being settled; cf. Iqbæl Singh, The Ardent Pilgrim: An Introduction to the Life and Work of Muhammad Iqbæl (Delhi 1997), 25-27; Hussain Riaz, op. cit., 112113, 42-43, where the author, respectively, states that in India, “Muslims were no longer familiar with Persian” and that “Iranians found Iqbal’s language archaic and did not accept him as a great poet until recently,” while in the same, he suggests a comparison between Iqbæl and Ghælib who, according to him, oddly enough, “suffered from the same complex with regard to Persian.”

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for we soon realized that this was even great and more enduring than what Iqbal had so far written and that it made a wider appeal to the Muslim world for which Urdu would not have sufficed. Compared with the molten lava of his Urdu verse this appeared at first to be colder and more ‘monumental.’ But when once Iqbal had shed his philosophy of the earlier part…we could see that in the veins of the marble too a fiery fluid was flowing.…16 In any case, Iqbl’s debt to Persian cultural heritage is clear in both his Urdu and Persian production.17 Regarding the latter, maybe even though he does not seem to adopt the Indian style as a mode of expression,18 his special link to Ghlib19 is more direct, yet not exclusive. His classic mode, so to speak, is confirmed by the direct quotations of great Persian poets, at times highlighted by the editor of his Persian Kulliyt, which is part of the traditional lyric code.20 The references to the past, regarding both ‘Ishq and Iqbl, can be easily decoded. One cannot help quoting a few verses from ‘Ishq’s Rastkhz referring to the emotions of someone (i.e., the author himself) passing by the ruins of Ctesiphon21:

16

My Life: A Fragment, 148-49. Cf. A Schimmel, “The West-Eastern Divan: The Influence of Persian Poets in East and West,” in The Persian Presence in the Islamic World, eds. R.C. Hovannisian, G. Sabagh, (Cambridge 1998), 148, 157. More precise still, concerning the way in which Iqbl follows the models of the past in each single genre, is Ahmad Sur sh, in his “Introduction” to the Kulliyt-i ash‘r-i frs-yi Mawln Iqbl-e Lhr (Tehran s.d.), 1-60. This one is a second edition which, as Sur sh himself points out in the foreword, does not contain the specific part of criticism, to which he suggests to return, included in the first edition of 1965. But A. Bausani, speaking of “modern dynamism,” in Storia delle letterature del Pakistan, op. cit., p. 97, had already stated that this can be expressed far more easily in Urdu, it being a “superlanguage,” and then a “universalistic, social instrument.” He quotes, to confirm his point of view, a short composition by Iqbl, a ‘dialogue with God.’ Such a poem is translated by Bausani for this purpose “in a clearly Western style,” i.e., in free verse, although he points out that the poem is in Urdu, but follows “the quantitative metric and the conventional rhymes of the most traditional poetry of Iran.” 18 Cf. the “Introduction” of A. Bausani to Muhammad Iqbl, Il poema celeste, 14-21, and above all, the enlightening pages of Bausani’s “Introduction” to Poesie di Muhammad Iqbal (Parma 1956), 8-14. 19 It is noteworthy that the first reference to Goethe, without mentioning his name, occurs in Iqbal’s Urdu poem, “Ghlib,” published in the September 1901 issue of Makhzan a monthly magazine whose editor was Iqbal’s intimate friend, Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qdir: cf. M. Ikram Chaghatai, Goethe, Iqbal and the Orient (Lahore 1999), 27, 88 n. 94. 20 We are working from the edition of Ahmad Sur sh, Kulliyt-i ash‘r-i frs-yi Mawln Iqbl-i Lhr. 21 The edition of ‘Ishq referred to here is the one by ‘Al Akbar Mushr Salm, Kulliyt-i musavvar-i ‘Ishq (Tehran 1344/1967), 233. 17

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n dar u dvr-i darbr-i kharb z-n safar gar jn bi-dar burdam digar andarn b-rhah v-n trk shab n buvad gahvrah-i Ssniyn qudrat u ‘ilmash chunn bd kard ay Madyin az tu n qasr-i kharb

chst y rab v-n sutn-i b-hisb shart kardam nvaram nm-i safar kardam az tanh’ u az bm tab … bungah-i trkh-i rniyn za‘f u jahlash nchunn bar bd kard byad rn zi khijlat gardad b

Bausani compares these lines to Khqn’s verses, containing a similar theme: expressing “a grand sense of universal fate, serene and peaceful, however sad” as far as Khqn is concerned, and “useless nationalism” regarding ‘Ishq’s “vexation because the Persians of today have not managed to act like their alleged true noble ancestors.”22 But this is precisely the point. The modern poet recycles the same material that has been used in the past for other purposes.23 Literary images are the ones that have been, in a way, interiorized by the collective subconscious, and can be used in ways and areas yet to be explored. Every single wedge in the makeup of these images can be easily and directly understood, but it is not an insight that cannot be updated. In fact, the addressee of the political text shares the poet’s sensitivity, and this allows a shift in the ideological message, carried and borne by traditional images. Success consists in gaining awareness of such a change. This change takes place within a framework of continuity, as no preliminary denial of one’s artistic memory is required to partake in the novelty. If there is no success, then, either alienation regarding one’s historical memory has already developed, or the poet has gone beyond his tradition and cannot recover any material to mould anew, as was always the case in Persian poetry and continues to happen, for instance, in Iqbl’s poetry. ‘Ishq’s times are distinguished by the development of a national idea in ethnic and linguistic terms rather than in religious or cultural ones. The constant evocation of ancient Iran in his work is therefore logical. All this leads ‘Ishq, when he looks for the glorious roots of “Iranianness” to favor the Achaemenids (and the Zoroastrianism associated with it) rather than the Sasanians. To mention Ctesiphon is an obligatory literary topos. Nevertheless, both the Sasanians and Achaemenids together are a continuum that must be re-enacted. True to his time and to the subversive ideas that he

22

A. Pagliaro, A. Bausani, Storia della letteratura persiana (Milano 1960), 855, 403. Also see Shaf‘ Kadkan, “Persian Literature (Belles Lettres) from the Time of Jami to Present Day,” in Persian Literature (Leiden 1981), 178. 23 Could it be in ‘Ishq’s case an unwanted/unconscious influence of the bzgasht style of the Qajar period as portrayed by Sh. Kadkani, ibid., 170, at least with regard to “the repertoire of images”?

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professes,24 ‘Ishq does not consider the significant cultural fact that the Sasanians played an important part in the ideal historical reconstruction made by classical Islam, which in turn claims them for its regal and secular past, to be placed alongside its Biblical history and its Prophets to mark the various phases of the relationship between humanity and a unique God. However, the Achaemenids belong to a golden age. Therefore, it is Cyrus who in Rastkhz always bows his head in shame over the present in a scene of desolation25: Ay dd agar man saram az sharm bi-zr ast sharm-i man az arvh-i saltn asr ast kih bdand bi-bandam kunn ta‘nah zanandam kay asr-i tu m saltn hl-e asrat-i malik-i khvud-bn n kharbah qabristn nah rn-i mst n kharbah-i rn nst rn kujst The final verses of Rastkhz focus on Zarathustra’s character26: Man ravn-i pk-i zartushtam kih bi-sutdd hn psh hang-i hamah dastriyn u mu’bidn man sukhan-r-yi dastr-i Mahbdam ham nchih byad dd pand u rahbar ddam ham But Zarathustra does not merely represent a possible Iranian conscience. It becomes a mere figure of speech in Dif‘ az Zartusht,27 Defense of Zarathustra, a poem selected almost by chance, where the poet evokes a tension of love, evidence of the ongoing presence of traditional modes, at least in ‘Ishq’s minor works. The beauties he addresses are the dukhtarn-i turk, whom he advises: sharm- az Khud kund. He asks them kay ‘dat-i qadm-i khud r rah kund, for after so much looting, the very payambar-i pshn-i m has been raided. We have here a clear reference to the Turkish belief

24

Cf. inter alia, V. Kubíková, op. cit., 386, but the most complete and important sketch of the poet by way of articles or reported personal experiences is proposed by Mushr Salm in his above-mentioned edition of the Kulliyt. 25 Kulliyt-i musavvar, 235-36. 26 Ibid., 239. 27 Ibid., 374.

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according to which Zarathustra was Turkish, whereby the only nationalistic hint lies in the fact that Zartusht dil na-bd ki n r tavn rubd. Moreover, in Rukhsra-yi pk,28 a kind of manifesto of the theory of evolution, which Ishq apparently embraced enthusiastically, we find further evidence of the recurrence of classical images and expressions in the poetry of the times we are considering. These happen to be functional, however somewhat ironically from the poet’s point of view (not the public’s), to the propaganda of revolutionary concepts. Man chu yak ghunchah bi-shukuftah garbn chkam gar chu gul bsham dar chashm-i khasn khshkam … gar dar ’na-yi npk bi-bn rukh-i pk naqs rukh nst chunn hukm kunad idrkam… Yet the betraying mirror, or the bud not quite blossomed, are metaphors of the foolishness of those who do not know, or do not want the following to be known: Qissa-yi dam u havv durgh ast durgh nasl-i maymnam u afsnah bd az khkam To end, once more, with a common image used, just like any other, in order to strengthen the message: Man hamn dna-yi b-qaymat u qadram kih ravam dar dil-i khk-i darn t kih bar yad tkam Iqbl shares ‘Ishq’s ideal climate, but they are situated poles apart. Both poets claim to be trustees of a mission of awakening among their own people. ‘Ishq addresses only Iran. Iqbl becomes the bearer and interpreter of Islamic renewal. To put forward images of a glorious past, moreover, via a tested linguistic convention is the same approach Iqbl takes when writing in Urdu. The “Ode to Spain” (Ispniy),29 in Urdu, is a convincing example. The spears of those who camped on Spanish soil were like shimmering stars; to hope that local beauties still need red henna is a pretext to remind us that red blood is flowing in the poet’s veins; the marks traced out in the dust – an enduring sign of bowing in prostration during ritual prayers – contrast sharply with the cry that laments the vanishing feverish fervor that used to animate the faithful, who obviously need to be shaken out of their slumber by 28 29

Ibid., 369. Bl-i Jibrl, from the Kulliyt of his poetry in Urdu (Lahore/Islamabad 1990), 430-31.

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remembrance of their predecessors’ glorious deeds. Islamic history is not the only pretext to channel new ideas. In a poem dedicated to Ihrm-i Misr,30 also in Urdu, Iqbl draws a parallel between nature, capable only of creating sand, and amazing human conquests. The final verses summarize his ‘positivistic’ idea of art. Being a human activity, art cannot be subjected (ghulm) to nature (fitrat), despite our uncertainty about whether artists should be considered hunters or prey. Moreover, like ‘Ishq, Iqbl is also charmed by pre-Islamic Iran, from which he draws material to mould his characters. For example, Ahriman and Zarathustra, in his Jvdnma,31 make their appearance together with R m or Mazdak, or even Western philosophers, without any distinction whatsoever. Of course, these are ‘characters.’ The chosen technique is to emphasize a vague symbolic appeal or call that does not seem to borrow anything from the reality of history, not even when these characters become the bearers of ideas that they may actually have historically held, as in the case of Hallj. What is important is that this call be recognizable. In such a perspective, it will not sound out of key to insert here and there classical verses, which are well known among ordinary folk, perhaps even by heart.32 Consequently, it will make sense when Iqbl himself expects the Iranian prophet to express the yearning to communicate and share the certainties of faith: Jilva-yi haqq chashm-i man tanh nakhvst husn r b-anjuman ddan khatst chst khalvat? Dard u sz u rzst anjuman dd ast u khalvat justujst … So far we have dealt with how conventional and traditional expressions or codes can give way to new contents. If we then turn to the formal aspect and the style, strictly speaking, we cannot but mention Iqbl’s introduction to the edition of Paym-i mashriq.33 Here, on the pretext of explaining how his Persian work was inspired by Goethe’s West-östlicher 30

Zarb-i Kalm, ut supra, 625-26. Kulliyt-i ash‘r-i frs, in particular 298. 32 An example of quotation à la lettre: a verse of Ghlib, that Iqbl puts into Ghlib’s mouth (v. Naqsh-i farhang, p. 268 of the Kulliyt, op. cit.): t bdah talkhtar shavad o snah rshtar / be-gudzam bgnah o dar sghar afkanam (Cf. Kulliyt-i Ghlib, [Tehran 1925], 453). The mode of allusion to topics or common expressions of the classical poets varies. Concerning Iqbl, cf. A. Bausani, “Il Gulshan-i rz-i jadd di Muhammad Iqbl,” in Annali dell’IstitutoUniversitario Orientale di Napoli, n.s., VIII (1959), 125-52. 33 Cf. Muhammad Iqbl, Il poema celeste, 182-88. In his Italian translation of the text, A. Bausani states that the introduction has been written by Iqbl in English. Nevertheless, in the only early edition we could find, Paym-e mashriq dar javb-e dvn-e sh‘ir-e lmnav Goethe (Lahore 1923), the introduction of the text is in Urdu. For all the quotations here see pages mm and nn. 31

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Divan, Iqbl explicitly reveals his procedure when employing classic Persian lyrics, and outlines a somewhat implicit comparison with Goethe, who would have attempted to instill a Persian ‘spirit’ in German literature.34 It is not irrelevant to point out that Iqbl (along with the poets after Goethe who exemplified the literary currents of which Goethe is the forerunner) feels the need to chant Platen’s qasda in honour of Napoleon, 35 while at the same time positing an analogy between Germany at the beginning of the 19th century and the Orient in his own day and age.36 This can be interpreted as the anticipation of the reasons that urge him, a century after the publication of the West-östlicher Divan,37 to write his Persian poetry in fulfillment of the ethical and educational program which was the poet’s duty. Nevertheless, there can be another explanation, less immediate but not less valid. That is, Iqbl appeals for the nth time to classical elements, when one expects the courtpoet to either praise or challenge his patron was concerned. Without this clarification, Iqbl’s poems in honor of Fr q or Amnullh38 would appear out of context, as would the poems by ‘Ishq for the Ottoman Sultan.39 Of course, biographical elements, such as their travels, can be invoked as far as both poets are concerned, but was this not also the case in the classical period?40 It is also true that praise of the sovereign can be motivated by the poet’s contingent reformist or nationalist expectations, but the literary stereotype overcomes the political reality and it is therefore irrelevant whether the mamdh is worthy of such praise. This is true especially for ‘Ishq, future enemy of the future shh, to the extent that one may not discount that Riz Khn could perhaps have been the instigator of his murder. What counts is that the poet proves able to use the tools of eulogy and satire. The more the poet’s span of action brims over classical domains, the more effective his social political commitment will be. In this sense, ‘Ishq and Iqbl’s missions do not substantially differ. The poet who has seen nchih dar pardah buvad, cannot but ensure that nchih az pardah brn mrzad. Such is the ghazal’s final verse (it 34

Il poema celeste, op. cit., 185. Ibid. 36 Ibid., 187. Cf. also Chaghatai, op. cit, 38-39. 37 Goethe’s Divan was published in 1819; the Paym-i mashriq was published in Lahore, first in 1923 and, once again, with some additions, in 1924. 38 Kulliyt-i ash‘r-i frs, in particular, 459-60 and 188 (not accidentally a Paym-i mashriq poem). I do not totally agree with what Iqbæl Singh says (op. cit., 66-67) concerning Iqbæl’s expectations on Amænullæh’s policy in Afghanistan, dedicating a poem to this king in hopes that “the new monarch would transform his mountainous kingdom into a model Islamic state based on Iqbal’s concepts of Muslim polity.” 39 Ibid., 270-71 (Nawrznmah). 40 For example, the still controversial issue of the relationship between Hfiz and Tm r. 35

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comes after those quoted above, regarding Ctesiphon). Here ‘Ishq contrasts the Achaemenid dynasty in all its majesty and glory to the disastrous misery of contemporary Iran; Farhd, the incomparable, to a contemporary Iranian; the Eiffel Tower, from where “flowers are scattered on Napoleon’s tomb,” to Persepolis, the downfall of which he laments.41 The difference between the two poets is ideological, the message that they each bear. Paym-i mashriq is dedicated to “His Majesty, the King of Afghanistan,” the reformist Amnullh Khn, who “fully aware of the truth” and “thanks to his inborn intuition and intelligence” is “particularly attentive to the education of Afghan people.”42 ‘Ishq can appear more extremist in his assertions, or perhaps more modern. Iqbl, for example, challenges the value of “homeland”43: n chunn qat‘-i ikhvat kardah and bar vatan ta‘mr-i millat kardah and t vatan r sham‘-i mahfil skhtand naw‘-i insn r qab’il skhtand On the contrary, ‘Ishq extolls44: vakh kulh nst vatan t kih az saram bar dshtand fikr-i kulh dgar kunam mard n buvad kih n kulahash bar sar ast u man nmardam ar bih bñ-kulah n bñ-sar kunam man n niyam kih yaksarah tadbr-i mamlakat taslm-i harzah gird-i qaz vu qadar kunam For Iqbl, progress does not imply a violent change of the established order. If the Muslim community (millat) needs leaders and reforms, Islam offers sufficient instructions and good governance. There is no need for the East to resort to alien experiences, without rejecting, however, potentially positive input from the West. 45 41

Kulliyt, 233-34. Il poema celeste, 188. But very important are also the pages of his Six Lectures on the Reconstruction of Religious Thought in Islam (Lahore 1930), pp. 219-120, on the situation of the Islamic world with specific reference to the Ottoman Empire (the 6th lesson in The Principle of Movement in the Structure of Islam). 43 Dar ma‘n-yi kih vatan ass-i millat nst in Kulliyt-i ash‘r, 78. 44 ‘Ishq-i vatan, in Kulliyt, 377. 45 An obvious reference to his Six Lectures on the Reconstruction of Religious Thought in Islam, 203ff (again, the 6th lesson of The Principle of Movement in the Structure of Islam). Cf. the rich bibliography 42

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‘Ishq’s political views cannot be so neatly outlined. He claims to be an anti-Republican, but in a contradictory manner. He has been described by one of his contemporaries as a confused young man. In spite of this, he has been said to suggest, perhaps not only theoretically, an ‘d-i khn (bloody festival) in celebration of a kind of popular justice against those unworthy to hold power.46 A further issue should be considered: Iqbl’s operation is ultimately more complex than ‘Ishq’s. His classical education, as a learned Muslim, implies a certain dichotomy in his background. The repertoire available to him is not proper to everyone in the Indian context where he functions as a poet. This is not unique to him, alone. It has been noted that many among the Hindu intelligentsia are capable of using “a language steeped of Hindu metaphors” in their political propaganda,47 while there is no Muslim equivalent. This does not mean that Muslim leaders are misunderstood or unpopular. In this context, Iqbl’s example is emblematic of how an educated poet can be well known and loved by the masses, and also be the bearer of a political message. However, the problem of his literary references persists. We have already mentioned Ghlib, yet Ghlib is part of the Persian or Indo-Persian tradition. Iqbl seems to solve the problem, stressing his reference to the most common Islamic clichés. Consequently, at least in theory, he must differ from ‘Ishq, in the choice of both his public and his own qualifying role. Again, in the introduction to his Paym-e mashriq,48 Iqbl makes his intentions clear, noting that the East, especially the Muslim East, has awakened after a non-stop slumber through the centuries. And yet, the people of the Orient must understand that life cannot produce any external revolution until an internal revolution has taken place. He refers to the immutable laws of nature, depicted by the Qu’rn, in simple and eloquent words, “God does not change a people’s destiny if they do not alter what is at the bottom of their heart ...” (13:11): a truth that Iqbl pretends to have always tried to bear in mind in his Persian works. Therefore, Iqbl addresses all Muslims, but, if Indian, so much the better. However paradoxical it may seem, the call to Islam’s awakening as the ideological background and basis for an Islamic-Pakistani concept of nationality with Urdu at its cultural core, employs the very effective tool of Persian to promote and comment on itself.

on this subject, especially Hussain Riaz, Iqbal: An International Missionary of Islam (New Delhi 1993), and P. Shauqat Ali, The Political Philosophy of Iqbal (Lahore 1978). 46 Cf. Encyclopaedia Iranica, which depends very much on the aforementioned work of Mushr Salm. 47 Cf. I. Copland, “The Qaid-e Azam and the Nawab Chancellor, Literary Paradigms in the Historical Construction of Indian Muslim Identity,” in Islam, Communities and the Nation: Muslim Identities in South Asia and Beyond, ed. Mushirul Hasan (Delhi 1998), 104. 48 Il poema celeste, 187-88.

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The leading role that Iqbl urges the Orient to play, displaying Sufi features, clearly shows how its political subject par excellence should be defined. Jvdnma proves it all. On one hand, literary symbols, labeled by Bausani as Bildersprache,49 can be equally shared by Iqbl and ‘Ishq. But on the other, Iqbl differs from ‘Ishq because of his Islamic core: the mi‘rj suggested by Iqbl is an Islamic metaphor for Muslims, and cannot be ‘nationalised’ (as ‘Ishq would do) with his “India’s lament”50: sham‘-i jn afsurd dar fns-i Hind Hindiyn bgnah az nms-i Hind On the contrary, more than elsewhere the difference between Islam and the religious nature of the Indian majority, interpreted by Iqbl in the almost folkloric dimension of fatalism, appears to be clear-cut: Jbir u majbr r zahr ast az jabr n bi-sabr payham khgar shavad n bi-jabr payham khgar shavad har du r zawq-i sitam gardad fuzn However, employing the same mould, ‘Ishq, instead, can afford to open his Nawrznmah51 with an extremely conventional image of the adolescent helmsman and guide amidst the danger (though, in actuality, it speaks merely of crossing the Bosphorus): But dshab dar n kasht kih burd bar Mod mr namdnam khud mburdamn y nkhud mr ham dnam kih rnd az n khatar dshab khud mr nadd chn kashnd sayl-i mawj az har kuj mr … dar n hlat tu m khra bd mawj-i dary r man az ‘ishq-i tu az khvud rafta mahrm-i n tamsh r shudam gharq-i tamsh-yi tu mh sarv-i bl r fashnd bd bar ryat du zulf-i mushk-s r fitdah bd ‘aks-i mah bar b u n ‘ajab mr ki mah-i dgar afrzad hamn chn tu afrz

49

For example, in A. Pagliaro, A. Bausani, Storia della letteratura persiana, 263. Kulliyt-i ash‘r, 349-350. 51 Ibid., 263. 50

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Re-membering Amrads and Amradnums: Re-inventing the (Sedgwickian) Wheel Afsaneh Najmabadi Harvard University The current historiographical narrative of the Iranian-European cultural encounter in the nineteenth century is pivoted around the notion of European gender heterosociality and the public visibility of the European woman as key cultural markers. This narrative is an already-heteronormalized narrative of the process of heteronormalization of love and the feminization of beauty in Iran’s long nineteenth century. I came to this conclusion towards the completion of my manuscript, Women with Mustaches and Men without Beards: Gender and Sexual Anxieties of Iranian Modernity.1 The argument turned out to be more radical for my own work than I had anticipated. I ended up reconceptualizing and re-writing the entire manuscript. Indeed, I had to re-read my sources. As part of that process, I became first intrigued and then obsessed by a remarkable amnesia and the work of that amnesia in conceptualization of gender of modernity. Simply put: gender of Iranian modernity has been configured around a takenfor-granted binary of man/woman. This configuration has worked to screen away other nineteenth-century gender positionalities and has ignored the inter-related transfigurations of sexuality in the same period. Eve Sedgwick's proposition that “an understanding of virtually any aspect of modern Western culture must be, not merely incomplete, but damaged in its central substance to the degree that it does not incorporate a critical analysis of modern homo/heterosexual definition,” is as pertinent to any study of Iranian modernity.2 Transformations of gender are deeply inter-articulated with those of sexuality. In this paper, I will map out some of the key links in this process by looking at several familiar cultural markers of Iranian modernity and suggest ways in which they could be re-read productively through a Sedwickian lens. Who is a farangma’b? Since the late-nineteenth century, a great deal of cultural criticism in Iran was focused on

1

Women with Mustaches and Men without Beards: Gender and Sexual Anxieties of Iranian Modernity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005), from several chapters of which the current paper is excerpted. An earlier version was presented at the “Workshop on Twentieth Century Historians and Historiography of the Middle East,” May 23-26, 2002, Bogazici University, Istanbul. 2 Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, Epistemology of the Closet (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990), 1 (my emphasis).

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the figure of farangma’b, the Europeanized male dandy.3 For a whole historical period the prime figure of modernity’s excess was not female. The so-called Westoxicated woman did not occupy her position as the central demon of gharbzadig [Westoxication] until the 1960s and ‘70s. In the earliest writings of Iranian modernists, even as late as the 1920s, woman signified backwardness. In one of the most popular satires of farangma’b, “Ja‘far Khn az Farang madah” [Ja‘far Khan has returned from Europe], a 1922-play by Hasan Muqaddam (1895?-1925), while Ja‘far Khan performs excessive and superficial Europeanization, his female cousin Zinat enacts undermodernization. At this point in time, tradition and backwardness resided in woman, excess of modernity in man, a particular type of man. For reforming modernizers, the farangma’b gave a bad name to a worthy project. Critical satire and cartoons would detail his clothes, his vest-pocket watch, his affected reading glasses, his walking stick, his bow-tie, his pipe, his use of perfume. In short, the farangma’b’s understanding of “Farang” (Europe, “the Franks”) was to dress up like a European, or Farang (mutilabbis bih libs-i Farangn). 4 This designation denotes the superficiality of the “mimic man,” the emptiness of cultural trans-vesting. But why would the critique of superficiality and empty mimicry acquire such harshness, and occupy so much discursive space not only in conservative criticism of modernists, but in modernist discourse itself? What kind of purging does the excess of cultural energy spent over this meek and pitiable figure perform? The vehemence of the anti-farangma’b critique points to traces of a native original that haunted the mimic figure. There was (always) already a weight to that emptiness. Farangma’b as performative of cultural inauthenticity was already implicated in a masquerade that has screened away something else. For conservatives,5 the farangma’b stood for all that was going wrong. As a mimic figure, he enacted simulation of the other (tashabbuh bih ghayr). Most evidently, this other (ghayr) in the nineteenth century referred to the Europeans (rather than, for instance, the majs, or Zoroastrians). But how, and through what iconic threats, was this fear of the foreign articulated and fought off?

3

For a discussion of a similar figure, alafranga, in Turkish literature of a comparable period, see Deniz Kandiyoti, “Slave Girls, Temptresses, and Comrades: Images of Women in the Turkish Novel,” Feminist Issues 8, 1 (Spring 1988): 35-50. 4 Huqq 1, 19 (22 November 1907): 2. 5 I am using “conservative” in its literal meaning and in preference to “Islamic counter-modernist,” a more common designation in current Iranian historiography. Not all who were wary of change in the sociocultural life of Iran in the nineteenth century used an Islamic discourse to articulate their concerns. Nor were all Islamic thinkers and theologians conservative. Many among them were reform-minded and became Constitutionalist by the end of the century.

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Zayn al-‘bidn Khn Kirmn, a leading figure of the Shaykhis, in his 1912 rislah, under problem number nine – “Presently there are people who apparently have the name of Muslim, but in all respects resemble foreign milal. Are they truly counted as part of Muslim community? Is it permitted to mix with such people?” – offers a long answer centered on the problem of tashabbuh: Looking like one’s enemy is forbidden.6 He based his conclusion on narratives (akhbr) that argue that men who make themselves look like women become effeminized (ta’ns dar nh hsil mi-shavad). Mohamad TavakoliTarghi has persuasively argued that counter-modernists feared Europeanization as effeminization.7 But there was another anxiety that informed the fear of simulation: the farangma’b looked like amradnum, the adult man who made himself look like an amrad, a young beardless male adolescent. Zayn al-‘bidn Khn Kirmn, under problem number 11, concerning “cross-dressing” – “Certain items of clothes that are for men, and these days they are becoming fashionable for women to wear” (110), and the reverse, men wearing unmanly clothes – first argued that the prohibition in both cases is centered on its constituting simulation. He went on, however, (113) to emphasize that “the main purpose [of this prohibition]” is to stop men trans-dressing as women and becoming penetratees and women dressing as men and engaging in mushiqah. 8 Changing clothes as such, he argued, was not the main problem. It was a first step toward abominable acts.9 This gender/sexual fear is most eloquently articulated through nineteenth-century contestations over men’s beards. Though the debate over the permissibility of shaving the beard was not novel, a man’s shaving his beard was re-signified in the nineteenth century. The growth of a full beard as a mark of adult manhood made a man look different not only from a woman but perhaps even more importantly from the amrad. The severe edicts within books of etiquette and moral behavior prohibiting men from shaving their beards were (are) related to this critical passage from a state in which it was acceptable to 6

Rislah-yi haftd mas’alah dar javb-i Siqat al-‘Ulam Salms az mas’il-i mukhtalifah (Kirman: Sa‘dat, 1959), problem # 9 covers pp. 97-106. A generation earlier, Zayn al-‘bidn Khn Kirmn’s father, the Shaykhi leader Muhammad Karm Khn Kirmn (1810-1871) had expressed similar fear and prohibition of taking a liking to, befriending, eating with, adopting the manners of, or wearing clothes like the Farangs in his writings. See, for instance, “Rislah-yi Nsiriyah” [completed on 15 March 1857, pp. 296-398, in Volume 1 of Muhammad Karm Khn Kirmn, Majma‘ al-ras’il-i Frs (Kirman: Chpkhnah-yi Sa‘dat, 1967-69), 3 v. in 1], the epilogue [khtimah], 382-398. On Muhammad Karm Khn Kirmn ’s political and religious thought, see Mangol Bayat, Mysticism and Dissent: Socioreligious Thought in Qajar Iran (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1982), 63-86. See also Mohamad Tavakoli-Targhi, Refashioning Iran: Orientalism, Europology, and Nationalist Historiography (London: Macmillan, St Antony's/Palgrave Series, 2001), 71-72. 7 See Tavakoli-Targhi, Refashioning Iran, chapter 4. 8 Literally, “rubbing.” The word is commonly used to refer to same-sex practices among women 9 For the full discussion, see Zayn al-‘bidn Khn Kirmn, Rislah-yi haftd mas’alah, 110-116.

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be the object of desire of adult men to a state in which that would constitute unmanliness. They express the fear that young men may continue an interest in remaining an object of desire, rather than becoming the desiring man. An adult man shaving his beard, taken as a declaration of his desire to be desired by other men, would be linked to >ubnah, 10 considered an illness in medical discourse. 11 Zayn al-‘bidn Khn Kirmn, under problem number 28, on the necessity of keeping the beard while cutting the mustache short, argued that shaving of the beard was in the same line of acts as those committed by the people of Lot. To give up on the tradition of growing a full rounded beard, as it had become presently common among many young people, he pronounced as absolutely prohibited (219-220). Yet the nineteenth-century fears were also one of Iranian adult men looking like Farang men. In the eyes of Iranian men, the beardless adult men of Europe constituted a disturbing spectacle of amradnum’, simulation of amrads. Thus a farangma’b’s shaving of the beard was compounded sexual and cultural trouble: it made him look like a European through his looking like an amrad. Muhammad Karm Khn Kirmn, discussing removal of bodily hair, offered the reason for prohibition of shaving as not only that it made a man look like a woman and a young boy, but that it was especially forbidden now because the Farangs and their followers shaved their faces.12 Decades earlier, in 1804, q Ahmad Bihbihn travelling to India was deeply disturbed to see that “there is a fashion of shaving beards among the high and low, ruling elites and the nobles, nay even among the students of religious institutions.”13 He was so disturbed by this sight that he wrote a treatise on the subject. By the middle of the nineteenth century, Muhammad Shaf‘ Qazvn, a hatmerchant from Qazvin, would write that there were two things, one inherent and one acquired, upon which “the glory of people [that is, the men] of Iran is dependent....What is inherent is the Iranian beard, and what is acquired is the Iranian hat. The magnanimity of every man is dependent on these two which they [foreigners] did not have and could not conquer.” 14 His view of Tehran as a city of vice was explicated in terms of the prevalence of fornication among women (121) and liaisons with amrads. He went on to >Ubnah refers to the desire of an adult man for anal penetration. See Franz Rosenthal, “Ar-Razi on the Hidden Illness,” Bulletin of the History of Medicine 52 (1978): 4560; Bassem Nathan, “Medieval Arabic Medical Views on Male Homosexuality,” Journal of Homosexuality 26, 4 (1994): 37-39. 12 Muhammad Karm Khn Kirmn, Majma‘ al-ras’il-i Frs, 2:146. 13 Ahmad Bihbihn, Mir’t al-ahvl-i jahnnum, ed. Shayesta Khan (Patna: Khuda Bakhsh Oriental Public Library, 1992), 161; see also the English translation by A.F. Haider, India in the Early 19th Century: An Iranian’s Travel Account (Patna: Khuda Bakhsh Oriental Public Library, 1996), 71-72. 14 Muhammad Shaf‘ Qazvn, Qnn-i Qazvn, ed. Iraj Afshr (Tehran: Talyah, 1991 [written c. 1285AH (1868-69)]), 52-53. 10 11

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suggest that had young men with such facial beauty existed during the Prophet’s time, he would have made the verses on veiling to apply to them as well. Such concerns over the signifying effects of the beard were not theoretical amusements. During the nineteenth century, edicts were repeatedly issued by clerical leaders prohibiting the shaving of the beard. Muhammad Karm Khn Kirmn had specifically declared that not only was the man who wanted his beard shaved committing a sin, but it was prohibited that the dallks (bath masseurs) should accept to engage in this practice.15 A government report from Isfahan in 1889 noted, “A number of mullahs have decided to prohibit bath masseurs from shaving beards. They have made them give assurances to that effect and Hjj Siyyid Ja‘far Bdbd had a dallk who had shaved beards bastinadoed.”16 In the summer of 1892, Tehran clerics prohibited men from shaving the beard and women from wearing shoes with stiff heel backs (pshnah nakhvb; high heels?).17 The amount of cultural energy invested in discussion of and policies on beards and beardlessness demonstrates the extent to which the figure of amradnum was problematic for Iranian modernity. Modernists such as Mlkum Khn, Mrz q Khn Kirmn, and Taqzdah who had most vehemently argued for Iranian adaptation of European mores were possibly for this reason most strongly condemning of male homoeroticism and same-sex practices. They were under continuous suspicion of being an amradnum. The strong criticism against a figure such as Taqzdah is usually read as condemnation of his advocacy of mimicking Europe, centered on the issue of cultural inauthenticity, but this misses the sexual anxiety over his beardlessness. Even when attention to such changing mores is given, it has often been framed as changes that were seen as effeminizing. We have become so modern that we can only think of binaries, native vs. foreigner, man vs. woman.18 Yet in the 19th century, we are dealing with a culture in which gender was not the male-female binary that we now take for granted. In particular, adult manhood was not just, or even in the first place, marked away from womanhood. It was marked from young-manhood, from amradhood if you will. 15

Muhammad Karm Khn Kirmn , Majma‘ al-ras’il-i Frs, 2:146. Guzrishh-yi awz‘-i ss, ijtim‘-i vilyat-i ‘ahd-i Nsiri (1307 AH) [1889-90], Muhammad Riz ‘Abbs and Parvz Bad‘, eds. (Tehran: Szmn-i asnd-i mill-i rn, 1993), 30. 17 I‘timd al-Saltanah, Rznmah-yi khtirt, ed. raj Afshr (Tehran: Amr Kabr, 1966), 950. 18 Jean E. Howard and Phyllis Rackin in Engendering a Nation: a feminist account of Shakespeare’s English histories (New York: Routledge, 1997), 143-147, have argued that for the English aristocracy “conversion from a militarized to a consuming class” felt emasculating; that luxury and display were felt as effeminate; that modernity was received as a polluting effeminizing force. Perhaps Iranian modernity could be said to have been received by some conservative forces not simply as effeminizing, but perhaps more threateningly as amradizing, with farangs and farangma’bs inscribed as sites of modernity’s polluting force, through their similitude with amradnum. 16

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Being an amrad was a transient phase of life: an amrad grew to become a man. amradnum, on the other hand, was a highly detested abject figure. He enacted a refusal to become a man, and by that refusal threatened manhood. He displayed the fragility of masculinity, the ever-present possibility of adult manhood lapsing into the state of unmanhood. It is this figure who became modernized into the farangma’b dandy, the fukul [the bow-tied man], as he went into a masqueraded national subjectivity. Transformation of Genders and Sexualities The nineteenth-century’s clear distinctions between woman, amrad, amradnum, and man means that gender difference was not read through a template of sexualities, nor sexualities through a binary of gender. Womanhood and amradnum-hood were distinct abject positions. Modernity’s remapping through gender’s visibility and sexuality’s masquerade turned gender into a language for conceptualizing sexualities. It is then that amradnum, along with fukul and farangma’b, become effeminized. Qajar Iran began with a notion of adult male sexuality that was focused on young male and female objects of desire. By the beginnings of the twentieth century, however, male homoeroticism was no longer openly celebrated in poetry and painting. In the writings of the most radical modernists, such as khundzdah, Mrz q Khn Kirmn, and Taqzdah, it was viewed as unnatural love. Along and in connection with female seclusion, it became a sign of backwardness. This transformation took place through intense cultural interactions with Europeans. At least as early as the first years of the nineteenth century, Iranian men had become acutely aware that Europeans considered older man/younger man love and sexual practices a prevalent vice in Iran.19 In response, Iranians began to dissimulate, deny, and disavow male same-sex practices. The resulting restructuring of desire introduced a dividing distinction between homosociality and homosexuality. Iranians began to "explain" to European visitors that at least some of the practices that the latter read as homosexuality, such as men holding hands, embracing, and kissing each other in public, were not so: the Europeans were misreading homosociality for homosexuality. Disavowal of homosexuality out of homosociality set in motion two seemingly contradictory, yet in fact enabling, dynamics. It marked homosociality as empty of homosexuality, and by insisting on that exclusion, it provided homosexuality a homosocially masqueraded

19

For a full discussion, see Chapter Two in my Women with Moustaches, op. cit.

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home: We can continue to hold each other's hand in public, because we have declared it to be a sign of homosociality that is empty of homosexuality. This masquerading move could not but affect homoeroticism itself. The amrad had been a distinct figure of desire, both as an object of desire and as a figure for narcissistic identification. Both positions of desire now became feminized. To desire to be desired by a man, or to desire a man, both became positions occupiable by women only. Heteronormalization of sexuality did not, of course, mean elimination of homoeroticism or same-sex practices, hard as Iranian modernists (secular or Islamist) have tried through denial, disavowal, legal sanction, and social approbation. What was heteronormalizing about this transformation, however, was the simultaneous production of heterosexuality as natural and same-sex desire as a derivative desire, forced upon the natural as a consequence of unfortunate social arrangement of sex-segregation. In other words, one critical distinction between the process of heteronormalization in Iran and that of Western Europe as proposed by Foucault is that in Iran no notion of the homosexual as a type emerged as a dominant discourse. Though other discourses about same-sex desire could have been crafted from available Islamic classics – for instance, Rz’s or Ibn Sn’s views of ubnah could have been reconfigured to articulate same-sex desire as inborn (Rz) or as malady of the will (Ibn Sn)20– this is not what emerged. Nor was European medicalized discourse on homosexuality adopted. Iranian modernizers insisted that same-sex acts were what men (and women) did because of social norms separating sexes from each other. Once men and women socialized more freely, same-sex practices and celebration of homoeroticism would just go away. Gender de-segregation, women’s education, and embracing of companionate marriage, would make same-sex desire redundant. The continuous energy invested in eradication of same-sex love and practices indicates the elusiveness of this modernist “optimism,” as well as its critical position for modernity’s contours. The modernist causal link crafted between male same-sex practices and gender segregation (more particularly veiling of women) made male same-sex desire and practices (much like the veil) a sign of the backwardness of Iran. Modernist drives at gender desegregation worked at once as a veiled campaign to eradicate same-sex practices and "unnatural sexualities." From this perspective, unveiling becomes somewhat more complicated than simply aimed at modernizing women. Our current focus on the issue of the veil and women's emancipation as the centrally-contested project of Iranian modernity misses the productive work of these moves for heteronormalization of Iranian society; it has become a "screen memory" of Iranian history. It screens away 20

On Rz and Ibn Sn’s views, see Rosenthal, “Ar-Razi on the Hidden Illness,” op. cit.

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the other achievement of Iranian modernity: the erasure of the amrad from the national imagination. At the level of Irano-Islamic culture, one cannot help but be alternately amused and angered by the amount of cultural energy spent in denial of male homoeroticism. This can range from the artistically incredulous yet common place (e.g., illustrated divans of Hfiz) to the more intriguing and wider academic amnesia. How is it, for instance, that books on the Muslim afterlife often omit the ghilmn (male youth) altogether while spilling a great deal of ink on the hr (the female “houri”)? The 1999-editors of ‘rif’s fifteenth-century The Ball and Polo Stick or The Book of Ecstacy devote over three pages of their five-page introduction to an exercise in disavowal. Arguing first that “it is important here to dispel any notion that [‘rif] might have been glorifying homosexuality or homoeroticism,” the authors end up by concluding that, “In a sense, the strict segregation of the sexes not only relegated females to their own world but also prevented them from serving as the metaphors for inspiration they became in European courtly love.”21 The argument unravels its own disavowal of homoeroticism of The Book of Ecstacy by inscribing it as an unfortunate consequence of the unavailability of women for such metaphoric work. It seems that the book is after all homoerotic, but only because it has no other erotic choice. The presumption of the naturalness of heterosexuality and the unnaturalness of homosexuality is singularly absent from the classical Perso-Islamic view. Intimately linked with notions of beauty, love and desire could be inspired in a man as easily, if not more so, by a beautiful male face as by a female one. Such desire was not viewed as improper or sinful in itself; the notion of sin belonged to the domain of deeds, for which reason there is plenty of literature warning against practices of “gazing” that might prompt a believer to engage in sinful acts. Such warnings (and punishment of acts) was equally directed against men having extra- or pre-marital sex with women.22 Recent feminist efforts to write women into obliviously-male-centered histories, while succeeding in recuperating the figure of woman and in showing the work of gender have inadvertently worked to further consolidate this historical amnesia by doing gender analysis without paying attention to transformations of sexualities. The Feminism of Modernist Men In a series of insightful essays over the past several years, Deniz Kandiyoti has probed into the possible meanings of the well-known mid-nineteenth-century phenomenon of the

21

‘rif of Herat, The Ball and Polo Stick or The Book of Ecstacy, Wheeler M. Thackston, Jr. and Hossein Ziai, eds. (Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda Publishers, 1999), x-xii. 22 See Charles Pellat, The Encyclopedia of Islam, 2nd ed., s.v. “Liwt”.

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emergence of feminist men in a number of Middle Eastern countries.23 One is tempted to return to Freud’s question: What did these men want? Kandiyoti’s initial response was to argue for the importance of looking at the formation of masculinities. She read the feminism of male modernizers as “the rage of an earlier, subordinated masculinity masquerading as pro-feminism” (Kandiyoti, 1994, 198). In the later essays, Kandiyoti probed into the intersection of gender with sexuality, suggesting that “Defining responsible social adulthood in terms of monogamous heterosexuality was not only a matter of proscribing co-wives, concubines, and child brides but also of taming other, unruly forms of male sexuality....Although a history of Ottoman sexualities remains to be written, we must acknowledge that the emergence of contemporary gender identities cannot be fully grasped without being informed by this history.”24 In her latest essay, Kandiyoti concludes that “Underlying reformers’ and polemicists’ writings on the modern family, monogamy, and educated mothers and housewives...is a new regulatory discourse on sexuality that attempts to institutionalize monogamous heterosexuality as the normative ideal.”25 The dynamic of this transformation, she locates in the political transformations of the Ottoman state: “Not only the survival but the viability of the nation depended upon the judicious regulation of population, a task given added urgency by the loss of both life and territory in the closing decades of the Ottoman Empire. However, at the center of the problem of population lay sex: it was necessary to monitor ages at marriage, levels of fertility, and maternal and child health. Moreover, it was not merely the material aspects of procreation that came under scrutiny but the psychological and emotional tone of family life itself, which mandated new orientations and disciplines for both women and men.”26 This proposition implies that the drive for institutionalization of heterosexual monogamous nuclear marriage had to do with procreation, upbringing, and education. But men performed their procreative tasks even in the old system. They were heads of households with full masterly responsibility, including their children’s upbringing. At the heart of this shift, I suggest, was rather a re-casting of male eroto-affectivity from the best 23

Deniz Kandiyoti, “The Paradoxes of Masculinity: some thoughts on segregated societies,” in Dislocating Masculinity: Comparative Ethnographies, ed. Andrea Cornwall and Nancy Lindisfarne (London: Routledge, 1994), 197-213; “Gendering the Modern: On Missing Dimensions in the Study of Turkish Modernity,” in Rethinking Modernity and National Identity in Turkey, ed. Sibel Bozdogan and Resat Kasaba (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1997), 113-132; and “Some Awkward Questions on Women and Modernity in Turkey,” in Remaking Women: Feminism and Modernity in the Middle East, ed. Lila Abu-Lughod (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998), 270-87. 24 Kandiyoti, “Gendering the Modern,” 117. 25 Kandiyoti, “Some Awkward Questions,” 284. 26 Kandiyoti, “Some Awkward Questions,” 281.

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love into the worst vice. This may also explain why the male reformers’ discourse, at least that of Iranian reformers, was short on monogamy and reform of divorce laws (two issues central to the discourse of women reformers), but long on what Kandiyoti calls “Male longing for the ‘modern’ woman expressed . . . insistently through clamorous demands for ‘love’” (Kandiyoti, 1998, 282). The feminism of early male reformers, from this perspective, was about a modernity that had marked male homosociality/sexuality as a key obstacle to progress. In Iran, for instance, male homoerotic homosociality was reconfigured through a complex process in which its erotic component was re-directed toward heteroerotic romance and companionate marriage; its homosociality toward bonds of patriotism, itself mediated through the female figure of beloved Iran. Iran as beloved was critical for this process of dissolution and redirection, at once consolidating the beloved as female and serving as a shared erotic mediator for a male patriotic brotherhood. Unveiling women was necessary for hetersocialization of society. To heterosocialize society and heterosexualize men’s primary erotic orientation, changes in the status of women were called for. Romantic love, companionate marriage, and women’s education were not simply necessary for mothering modern citizens and supporting male patriots. They were implicated in this larger process of reconfiguration of male homo-eroto-affectivity. I am not making an accusation of bad faith. Nor am I suggesting some grand conspiracy, but a different logic to many of these endeavors, so far in our mind largely affiliated with women’s emancipation. The most feminist Iranian reforming men, khudzdah, Mrz q Khn Kirmn, and later Taqzdah, were the most homophobic; more than that, they were the thinkers who categorized male homoeroticism as unnatural (as we shall see presently). This is not a meaningless coincidence. Once a signifying link between the farang-i brsh (beardless European) and the abject amradnum had emerged, reforming modernizers were under immense challenge to de-link looking like Europeans from the unbearable cultural burden that adult male beardlessness carried. khundzdah formulated some of the earliest and strongest anti-Arab, antiIslamic, anti-religious writings of modernity with a focus on women’s conditions as a central marker of Iran’s backwardness – Islam, the Qur’an, and Muhammad as the causes of this backwardness; polygyny and hijb as centrally responsible institutions, with hijb as the cause of male same-sex practices; and male homosexuality as a deviation from nature. Mrz q Khn Kirmn in many ways further elaborated these same themes in his writings. And finally with Taqzdah, they became translated into statements of culture and politics. Taqzdah became notorious for his tireless advocacy (until much later in life) that Iranians must mimic Europeans in all things without exception. He ridiculed the homosociality of Iranian men: “Some well-believing Muslims every day

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beat up their wife and then go out to have fun and gaze at their own kind (!) [Exclamation in original] and think all this is perfectly natural and normal.”27 He heaped scorn on what he considered useless Iranian politicians, asking what could one expect of a young man “who spends his time laying on a mattress, smoking opium, reciting poetry about filthy and unnatural love, who keeps time according to the old system, thinks men’s outfit should be long and women’s short (inside the house), shaves his head and lets his beard grow?”28 He considered one of the major problems of Iranian society to be the prevalence of “unnatural love among all classes of the nation.”29 Further, he went on to include its eradication as a point of his projected program for Iran (along with women’s education and the introduction of sports into the school curriculum).30 He explicitly called upon poets to compose, instead of the old homoerotic verses, poetry that would encourage people to educate their women, making women loveable and re-directing love of men toward women: “As poetry is often a reflection of the gentle emotion of love and admiration of the beauties of nature, and as poets hold the key to the propagation of all kinds of affection and love, it is their task to turn this gentle, natural, and lofty emotion away from despised paths, with which their ancestors have polluted its pure essence, and to place a purer feeling in the hearts of the men of our country.”31 A key component of “achieving modernity” and “becoming civilized” became the “eradication of unnatural love” among men. To recognize the intimate link between transformations of gender and sexuality would have radical implication for re-thinking our current narratives of women’s emancipation. If we foreground this link, issues we have so far treated as issues of modern womanhood become issues of heteronormativity. The veil, for instance, has often been read as a sign of backwardness vis-à-vis the West, unveiling as a move to progress and civilization. But the veil was also the key visible signifier of homosociality. It was explicitly linked to “unnatural love” among men (itself a marker of backwardness) and “unnatural sex” among men was in turn held responsible for “unnatural sex” among women. Unveiling and the mixing of men and women was seen as necessary for re-directing the love of men and women toward each 27

Kvah 5, 8 (16 August 1920), editorial, 1-3 (quote from p. 2). Kvah 5, 11 (13 November 1920), editorial, 1-4 (quote from p. 2). 29 Kvah 5, 11 (13 November 1920), editorial, 1-4 (quote from p. 1). 30 Points from his program included: “3. Adoption of the principles, manners and customs of European civilization and their unconditional acceptance. 4. Widespread encouragement of physical sports of all kinds.... 12. Freedom of women and their education and rights... 15. Eradication of the shameful practice of unnatural love which from time immemorial has been one of the worse vices of our people and is one of the chief obstacles to civilization.” Kvah 2 (new series), 1 (11 January 1921), editorial, 1-4 (quote from p. 2). 31 Kvah 5, 12 (13 December 1920): “Falaj-i shaqq: past-i hlat-i ijtim‘-i zann,”: 1-2. Quote from p. 2. 28

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other. In this sense, unveiling read as progress-as-Europeanization has screened the heteronormalizing labor of unveiling. Without belaboring this point further, I would suggest that very similar observations pertain to the issues of reconfiguring men’s friendships (the process of transforming male homo-eroto-affective bonds into patriotic national comaraderie involved critical de-eroticization of its homo-affectivity and reorienting its eroticism toward a female beloved vatan) 32 and advocating romantic marriage (transformation of marriage from a procreative contract to a romantic pact). I would further suggest that the evident differences and differing emphases between reforming men and reforming women of the period (on such issues as unveiling, reform of marriage and divorce laws, etc.) could also be productively read when we take into account the different positions that these men and women occupied in terms of their relation to male homoeroticism and same-sex practices. Feminism and Male Homoeroticism If from its inception, Iranian feminism was so inter-articulated with disavowal, denial and eradication of male homoeroticism, what cultural and political work could contemporary feminism perform to re-configure a genealogical branching that would deal with this history? How could we re-envisage a feminism that brings out homosocial and homoerotic possibilities that earlier feminists (women and men) felt compelled to cover over, if not suppress and deny? And is it possible to do so without engaging in feminist matri(and patri)cide? From the start, the modernist project of female emancipation became premised upon disavowal of male homoeroticism and pressured for eradication of male same-sex practices. In women's writings on companionate romantic marriage, men were called upon to give up a variety of culturally sanctioned sexual practices, if women were to commit themselves to the new deal.33 Women's call for men to disavow same-sex practices could be seen as a move to rid themselves from a double occupancy with amrad. This move further marked the (over)Europeanized man as the masculine (with a masculinity under question) figure of modernity's excess. A number of twentieth-century transformations made the (over)Europeanized woman the privileged excess of modernity. Yet the figure of the fukul was never very far from

32 33

See Chapter Four of my Women with Mustaches (op. cit., 97-131). See, for example, Bb Khnum Astarbd, Ma‘yib al-rijl, edited with an introduction by Afsaneh Najmabadi (New York: Nigrish va nigrish-i zan, 1992), 56, 61-63, and 80-81.

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returning to the scene. Recall that Amr ‘Abbs Huvayd, Iran's prime minister for much of the last decades of Muhammad Riz Shh's reign, executed in 1979, was rumored to be a Baha’i and a homosexual.34 The two designations were figures of Iranian modernity's alterity and excess. He was thought to be not only politically impotent and passive vis-avis the Shah, but a passive homosexual as well. His marriage was considered a ruse and jokes about his sexual life were but a barely concealed topic of political satire and social gossip. He was always meticulously shaved and immaculately tidy. He wore an orchid on his coat pocket. All of these linked him with the figure of fukul, a mimic man, always already under suspicion of being an amradnum. Feminist critique of Iranian modernity has been focused on the disciplinary work of a figure of female excess – the Westoxicated woman – for production of modern womanhood. This focus has worked as a "screen memory" for the other figure of excess, that of the farangma’b. In a troubling sense, this feminist critique has continued the kind of disaffiliations that have marked its own emergence. Farangma’b was a figure of double displacement. Not only was he a displacement of European man through mimicry, he was also a displacement of the figure of amradnum – an adult man mimicking amrad. Our focus on disciplinary work of the Westoxicated woman has thus provided yet another way of forgetting the troublesome figure of amrad that Iranian modernity has spent a great deal of cultural energy to place in times premodern (by transporting particular sexualities to times forever past) or in a transcendental domain. Yet this haunting figure now threatens to come back in the form of trans-dressed young women in urban Iran, reminding us yet again that studies of gender and sexuality cannot be divided and demarcated into separate proper domains and objects.35 One task facing feminist historiography of Iranian modernity would then be to bring back, to re-member, amrad and amradnum, into national belonging. What if, in place of disavowal of male homoeroto-affectivity, feminism would begin to inquire into the kinds of affinity, “avowable knowable proximity” in place of the disavowed masquerading substitution, that could be crafted between feminism and sexual others who have been placed in times and places before and beyond the modern national?

34

On Huvayd, see Abbas Milani, The Persian Sphinx (Washington, D. C.: Mage Publishers, 2000). Both Milani and Baha’i sources have suggested that Huvayd was never a Baha’i. 35 Judith Butler, "Against Proper Objects," differences 6, 2-3 (1994): 1-26.

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The Title of Hedyat’s Buf-e Kur [(The) Blind Owl)] Michael Craig Hillmann The University of Texas at Austin “A masterpiece if there every was one! A book that should find its place next to Nerval’s Aurélia, Jensen’s Gradiva, Hamsun’s Mysteries, a book that takes part in the phosphorescences of Berkeley Square and the shudders of ‘Nosferatu’.” -André Bréton1 “...and in the wood the owl rehearses the hollow notes of death.” Chorus, Part II, Murder in the Cathedral (1935), -T.S. Eliot Sdeq Hedyat’s Buf-e Kur appeared in Roget Lescot’s French translation as La Chouette aveugle in 19532 and as The Blind Owl in D.P. Costello’s English translation in 1957. A German translation by Heshmat Moayyad called Die blinde Eule appeared in 1960. The Persian original had first appeared in early 1937 in a limited edition of fifty copies which the author produced in Bombay from a handwritten mimeograph stencil. In late 1941, Buf-e Kur appeared in serialized form in a Tehrn daily called Irn. At the end of that year, it appeared in book form in Tehrn, and has been much reprinted since. The best-known twentieth-century Persian book in Iran, The Blind Owl was the first twentieth-century Persian narrative to appear in French and English translations and the only such narrative marketed in America by a commercial publisher. It remains the only Iranian Persian novel readily available to the general English-speaking reading public and one of only a handful of Persian fictions readily available to French-speaking readers. Critical writing in English on The Blind Owl’s author Sdeq Hedyat (1903-1951) exceeds that on the subject of any other twentieth-century Iranian author. Hedyat receives exclusive attention in scores of publications. A Saturday Review piece by William Kay Archer in December 1958 first drew attention to the then just published Costello translation of The Blind Owl. Eight years later appeared the first relatively lengthy study of Hedyat in English: the second half of Hasan Kamshad’s Modern 1

Quoted from a translation by Michael Beard, The Blind Owl as a Western Novel (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1990), p. 79. 2 Lescot actually published his translation first in 1952 in an academic journal.

Michael Craig Hillmann

Persian Prose Literature (1966). Hedayat’s ‘The Blind Owl’ Forty Years After (1978) used Kamshad’s study as a springboard to a multifaceted examination of Hedyat’s book in a dozen essays by different writers. Michael Beard’s Hedayat’s The Blind Owl as a Western Novel (1990) definitively (but not exhaustively) treats the subject of certain and possible European and American sources of inspiration for Hedyat in The Blind Owl. M.A. Homayoun Katouzian’s Sadeq Hedayat: The Life and Literature of an Iranian Writer (1991) presents a biographically oriented appreciation of Hedyat’s writings, The Blind Owl seen as his major “psychofiction.” In British and American journals thirty or so essays on The Blind Owl have appeared. Michael M.J. Fischer’s “Towards a Third World Poetics: Seeing through Short Stories and Films in the Iranian Cultural Area” (1984) presents a close reading of The Blind Owl and discusses it as, among other things, Iranian surrealism and modernism which “reacts against a rigified, fundamentalist and patriarchal universe, a much more traditional enemy than . . . (the) technological and dehumanized . . . world . . . (that) European modernism faced.” Marta Simidchieva’s “The Nightingale and The Blind Owl: Sdiq Hidyat and the Classical Persian Tradition” (1994) finds the traditional Persian poetic image of nightingales behind the modernist image of the owl in The Blind Owl, while her “The River That Runs through It: A Persian Paradigm of Frustrated Desire” (1996) sees Fakhroddin Gorgni’s eleventh-century romance called Vis-o Rmin [Vis and Rmin] as an indigenous antecedent for elements in Hedyat’s book. Fischer’s Mute Dreams, Blind Owls and Dispersed Knowledges (2004) expands his earlier analysis, finding three layers of meaning for the narrator, for all of which the books title image offers suggestive texture and perhaps more (“writing in order to regain sanity” and a coherent narrative sequence; “the struggle for self-knowledge and mastery over the dark forces of the psyche or soul”; and “a lover of Iran despairing over Iran’s cultural decay,” pp. 182-3). As for Hedyat studies in other European languages, Lescot’s French translation brought The Blind Owl to the attention of French literary circles.3 M.F. Farzaneh’s French version of shn’i bæ Sdeq Hedyat [Acquaintance with Sdeq Hedyat] (1988) called Rencontres avec Sadegh Hedayat (1993) provides grist for autobiographical and psychological mills in interpreting The Blind Owl. Some critical writing has also appeared in Italian, German, and Russian, along with translations of the book. Writing in Persian on Hedyat and The Blind Owl naturally exceeds that in European languages and that on any other post-medieval Persian literary figure. 3

André Bréton's review of the translation, quoted from in the epigraph to this chapter, illustrates the positive response to the book in France, although neither there nor elsewhere in the West has The Blind Owl developed a substantial audience over the years, even among academic readers.

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Mohammad Golbon’s Ketbshensi-ye Sdeq-e Hedyat [Bibliography of Sdeq Hedyat] (1976) reviews writing up to 1975. Much Persian writing on The Blind Owl since 1979 has appeared in Europe and America, in the aftermath of an exodus of tens of thousands of literate Iranians unable or unwilling to live in an Islamic Republic. M.F. Farzaneh’s Naqdi bar Buf-e Kur [A Critique of The Blind Owl], published in Paris in 1991, features a facsimile of the original handwritten printing of the narrative, a useful resource for critics working with the original Persian text. A 1992 Hedyat issue of Iran Nameh offers nine essays, among them Mshllh judni’s “Nationalism and Hedyat,” Simin Karimi’s “Language and Style in Hedâyat’s Writing,” and zar Nafisi’s “The Problem of The Blind Owl,” which argues that the narrative’s world of doubt and uncertainty accounts for its distinctiveness among Iranian novels. Written in France, psychiatrist Zardosht Etemdzdeh’s 1995 study called Ravn-e Az-ham-gosikhteh: Bufe Kur [Split Personality: The Blind Owl] provides a long overdue clinical study. A 1996 Hedyat issue of Daftar-e Honar, edited by Bizhan Assadipour, features five or six relevant essays and reminiscences, among them Bahman Saq’i’s “Taqaddos'zod’i-ye Buf-e Kur” [Desanctifying The Blind Owl], which challenges sociological interpretations and effusive praise of the book. Saqâ’i suggests that Iranian lovers of The Blind Owl need to recognize that it deserves only a modest place in the pantheon of world literature. In Iran, despite official censorship of sexuality and irreligion in writing since 1979, writing on The Blind Owl continued to appear there in the 1980s and 1990s. Sirus Shamis’s Dstn-e Yek Ruh: Sharh va Matn-e Buf-e Kur-e Sdeq Hedyat [The Story of a Soul: Commentary and Text of Sdeq Hedyat’s The Blind Owl] (1993) illustrates a popular Iranian approach to analysis in its sentence-by-sentence examination of the book in terms of possible symbolism in its images and incidents. M.A. Homyun Ktuzian’s Buf-e Kur-e Hedyat [Hedyat’s The Blind Owl] (1994) exhibits another popular approach to Hedyat’s book in its treatment of it as a “psycho-fiction.” Despite the substantial critical attention which The Blind Owl has received, neither in Iran nor in the West have critics analyzed it to the satisfaction of several generations of readers whom the book fascinates but puzzles. Critics have not agreed among themselves on the nature and facts either of what Hedyat describes and narrates in it or what themes his book may embody or voice. The first thing which readers see with Hedyat’s book in hand is its title Buf- Kur [(The) Blind Owl], a simple enough phrase which nevertheless constitutes the book’s first puzzle for readers. This paper examines the title anew and suggests how a new appreciation of it may contribute to reader enjoyment of Hedyat’s novella. On the front cover of the 1969 Grove Press Evergreen Black Cat Book edition of The Blind Owl, beneath the words “The Blind Owl: A Novel from Persia by Sadegh Hedayat,” appears a sketched blue and orange owl image, with large dark spots for eyes and background green dots showing through and around the owl. Images of four owls,

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one without eyes, appear on the front cover of Hedyat’s ‘The Blind Owl’ Forty Years After (1978). Michael Beard uses Hedyat’s own sketch of an owl on the cover of Hedayat’s The Blind Owl as a Western Novel (1990). An owl image decorates Hedyat’s grave in Père Lachaise cemetery in Paris. But none of these attractive images hints at the status of the owl in Hedyat’s Iranian culture. The following quatrain is attributed to an early Persian poet called Shahid Balkhi (d. 936): Last night I passed by the ruins at Tus and saw an owl where peacocks once sat. I asked: What news have you of these ruins? The owl said: All I can say is – alas, alas! In his 1934 edition called Tarneh'h-ye Khayym [The Songs of Khayym], Sdeq Hedyat records this variant of the quatrain: I saw a bird seated on the parapet of Tus with the skull of Kaykvus in his claw. The bird was saying to the skull: Alas, alas, Where are the caravan bells and the sound of drums?4 Such images, the first that presumably come to mind when Iranian literary people read the title of Hedyat’s book, suggest a culture-specific context to appreciation of how the word “owl” should resonate of Hedyat’s book. Tus was a famous, pre-Islamic Persian city. Kaykvus is the name of a famous mythological Persian king in epic Shhnmeh [(The) Book of Kings] stories as well as an historical king of the Persian Ssnid dynasty (ruled 224-651 C.E.). Peacocks, a sometimes symbol of Persian royalty, are birds associated with gardens and luxury, while drums and caravan bells hint at military power and economic prosperity. The owl in the Balkhi quatrain knows what has happened and now reclusively lives in Tus because of what has happened. The glorious days of Ssnid Persia are no more. That civilization, once the equal of Rome, collapsed in the middle of the seventh century C.E. in the face of the Arab-Moslem invasion of Iran (= Persia). The Arab-Moslem invasion led to dramatic and permanent changes in the religion, culture, and language of the Persians (= Iranians or Persian-speaking Iranians). Islam supplanted Zoroastrianism. The Arabic language replaced the Middle Persian 44

Sdeq Hedyat, editor, Tarneh'h-ye Khayym [Songs of Khayym] (Tehrn: Amir Kabir, 1963, fourth printing), p. 86, no. 55.

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language called Pahlavi as the language of government. Two centuries later, however, a new Persian language emerged called “Prsi” or “Frsi,” written in Arabic script and exhibiting an overlay of Arabic vocabulary. About the same time, local Persian dynasties wrested control of several eastern provinces of the Islamicized “Persia” from Arab caliphal control, adopted this new Persian language, and nurtured and supported a literature in it. That Persian literature has continued for 1,100 years. Moreover, owing to its support by royal courts and other factors, literary Persian has undergone so few changes over the centuries that tenth- and eleventh-century poems, such as Shahid Balkhi’s, are almost as easy to read today as contemporary Persian texts. The Persian language is a point of special pride to many Persian-speaking Iranians who see it and such classical Persian literary works as Shhnmeh [Book of Kings] (1010) by Ferdowsi (940-1020), Khayymic quatrains, Sadi’s Golestn [(The) Rose Garden] (1258), Masnavi-ye Manavi [Spiritual Couplets] by Jalloddin Rumi (12071273), and the lyric ghazal poems of Hfez (c.1320-c.1390) as evidence of their distinctive identity and special worth as a people and a culture. Woven into some of these classics is an ambiguous attitude toward the Arab Moslem invasion that brought the new Persian language into existence, while quoted poems by Shahid Balkhi and Omar Khayym exhibit nostalgia for pre-Islamic, Ssnid Persia. Likewise, most readers see cultural nationalism and nationalistic nostalgia behind Ferdowsi’s monumental Shhnmeh, which he spent thirty years compiling in over 50,000 couplets, making it perhaps the lengthiest verse composition ever written by a single poet. Perhaps the most vivid representation of this nostalgia featuring an owl image is a famous poem usually called “Qasideh-ye Mad’en” [Ode to (the Palace at) Ctesiphon] by Khqni (d.c. 1200). On the banks of the Tigris River, Ctesiphon was a capital city of the Iranian Ssnid emperors who ruled from 224 to 651 C.E. The Arab Moslem attack on the city left it in ruins, which exist today. Khqni’s ode reads in part: Take care, o heedful heart, to mind the eye’s lesson: see the palace at Ctesiphon as a mirror of admonition. Once along the Tigris, stop at Ctesiphon, and let a second Tigris flow onto Ctesiphon’s soil . . . . Weep anew for the Tigris and give it your eyes’ alms, even though the shore takes alms from the Tigris . . . . Once the palace chain at Ctesiphon broke, the Tigris went awry and twisted like a chain. From time to time call out to the palace in the tongue of tears to hear with the heart’s ear its reply . . . . It says: You are of earth and we now the earth beneath your feet; trod upon us, and shed two or three tears.

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Our head truly aches with the wailing of the owl; weep rose-water tears to ease that pain. Why do you marvel that in the world’s meadows owls follow nightingales, and lamentation song? We were the court of justice, and this injustice befell us– what privation must await palaces of the unjust? This heavenly palace the decree of the turning heaven or that of the heaven-turner seems to have overturned . . . . Dismount, put your face to the chess cloth ground, see Nomn checkmated under the Ssnid elephant’s foot. No, see Nomn-like, elephant-slaying shhs whom elephantine night and day have crushed under the feet of ages . . . . 5 As for the fact that the Arab-Moslem invasion, which Khqni’s ode directly addresses, brought to an end Persian Iranian culture as a mostly Indo-European heritage, some intellectual Iranians fourteen hundred years later, Hedyat among them, still ponder that cataclysmic event and voice consequent anti-Arab, anti-Moslem animus in their writing.6 The Blind Owl reveals this attitude in such images as horses’ hooves shrouded in the mist appearing as if they had been cut off in accordance with some barbaric law (29, 52) and the old Koran reader’s teeth, yellowed and decayed, readers are supposed to assume, from reading the Koran (53, 107, 109). To this point, the owl in its Persian literary context has appeared as a recluse, a resident of ruins, and a creature whose presence suggests that something terrible has happened. In Manteq al-Tayr [Conference of the Birds] by the Sufi poet Faridoddin Attr (d.c. 1220), one of the most famous narrative works in all of Persian literature, an owl plays a distinctive role. In this allegorical narrative, members of the bird kingdom decide to make an arduous journey to find their bird-king, the mythological, phoenix-like “Simorgh.” Before they set out, birds of all sorts gather and talk about what lies ahead. Some birds express fear and apprehension, some express their determination to make the trip. Among them is an owl, whom Attr describes in these words: The owl approached with his distracted air, Hooting: Abandoned ruins are my lair, Because, wherever mortals congregate, 5

Emphasis added. For a complete translation and commentary, see Michael Hillmann, Iranian Culture: A Persianist View (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1992, revised printing), pp. 48-51. 6 Joya Saad argues this in The Image of the Arabs in Persian Literature (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1997) in her review of contemporary Persian writing available in English translation.

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Strife flourishes and unforgiving hate; A tranquil mind is only to be found Away from men, in wild, deserted ground. These ruins are my melancholy pleasure, Not least because they harbor buried treasure. ... Love for the Simorgh is a childish story; My love is solely for gold’s buried glory.7 Based on this description and other owl stories in Persian Iranian culture, an orientalist Persianist has observed: Among the sinister birds one must include the owl, a bird always associated with ruins. The story of Anushirvan and the owl is the classic expression of this idea: if the king continues to be unjust, the whole country will fall to ruin and can be given as a splendid dowry to the owl’s daughter. And because the owl lives in ruins it seems to be fond of gold, as treasures are usually hidden in ruins.8 Attr’s thirteenth-century owl and the orientalist’s characterization of the image in premodern Persian Iranian culture anticipate Hedyat’s twentieth-century owl in its aversion to human society and lack of faith in things spiritual. Moreover, in the image of “ruins,” which might mean a sort of wasteland for a twentieth-century writer or narrator, one might hear echoes of the last lines of T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land and wonder if Hedyat’s owl may survive and live off the “ruins” of the story for which it serves as the title. Perhaps Hedyat’s owl will feed off ancient history, or the past in general, which can seem very alive to some Iranians, Hedyat included. Past Iranian disasters and tragedies can remain mental cultural burdens for them. The narrator of The Blind Owl is such an Iranian. In his world, the ominous owl living in the ruins of past Iranian greatness makes for an appropriate, haunting, and depressing image and presence. The juxtaposition of “owl” and “nightingale” in Khqni’s “Ode to Ctesiphon” raises another culture-specific issue about the title of Hedyat’s book. In traditional Persian literature, love serves as a central environment for the depiction of human 7

Faridoddin 'Attr, The Conference of the Birds, translated by Afkham Darbandi and Dick Davis (New York, NY: Penguin Books, 1984), p. 48. 8 Annemarie Schimmel, A Two-Colored Brocade: The Imagery of Persian Poetry (Chapel Hill, NC: The University of North Carolina Press, 1992), pp. 185-186. Schimmel's use here of the qualifiers “always” and “usually” is hyperbolic.

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conflicts and actions. In Persian lyric poetry, Iran’s chief literary medium from the tenth to the twentieth centuries, the lyric speaker is a lover more often than anything else. As a lover, he often represents his situation as parallel to that of the nightingale, singing love songs, to the beloved rose. By the middle of the twentieth century, Persian prose fiction had for the first time ever superceded Persian lyric poetry as Iranian culture’s chief literary medium, and nontraditional images and views of love and almost everything else challenged conventional, pre-modern images and themes. Relevant to the discussion at hand is appreciation of the conflict between Iranian reader expectation that their literary narrators and speakers play familiar roles of insightful, melodious, lover nightingales and the reality of the title The Blind Owl. In an article called “The Nightingale and The Blind Owl: Sadiq Hidyat and the Classical Persian Tradition” (1994), Marta Simidchieva analyses the issue and contrast and suggests a further significance to the pairing of owl and nightingale: . . . in Persian tradition poets are routinely compared to nightingales. The nightingale has a sweet, harmonious voice, it sings at night, inspired by love for the rose. Hidyat’s metaphor obviously evolved from the traditional one through a series of oppositions: the nightingale is to the owl as love is to death, as the harmony of the ideal is to the jarring discord of the subconscious, as the order [nazm] of poetry is to the apparent chaos of prose, as a classical poet is to a modern writer.9 Four Persian words denote “owl.” The commonest is the originally Soghdian word joghd which appears several times in The Blind Owl. Then there are the words kuf [rhymes with “roof”] and bum [rhymes with “room”], the latter originally from Arabic. The fourth Persian word for “owl” buf [rhymes with “proof”], the word that appears in the Persian title of Hedyat’s narrative, comes from the pre-Islamic Iranian Middle Persian language called Pahlavi and has been a synonym for the word joghd [owl] throughout the history of the neo-Persian language called Frsi. As a result of the popularity of Hedyat’s Buf-e Kur [(The) Blind Owl], buf has become a second popular generic term for “owl.”10 Three factors about the book’s title make separate consideration of it appropriate. First, the title promises to have something beyond the ordinary behind it because the words “blind” and “owl” comprise a special entity. The title promises to say more than Main Street, the name of the place where Sinclair Lewis’s book takes place, or Women in Love, an accurate description of several main characters in D.H. Lawrence’s story, or The 9

Marta Simidchieva, “The Nightingale and The Blind Owl: Sdiq Hidyat and the Classical Persian Tradition,” Edebiyat 5 (1994): 251. 10 Hushang A'lam, “Buf,” Encyclopaedia Iranica 4 (1989): 505.

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Mansion, the name for a central location in William Faulkner’s novel. The title The Blind Owl suggests immediately intriguing possibilities that need pinning down in the reading of Hedyat’s narrative in the way that the adjective-noun combinations in such titles as Pale Fire and The Satanic Verses invite special initial speculation that reading narrows down. Second, Hedyat’s title image figures in the book itself. The book will likely reinforce, modify, or disabuse readers of notions about blindness and owls which readers bring to the text. Hedyat could oblige readers to supply all of the mental associations which the phrase can evoke. Or he might do what Salman Rushdie does in The Satanic Verses. Although expecting some readers to know the fourteen hundred years of history behind one meaning of his title phrase, Rushdie’s narrator gradually glosses it, that is to say, reveals its history. Third, because The Blind Owl exhibits enigmatic or solipsistic narration, the book’s title may have special significance. As the only piece of the book perhaps not explicitly presented as part of the strange narrator’s own account, readers may construe the title as the author’s direct statement to them without the subjective, personal voice of the narrator. For readers who take the book as a fiction, it may be author Hedyat’s only direct communication with them if the title is not a phrase that comes out of the narrator’s mouth or onto paper from his fictive pen. As the author’s phrase outside of the fiction–if The Blind Owl is taken as a fiction–, it may somehow characterize that fiction in a way that may help illuminate the text for readers. For all three reasons, examining the phrase “blind owl” in the contexts of Persian Iranian culture and the book of which it is the title should help readers more enjoyably experience the narrative. As an originally Indo-European people, Persian Iranians could presumably associate with their words for “owl” images, notions, and values which other IndoEuropean peoples, including English-speaking peoples of Great Britain and North America, associate with owls. Depicted in pre-historic wall paintings in the Ardennes and in scores of settings in contemporary Paris, owls have their very positive associations for Europeans and Americans. One of them appears in this quatrain by Edward Hersey Richards, inscribed in bold script around the room at The Owl Bar in a landmark Baltimore building called The Belvedere (not very far from Edgar Allan Poe’s tomb!): A wise old owl sat on an oak, The more he saw the less he spoke; The less he spoke the more he heard;

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Why aren’t we like that wise old bird?11 Illustrating another view of owls is this item which appeared in a March 1995 “Outdoors Report” section of an American city newspaper: He strikes, without a sound, under the cover of darkness. While the city sleeps, he kills, often leaving nothing behind to show he even exists, much less that he struck down a victim in the night. He retires with the dawn, withdrawing into a brushy hide in a quiet neighborhood to spend the bright daylight hours until the night brings his victims once again within reach. He is the great horned owl . . . ; and his victims are mostly the vermin of city life, rats and mice, skunks, and opossums. But living as he often does in and around towns and at the top of the avian food chain, he’s not averse to taking a cat or a small dog, careless chickens or even another owl.12 Then there exist notions behind such statements as Shakespeare’s “And yesterday the bird of night did sit / Even at noonday upon the market place” (Julius Caesar, I, iii.2628), which is much closer to Hedyat’s Iranian view of owls, which are notable for their absence in traditional Persian painting. As heirs to Arab Semitic traditions, Persian-speaking Iranians could presumably also count in their lore Arab notions about owls. As Hassan Kamshad reports: “Damari, in The Life of Animals, relates that according to Arab fables when a man dies, or is killed, he sees himself metamorphosed into an owl sitting on his own grave and moaning his bodily death.”13 In addition, one would expect Iranians reading the title “The Blind Owl” to bring to mind Iranian folk traditions and lore about owls and blind owls. The phrase buf-e kur

11

Edward Hersey Richards, Mike Legett, “Squirrels . . . Coyotes . . . And Owls,” Austin American-Statesman, Sunday, 12 March 1995, p. D7. 13 Hassan Kamshad, Modern Persian Prose Literature (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1966), p. 165. Kamshad goes so far as to translate the title Buf-e Kur as “The Recluse” and to assert that the title's “significance lies in Persian folklore.” But the foregoing discussion has demonstrated that Persian literary lore figures significantly in the texture of the phrase. Moreover, readers need to bear in mind that the role of imaginative literature in the lives of literate Persian-speaking Iranians has long differed markedly from its role in the lives of literate English-speaking people. The sorts of literary works cited in this chapter are not just household words in literate Iranian circles, but the subject of study by high school students and leisure reading by adults and often quoted from and talked about in the Iranian print media. The review of owl images in such works also suggests specific attitudes toward history that Hedyat's allusion to owls may imply. 12

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[(the) blind owl] (in Persian attributive modifiers generally follow modified nouns, in this case buf-e kur = “owl” + -e [sign of a modifier to follow] + “blind”), made famous by Hedyat’s title, parallels synonymous phrases in some Persian dialects. The “‘blindness’ [kuri] of owls, which are mostly nocturnal birds, [is] a popular interpretation of their supposed reduced vision and, hence, awkward, foolish-looking behavior in broad daylight.”14 Hedyat himself, whose interest in folklore resulted in several substantial publications, cites owls in several of them, for example, in a monograph called Nayrangestn [Realm of Magic] (1933). There Hedyat records three relevant folk beliefs. First, “It is considered a bad omen if an owl flies across a person’s path.” Second, “If an owl cries, it is a good omen; but if it laughs, it is a bad omen.”15 Third, “If you see an owl, say ‘Maymanat Khnom’ [Lady Luck], welcome, there’s a wedding.”16 Such a salutation and welcome will presumably dissipate the ominousness of the owl’s appearance. In an article called “Chand Nokteh darbreh-ye Vis-o Rmin” [A Few Notes on Vis and Rmin”] (1945), Hedyat discusses a folk belief in this couplet from Fakhroddin Gorgni’s romance: “He whose guide is an owl / Will call a graveyard home.”17 Obvious parallels exist between the book’s title and the behavior and appearance of its narrator. That narrator announces at the outset his intention to describe an extraordinary event which, he asserts, has poisoned and scarred his existence from the beginning to the end of time. He declares that he will try to write down what he remembers of this event merely for the purpose of believing the unbelievable himself. That others believe what he writes is of no importance to him, he says, there being such an abyss between them and himself anyway. He says that he merely wants to introduce himself to his shadow on the wall, bent and appearing to devour everything he writes. Perhaps he and his shadow can come to know each other better. That neckless shadow on the wall may seem to some readers an owl shape. Toward the end of the book, the narrator himself sees a similarity: “My shadow on the wall had become exactly like an owl and, leaning forward, read intently every thing I wrote” (123). He makes that observation at nighttime, when shadows are cast on walls, and when reclusive, sinister, predatory owls are active. This shadow on the wall, a reflection of the narrator, seems ready to devour the narrator’s every word. The narrator also says in the same passage: “I had become like a screech-owl [joghd], but my cries 14

Hushang A'lam, “Buf,” Encyclopaedia Iranica 4 (1989): 505. Sdeq Hedyat, Nayrangestn [Realm of Magic] (Tehrn: Amir Kabir, 1963, third printing), p. 130. 16 Ibid. 17 Sdeq Hedyat, “Chand Nokteh darbreh-ye Vis-o Rmin” [Several Notes on Vis and Rmin], Nevesteh'h-ye Parkandeh [Scattered Writings], p. 503. 15

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caught in my throat and I spat them out in the form of clots of blood. Perhaps screechowls are subject to a disease which makes them think as I think” (123). In this sense, the owl of the book’s title is a reflection or definition of the narrator, just as the narrator’s shadow reflects and defines him. Or the owl/shadow may come to represent one facet or dimension of the narrator, for example, his soul or subconsciousness or consciousness. In these terms, writing for one’s shadow would naturally seem a sort of selfanalysis, in which blindness would constitute an impediment. Because in popular lore owls have special vision skill at night, a blind owl must be a helpless, useless creature with no special quality or skill that would make it different from or better than other creatures. In fact, without vision at night, an owl would not survive. A totally blind owl could not survive. In a narrative in his collection called Vagh Vagh Shb [Mr. Bow Wow] (1933), Hedyat refers to an infirm, old man as “lonely and depressed like a blind owl.”18 Added to this initial impression of the title and its function as an image in Hedyat’s narrative is another realization. The owl shape which the narrator’s shadow assumes literally has no eyes and cannot see, even though it looks as if it is scrutinizing what the narrator says he is writing. As a result of hearing the narrator say that he is writing for his owl-like shadow, readers are free to assume that the image of the narrator’s shadow serves the writer as a device for referring to some part of his narrator’s being, psyche or personality lacking sight or insight into things. Readers can assume that the narrator’s physical presence as depicted in his own words and his shadow and the owl which the shadow resembles are Hedyat’s terms for presenting the title character. If readers can confidently associate the blind owl in the title with the narrator, Hedyat has given readers a piece of information, as stated above, about which his character knows nothing. The narrator sees the owl shape and could tell readers, if asked, that the literal owl-shadow cannot possibly see anything. But the narrator likely does not know that his author and readers may think that he himself is also blind. Of course, that presents this further problem to readers: How will readers come to see things which the narrator can’t? He’ll have to give himself away, as do speakers in Browning’s dramatic monologues or as Prufrock does in “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” or as perhaps even the speaker of Four Quartets does. But another question likewise presents itself: 18

Sdeq Hedyat and Mas'ud Farzd, Vagh Vagh Shb [Mr. Bow Wow] (Tehran, 1933), p. 123. M.A. Homayoun Katouzian, Sdeq Hedyat: The Life and Literature of an Iranian Writer (London, UK: I. Tauris, 1990), p. 137, notes this reference by Hedyat to a “blind owl.” But Katouzian, who does not develop any culture-specific lore in his interpretation of Hedyat's narrative, merely states in a footnote on p. 285: “The owl is an agent of bad omen in Iranian culture.” Katouzian's monograph is hereafter referred to in footnotes as An Iranian Writer.

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What guarantees that readers do not suffer from the same blindness from which Hedyat may be asserting his narrator suffers? If the neckless shadow on the wall shaped like an owl seems to devour everything the narrator writes, readers both resemble that owl-shadow in their own reading over the narrator’s shoulder, as it were, and similarly devour his written words. This fact suggests that readers cannot just sit back and enjoy the show in experiencing Hedyat’s strange book: if they resemble the owlish shadow, a reflection of the narrator, they likewise may resemble the narrator, a discomfiting thought, especially if it implies that readers might not see what needs seeing. Having perhaps assumed that his narrator and Iranian readers of The Blind Owl have something significant in common, Hedyat might expect from those readers either reluctant sympathy toward the narrator or a sort of horrified recognition. In other words, the implication exists that somehow those cancerous sores initially characterized as a fact of life for the narrator exist in every thinking Iranian (as well as in non-Iranians, perhaps). Readers thus have all the more reason not to lose themselves uncritically in the mysterious narrative. It thus becomes a philosophically serious matter for readers to appreciate who the narrator is and what he says and what has actually happened. Readers might hope that the narrator eventually comes to know himself or at least gets his essential self on paper because they might thereby achieve insight into aspects of their own selves and situations. Of course, if the book’s title accurately reflects the personality or situation of a protagonist who is a static character, he will never learn to see, which is to say that his owl-shadow reader self or that part or facet of self which the owl symbolizes will not be able to read what is in front of him to read. If that is the case, then the owl shadow shapes of readers who have eyes to read, unlike the shadow on the wall, have the responsibility to discern who the protagonist is and what the cancerous sores plaguing him are. But even this analysis oversimplifies hard-to-pin-down facts. When the narrator says, “My shadow on the wall had become exactly like an owl” (123), readers can take his statement at face value. Perhaps the narrator is not the title image or character. Perhaps only the owl-like shadow is the title image. In that case, the narrator has merely made the mistake of thinking that the owl-shadow can see. In other words, the narrator never compares himself to an owl. As for readers who have the same relationship to the actual written text as the owl-shadow does to the fictive, despite the suggestion above that they may likewise be blind, no internal reason in the text obliges the assumption that owl-like readers outside of the book need be blind. At the same time, however, the narrator’s observations about his owlness come in what he calls a dream, the relationship of which to his waking life itself needs pinning down. The collection of essays and translations called Hedyat’s ‘The Blind Owl’ Forty Years After (1978) has a cover design depicting a group of owls one of which lacks eyes.

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The writer Sdeq Chubak (1916-1998) objected to the design, saying that the cover should have depicted only one owl,19 as does the cover of the 1969 Grove Press edition of Costello’s English translation. Hedyat’s own drawing of a single owl, featured in the 1937 printing and reproduced on the jacket of Michael Beard’s Hedayat’s ‘Blind Owl’ as a Western Novel (1990) and on the cover of a 1994 reprinting of The Blind Owl in Tehrn,20 is closely identified in some readers’ minds with the story. But I could stand by my choice of cover design for Hedâyat’s ‘The Blind Owl’ Forty Years After in thinking that perhaps Hedyat’s story calls for multiple owls, at least but perhaps only one of them blind. As the narrator himself says early in the story at a moment when ordinary owls presumably could see: “My eyes were open, but I could see no one, for the darkness was intense” (68). In confessing that he cannot see things at night, the narrator can be saying that he is not an owl. As a popular image of the state of owls in daylight, the phrase “blind owl” could imply that the narrator-protagonist cannot see what other and ordinary people see in the daytime. That would mean that only he is an owl, with another image from the animal kingdom necessary for other people who can see in daylight. This also leads to the possible conclusion that other people, all people being owls of one sort or another, may be able to see things at night, whereas the narrator-protagonist cannot. In any case, Hedyat’s book should be disconcerting: readers may not be as different from or superior to its narrator as they might wish or suppose. At the same time, the elsewhere notoriously pessimistic and nihilistic Hedyat may here imply a basis for optimism because readers may be able to see things which The Blind Owl could not.21 Unfortunately, through admission of an inability to come to grips with the book, most critics and other readers have yet to demonstrate sightedness in this regard. As Hassan Kamshad puts it: “. . . the reader, despite all his awareness, is constantly driven into an hypnotic dream-state. He starts reading with a determined critical approach, but gradually an atmosphere of obscurity creeps in; the thread of events becomes blurred, and in the end an attitude of uncritical acceptance prevails.”22 According to Ehsan Yarshater, “In the dreamlike atmosphere of the book, distinction between the real and the imagined is often blurred in the floating and intermingling of events. The reader must surrender to the

19

In a conversation with the author in San Francisco in December 1979. The cover is reproduced in Chanteh, no. 7 (Summer 1994): 27. 21 Deirdre Lashgari, “Absurdity and Creation in the Work of Sdeq Hedyat,” Literature and Society in Iran, edited by Michael C. Hillmann, Iranian Studies 15 (1982): 31-52. 22 Hassan Kamshad, Modern Persian Prose Literature, p. 167. 20

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author’s carefully conceived but elusive plan, his enthralling meanderings between a world of haunting fantasy and the stark realism of the protagonist’s life.”23 As a final illustration of a literary use of the book’s title image, here follows a passage from Nim Yushij’s famous 1922 poem called Afsneh [Myth/Legend], a poem which signalled a new and modernist aesthetic in Persian poetry. The passage appears in a dialogue between characters names “‘sheq” [lover] and “Afsneh” [myth, legend]. sheq: Oh! What a time. What a wonderful time! It was the story of a happy heart who came back to its proper home . . . . Afsneh: Lover! It was more like an owl familiar with the ruins of the heart. sheq: Yes, Afsneh! A sorrowful owl. Tonight, ceaselessly, of those who were the owl evokes memories in vain. Standing erect resembling the one who stood by the ruins of Ntel hands clasped together, eyes full of tears. Afsneh: Has come, from a sacred tomb to seek a cure, o lover. sheq: Has come with a language of its own to tell the story of those who are gone, would find the living in this sorrow. Afsneh: Has come to regain that which was left behind, o lover. Alas, to no avail! In this waste land . . . .24 In “this waste land,” to be sure. The owl perches above and scrutinizes land laid waste and in darkness. Solitary and ominous, the owl who broods and ponders over things is an intellectual creature in Persian writing from ‘Attr to Nim Yushij.25 Now, in Hedyat’s

23

Ehsan Yarshater, “Sdeq Hedyat: An Appreciation,” Persian Literature (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1988), p. 322. 24 Nim Yushij, Afsneh [Myth/Legend], translation adapted from Parichehr Moin, “Afsneh: A Translation,” M.A. thesis, The University of Texas at Austin, 1994. “Ntel” is an area near the city of Bâbol in northern Iran. The poem is set in the north, Nim Yushij's native region. 25 Nim Yushij's poem called “Joghdi Pir” [An Old Owl], Complete Works of Nim Yushji, Book 1: Poems, compiled by Cyrus Tâhbâz (Tehrân: Nashr-e Nâsher, 1985), p. 398, is another text depicting an owl.

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hands, as he broods over Iranian history and what Nim Yushij calls the waste land of contemporary Iran, the owl is helpless because of blindness. Answers to why and how Hedyat’s owl became blind and what has caused Hedyat’s protagonist to see the Iranian world around him as dark and desperate bring into play culture-specific elements in The Blind Owl, the subject for another essay. However, another issue deserves at least passing mention as a conclusion to this discussion of the book’s title. For the Persian phrase buf-e kur [‘owl’-e ‘blind’], which some critics mistakenly think Hedyat invented, 26 can denote something other than a “sightless owl.” As Mohammad Mokri notes in Nm-e Parandegn dar Lahjeh'h-ye Gharb-e Irn [Names of Birds in Dialects of Western Iran], such phrases as buf-e kur and joghd-e kur simply denote buf [owl] or joghd [owl].27 In other words, as Hushang Alam puts it in his entry for “buf” in Encyclopaedia Iranica, “. . . the blindness of owls, which are mostly nocturnal birds, is a popular interpretation of their reduced vision and, hence, awkward, foolish-looking behavior in broad daylight.”28 As a student of folklore, Hedyat surely knew both denotations of the phrase buf-e kur. His story may well have something to do with an owl which happens to be blind. But the story may more likely have to do with sighted owls, the narrator included, who cannot function well and see things as they are in the daytime world of human society. When Hedyat refers, in an already cited narrative sketch, to an infirm, old man “as lonely and depressed like a blind owl,” he apparently does not imply that either the man or the owl is literally blind.

26

E.g., Homayoun Katouzian, Sadeq Hedayat, p. 137. Mohammad Mokri, Nm-e Parandegn dar Lahjeh'h-ye Gharb-e Irn (Lahjeh'h-ye Kordi) [Names of Birds in Dialects of Western Iran (Kurdish Dialects)] (Tehrn: Amir Kabir, 1982, third printing): 29-34 28 Hushang A'lam, “Buf,” Encyclopaedia Iranica 3 (1986): 505. 27

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Sâdeq Hedâyat, a Writer ahead of Time Claus V. Pedersen University of Copenhagen

“Hedâyat’s significance lies not so much in his intrinsic merits as a writer as in his capturing the mood of a society and giving vent to the underlying sentiments of a new generation...”1 Sâdeq Hedâyat (1903-51) is a towering figure in modern Persian prose literature. Despite the passage of time, Hedâyat’s best works still have a vivacity of expression that makes them as fascinating and intriguing as they must have been in the 1930s and 1940s when they were written. Among those works that spring to mind in particular as retaining a fresh fascination are, apart from the novel Buf-e kur, short stories like “Zendeh be-gur,” “Hâjji Morâd,” “Dâvud-e guzh-posht,” “Âbji khânom,” “Dâsh Âkol,” “Âyneh-ye shekasteh,” “Zani keh mardesh-râ gom kardeh bud,” “Sag-e velgard,” “Don Zhu’ân-e Karaj,” “Fardâ,” and a few others. The attraction of these short stories stems from, I think, the way in which Hedâyat, like an illustrator, with only a few strokes of his pen succeeds in producing a convincing and life-like portrait of a person, a situation, or a milieu. In addition to this, Hedâyat’s prose is innovative and his narratives are for the most part well-constructed, at times almost cinematic in their presentation.2 What has been said above is restricted to literary form and technique. Mahmud Dowlat-Âbâdi, coming from a different angle, has asserted that “we [the Persian writers] all have come out of Hedâyat’s ‘Darkroom’.” 3 This is both an acknowledgment of Hedâyat’s influence on literary posterity and a reference to the short story “Târikkhâneh” (“Darkroom,” from the collection Sag-e velgard, 1942). “Târik-khâneh” is not one of those short stories that lives on in the reader’s memory – it is more of a philosophical discussion clad in literary clothes than a piece of genuine literature – but in spite of its lack of literary qualities there is a reason why Dowlat-Âbâdi refers to this particular short story, beyond the play on words. The main theme of “Târik-khâneh” is a contrasting of two, as Hedâyat sees it, main aspects of human life. On the one hand, there is “primitive” life, which is characterized by movement and haste, noise, obsession with 1

Ehsan Yarshater, Sâdeq Hedâyat: A. An Appraisal,” in Ehsan Yarshater, Ed. Persian Literature (The Persian Heritage Foundation, 1988), 318. 2 See Michael Beard, “Sâdeq Hedâyat: B. Sâdeq Hedâyat’s Composite Landscapes: Western Exposure,” in Ibid., 327-30. 3 Mohammad Mohammad Ali, ed. Goft o gu bâ Ahmad Shâmlu, Mohammad Dowlat-Âbâdi va Mehdi Akhavân-e Sâles (Nashr-e Qatreh, 1372š/1993), 150.

Claus V. Pedersen

material things, and shallowness – but all the same, here one can be and feel alive. On the other hand, is the state of reflection on life, a state which is associated with isolation, darkness, historical consciousness, genuine values – and death. This theme has a close affinity with central, modern Western philosophies,4 but the Western trait barely surfaces in “Târik-khâneh,” since both the setting of and the occurrences in the short story are so thoroughly Iranian. This particular blend of Western and Iranian elements is, I think, what makes up a large part of Sâdeq Hedâyat’s literary legacy. This is not, of course, unrelated to questions of literary form and techniques, but in the following I would like to stress the fact that there is in Hedâyat’s work a content, a cultural and social critique, or a philosophy of life, with affinities to both the West and Iran, which places the writer far ahead of his time (and I am not only thinking of “Iranian” time here, but also “European” time.) From this advanced position Hedâyat could and did write a series of short stories, and the novel Buf-e kur, that were the first, subtle interpretations of an Iranian consciousness and culture on its way into modernity. It is in this respect, I believe, that Dowlat-Âbâdi acknowledges Hedâyat’s importance by referring to “Târik-khâneh,” and I will try to highlight the modern and philosophical aspects of Hedâyat’s work by analyzing another equally philosophy-burdened short story, “S.G.L.L.” (‘Serum gegen Liebes-Leidenschaft’), from the collection of short stories Sâyeh-Rowshan (“Chiaroscuro,” 1933). S.G.L.L.: a modern Dystopia and Utopia “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew, 5:3). “Of heaven, that is not quite certain, but the kingdom on earth is theirs for sure.” - Epigraph to Hedâyat’s “S.G.L.L.” In the West we know modern criticism of civilization and culture in a literary form from the dystopias (literally, “bad place”) of, for instance, Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World (1932), and George Orwell’s 1984 (1949). A forerunner of these is the Russian Samjatin’s We (1920), which Hedâyat might have known. The term dystopia has been applied “...to works of fiction which represent a very unpleasant imaginary world, in which certain ominous tendencies of our present social, political, and technological order

4

As the present writer is a Dane, the example of Kierkegaard and later trends of Existentialism emanating herefrom naturally come to mind.

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are projected in some future culmination.”5 The genre is closely related to the literary utopia, by, among other traits, sharing the form of science fiction. Hedâyat’s “S.G.L.L.” contains both a dystopia and an utopia, which is signaled in the introductory quotation from the short story (cited in the epigraph to this section, above6), a mixture of a bible quotation and the author’s commentary on it. Hedâyat’s comment is of course satirical and an element of the dystopia, but the biblical line hints at mankind’s ancient dream of a paradise, in this or the next world, a dream that Hedâyat in his own way touches upon. The setting of “S.G.L.L.” is a society a few millennia into the future. The plot of the short story is almost non-existent. What is important are the ideas and thoughts which are developed through a dialogue between the two main characters of “S.G.L.L.,” Susan and Ted. The main characters personify two different world views and two different attitudes towards what constitutes a true and meaningful life. The plot revolves around two meetings between Ted and Susan and their conversation, interrupted by certain events in the future society and the impact of these events on the two characters’ ideas and thoughts. The environment of this future society is presented at the very beginning of the short story: Two thousand years later, the morals, customs, habits, feelings, and all aspects of human life had changed completely. That which different creeds and religions had promised people over the previous two thousand years, science had made a reality. Thirst, hunger, love, and other needs had been taken care of, and old age, illness, and ugliness were now controlled by man. Family life had been abandoned, and all people lived in big buildings with several stories, as if in a beehive. But one, single pain was still there, an incurable pain, and that was the tiredness and disgust of a futile and meaningless life.7 The materialization of the victory of science is the big town Kânâr, Tehran of our time, a town we recognize from science fiction movies. Everything is electrified and works

5

M.H. Abrams, A Glossary of Literary Terms, 3rd ed. (Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1971), 178. The passage from Matthew follows the English of the KJV. The New English Bible renders, “How blest are these who know their need of God.” Hedâyat’s Persian, citing Matthew 5:3, reads: khosh-bakht kasânikeh aqleshân pâreh sang mibarad, chun malakut-e âsemân mâl-e ânhâ-st. [Ed.] 7 Sâyeh-Rowshan (“Chiaroscuro”), 1st ed. (Matbaeh-ye Rowshanâ’i, 1933), 5. My translation, as elsewhere in this essay. For a more comprehensive analysis of some of Hedâyat’s short stories, see my World View in Pre-Revolutionary Iran - Literary Analysis of Five Iranian Authors in the Context of the History of Ideas (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2002), 53-105. 6

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automatically, with the sun as the source of energy. 8 The landscape of the city is described as grey, without life, artificial, and a sinister quietness prevails. Only from a distance of that “civilization” can one get a glimpse of its counterpart – nature, unspoiled but dangerous and unordered: “At a distance the firmament was covered by a mixture of discordant, dark colors, as if a painter had mixed the rest of the painting on his palette and had casually spread it on the sky”; and “only the shape of mount Damavand was rising south of the city, silent, tall, grand and threatening, and from its conical top an orange-colored smoke was ascending.”9 One of the citizens of Kânâr is Susan, a sculptor. Ted, an American painter, has fallen in love with Susan (without telling her) and has hastily traveled to Kânâr to see her. Hastily because the end of the world is near. Not in the form of a natural disaster or the like, but in the form of a general decision among the inhabitants of the world to commit collective suicide. Why that should be, we will return to later. For now, Ted wants to tell Susan about his love for her, before it is too late. Susan receives Ted very coldheartedly and without showing any particular interest in him, and instead of a talk about love between them, they engage in a longer discussion about collective suicide and about the big questions in human life, love in general, art, life and death, and the meaning of life. Susan and Ted can only agree on very little, and in a part of the discussion they simply do not understand each other. At last Ted takes heart and expresses his feelings for Susan. But Susan does not take him seriously, calls his expression of love a romantic poem, and suspects his love to be platonic. This Ted denies, and Susan promptly suggests they go to bed together. Ted declines and admits to the fact that there is a platonic and romantic air about his love. Nonetheless, Ted insists during their first meeting that his love for Susan is both physical (i.e., sexual) and spiritual.10 Their unsettled discussion is then interrupted by a very important message broadcast worldwide on the television. A Professor Rock (? - Râk) turns up on the screen and announces a very important statement. The statement and its consequences totally alter the existence of the people on Earth, including, naturally, Ted and Susan. Professor Rock begins his statement by explaining what we have already been told at the start of “S.G.L.L.” Science and technology have been victorious where belief and religion have failed. All kinds of human need have been fulfilled and all nature’s little inconveniences (old age, for instance) have been disposed of. But there is one thing left for science to master. Three thousand years ago, primitive man had the possibility of 8

Through the short story, including the title, Hedâyat has used European terms – written in Latin script – in the description of the future society to denote the Western origin of the society. In addition to that, the terms have a comic or ironic ring and thus become a vehicle for satire. 9 Ibid., 6-7. 10 See for instance, ibid., 18-19.

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living a happy and meaningful life. And at times he or she did so, as long as the basic needs were fulfilled and a certain amount of belief and superstition were added to their lives. The human spleen, which has always existed, science has not, however, been able to get rid of. On the contrary, Professor Rock states that it is precisely “...the development in thought and peoples’ brighter vision” of the world that has “lead to a state of unhappiness.” In spite of all the progress, people are more dissatisfied than before and suffer.11 The solution to this last problem in the history of mankind, the problem of the human condition, or Weltschmerz, is proposed by Professor Rock. All scientists agree that peoples’ knowledge of the fact that the sun will burn out and the Earth will die (in 3500 years, Professor Rock says) reminds people that nature is not conquered completely. Would it not be better to snatch this final victory out of nature’s hands and commit collective suicide? In the professor’s long statement, consciousness of death and Weltschmerz are not linked together, but it is evident that it is a dark and meaningless life that causes Weltschmerz and suicidal thoughts. And it is also clear that neither science and technology nor religion have been able to overcome the human condition and heal the spiritual suffering. But, as mentioned, Professor Rock claims that he has found a cure for this inner, human suffering. The cure, or the medicine, is called ‘Serum Gegen Liebes-Leidenschaft’ (S.G.L.L.), a serum against the love (or sex) instinct. It is supposed to remove the human instinct to reproduce, an instinct that is at the center of all human desire. In short, the serum is meant to remove man’s longing for a goal in life, for insisting that life should have a meaning, in such a way that, according to Professor Rock, “...the human race nicely and quietly perishes, all by itself.”12 Ted and Susan’s responses to Professor Rock’s statement are very different. Ted is shocked and appalled, first and foremost because he envisages a society in which there are no emotional bonds between people, if the serum works. Susan, on the contrary, who is not against the collective suicide either, sees the serum as a good and practical invention, the logical and final consequence of man’s war against nature. In fact, Susan would like to see the Earth freed of man’s presence and the reestablishment of an older, better, and more peaceful order. Sad and disappointed with Susan’s response to both his declaration of his love for her and to Professor Rock’s statement, Ted leaves.13 Six months later professor Rock’s serum has had its effect. But instead of removing the sexual instinct it has made human desire and lust flow freely, due to a mistake in the laboratory. Anarchy and chaos prevail in the future world, a collective madness breaks out, the whole civilization is in decay. The peaceful obliteration of the

11

Ibid., 22. Ibid., 26. 13 Ibid., 27-29. 12

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human race, which Professor Rock had predicted, is turning into the opposite, and the Professor commits suicide. Susan’s life has changed completely after the use of S.G.L.L. She has surrendered to sensuality and lust. Ted visits her again, and this time Susan admits that she has always loved Ted, but maintains that right now she only wants him for the sake of physical desire. Ted consents to fulfilling Susan’s desire, but at the same time he asks her to make their, as it turns out, first and last intercourse “poetic.” Susan agrees and they take laughing gas, instead of some poisonous pills that Ted had brought along, and in a stage between consciousness and unconsciousness they unite. On the fringe of the universe of S.G.L.L there are a group of “naturists,” called Naktkulturler [sic!] or “the naked” (lokhti-hâ), who live outside the society and are in opposition to the ruling ideology. Among other things, they do not want to commit suicide. These people attack and conquer the decaying civilization, and during the attack on Kânâr they break in Susan’s apartment. Here they find a coffin, which they open, and in a mist of titillating perfume they see Ted and Susan lying naked in each other’ arms, a white snake coiled around their bodies. As mentioned, the plot of S.G.L.L is weak, and the short story is more of a presentation of two characters who represent two different philosophies and world views. However, the plot is important in the sense that, as can be seen above, it unites the two protagonists and what they represent. But let us consider some of the main characteristics of Ted and Susan more closely, paying more attention to Susan, since she is the more important of the two. At the outset of S.G.L.L it is said that Susan, apart from the common feeling of Weltschmerz, 14 suffers from an “illness” called “her inclination for spirituality” (tamâyol-e u beh manaviyat). 15 This inclination for spirituality is not so much an illness, although it makes her suffer in a society in which peoples’ lives are governed by the drive to fulfill physical needs. Susan’s spirituality first and foremost manifests itself in her believing that there is a natural symbiosis between a spiritual and material world, between mind and body, and, secondarily in that she insists on an aesthetic, formative principle in life, a principle she, and everyone else, ought to live by. This does not mean that Susan makes an artificial distinction between the spiritual and the material world; on the contrary. This is clearly seen in her criticism of earlier philosophies during her discussion of love with Ted. She says about Ted’s love for her and about love in general, “You take pleasure in love’s pain not in love itself...,” and:

14

Hedâyat calls it “kesâlat-e zendegi keh nâ-khoshi-ye omumi o mosri bud,” world-weariness, ennui, a general and contagious unhappiness [Ed.]. 15 Ibid., 5.

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The miserable civilization of [the last] several centuries has misunderstood [love]. A gathering of sick and lustful people have sent it up into Heaven, for their own sake and in order to benefit from it. Today it has returned to nature, has reached its final stage, and, by the way, habits and pleasures have changed. The woman has become a bore and the wine gives you a headache.”16 A splitting of love into a spiritual and a physical part, typical of European Romanticism, seems to motivate Susan’s words, and by mentioning the wine she probably includes the Eastern sufis in her criticism. Susan’s own life, especially her life as an artist, is an example of how her mind or soul governs her life, how her inner life is united with the outer space: “...through the statues [that she made] she expressed her thoughts in concrete material” and “...she lived with and according to her thoughts.”17 This way of living is not altogether positively described in S.G.L.L. Her physical appearance is described as being unreal, without life and soul, and her lifeless expression has rubbed off on her surroundings: “[T]he furniture [of her apartment], her clothes, her body movements and the decoration of the rooms were in such agreement with each other that every time a stranger’s hand moved a chair the harmony was destroyed.”18 In this description there is a certain affinity between Susan, her life, and the characteristics of the future society in Kânâr, at least as far as lifelessness and coldness of expression are concerned. But otherwise Susan possesses a beauty that is quite unlike the surrounding city. The philosophy of life that Susan lives by is an echo of Hedâyat’s very personal interpretation of Khayyamic thought.19 She explains this philosophy of hers (which is, in fact, a kind of modern existentialism) to Ted in such a way that we also understand what elements constitute a human being. She says: I don’t believe in an independent soul that can outlive the body, separated from it. But the sum of spiritual qualities that forms each and every human 16

Ibid., 17-18. Ibid., 5-6. 18 Ibid., 9. 19 See Hedâyat’s books on Khayyâm: Sharh-e hâl-e Omar Khayyâm (“A Biography of Omar Khayyâm”) (Tehran: 1302š/1923 and also Tarâneh-hâ-yeOmar Khayyâm (“Omar Khayyâm’s Quatrains”) (Tehran: 1313š/1934). 17

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being, each and every creature’s personality, is its soul. A butterfly, too, has such a collection of both material and spiritual qualities that in combination form its character. It is not true that our thoughts and ideas do not originate in nature, and since our bodies, which are created by nature, are given back to it after our death, why, then, should thoughts and abstract figures that are inspired by nature perish? These thoughts and figures disintegrate after death, too, but do not disappear. Later it is possible that they make an impression inside the heads of other people, like a picture on a film. Just as the molecules of our bodies move into other people’s bodies.20 A human being, a soul, is, then, a fusion of the spiritual and the material. To this philosophy Susan adds an important thing: the possibility of making an impression on the world, the possibility for a human being to live on after his or her death in some form. Detectable in Susan (and maybe, implied, in all human beings) there is a wish to make a difference, to contribute to the world through her thoughts and deeds (that is, her art), and for that purpose one must live out one’s personality (the aesthetic, formative, principle, described above). This way of living can end up in an extremely individualistic and cold aestheticism, which Susan, to a certain degree, exemplifies in S.G.L.L. The individualism that characterizes Susan is most fully revealed by the fact that she does not care about her fellow human beings or society at all.21 The real criticism of the future society, its coldness, lack of humanity, and alienation is communicated through Ted. In his opinion, science and technology have gotten out of hand and have removed man from his or her “natural origin.” Man has at all times, he tells Susan, thought and felt in the same way, but in the future society all feelings and thoughts are artificial because of society’s obsession with technology, science and the satisfaction of physical needs.22 Ted has a carpe diem attitude towards life, too, and in addition to that, “back to nature” seems to be Ted’s slogan. At one point he says that “a natural human being must sleep well, eat well, make love well,” and that “reading, writing, and thinking are altogether a disaster [for mankind] and have only caused misery.”23 The pleasures of nature are also the basic elements of Ted’s cure for the condition that has smitten the population. Ted’s philosophy seems a bit naive, and is also described as such in S.G.L.L. But it has the extra and positive dimension that the enjoyment of nature’s pleasures, to Ted’s mind, is not purely an individual matter, but 20

Sâyeh-Rowshan, op. cit., 15-16. Ibid., 13, also 14. 22 Ibid., 18. 23 Ibid., 16. 21

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includes a love of one’s fellow man, a kind of a communal solidarity (as opposed to Susan’s strong individualism). It should also be mentioned that Ted’s depiction of nature is somewhat inconsistent and reveals a certain ambivalence in him. On the one hand nature is unambiguously good, while on the other hand the natural instincts (Ted, or maybe Hedâyat, sometimes calls them “inherited feelings”) are described as the driving force behind every human activity, including “all man’s inventions and the results of his thoughts...”. 24 Thus, nature is responsible for both good and bad things, and as such Ted’s slogan of ‘back to nature’ is not without its dangers. The Western man, Ted, and the Iranian woman, Susan, unite in the final pages of S.G.L.L., and this union is the Utopia within the larger framework of the dystopia that is the short story. A combination of the events in the future society and their conversation bring the two persons and the philosophies they represent together. Ted pulls Susan away from her position of cold, lifeless aestheticism and individualism (which is associated with the Serum Gegen Liebes-Leidenschaft and the nature of the future society in general), and Susan teaches Ted that nature must be tamed and that the individual’s life must be governed by some kind of principle (otherwise life will end up in a chaos of unrestricted feelings, emotions and instincts, just as the actual serum causes exactly the opposite of what was intended). This becomes clear, partly at least, in Ted and Susan’s last conversation, but it is also signaled as a symbol in S.G.L.L. During the events of the short story Susan creates two statues, both picturing a man and a woman. The first one25 is, apart from other things, a representation of Susan’s aestheticism and inclination for the spiritual. The second one,26 from the time after the injection of S.G.L.L., represents the stage of Susan’s life in which she has given in to the cravings of the flesh and lives by the moment. The motif of the statues is repeated in the last scene of S.G.L.L. in which Ted and Susan sleep in death in a coffin on which she has written “Lovers’ Sleep.” By using herself and Ted as material, she transforms life into art, and at the same time her focus is altered: life is the foundation of art and not the other way around, as she had tended to believe. And Ted leaves his carpe diem philosophy and naive love of nature by agreeing to make their first and last physical union into a piece of art. The whole scene is naturally unreal, utopic (“no place”): The price paid for this unification is death (no existence).

24

Ibid. See ibid., 13. 26 See ibid., 32. 25

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Conclusion By writing S.G.L.L. in the form of a literary dystopia – and within it, an embodied utopia - as early as in the beginning of the 1930s, and by using this short story as a vehicle for civilizational critique, as well as a philosophical discussion of modern life, Hedâyat must be counted among the members of the international, literary avant-garde. This fact is not so interesting in itself. The interesting thing is how Hedâyat, as an Iranian writer, connects with an international, Western literary or cultural movement, modernism, and how it affects his art. This raises several questions, of which I will touch upon only a couple. As can be seen in Hedâyat’s S.G.L.L. the critique of civilization is directed at Western civilization and its obsession with science and technology. Beyond this, there may be an implied criticism of Iranian society for adopting the same civilization. But there is no traceable borderline between East and West in S.G.L.L. Furthermore, it is a union of West (Ted) and East (Susan) which makes up the utopia. One might say that the “Dialogue of Civilizations” is quite superfluous in Hedâyat’s Iranian universe, since the worlds, and their civilizations and people, are mixed together. Another point I would like to stress in the “philosophical” short story S.G.L.L. (and the aforementioned “Târik-khâneh”) is the wide extent to which Hedâyat has adopted modern modes of thought. This may be a useful reminder when interpreting the writer’s more accomplished and complicated literary works, notably Buf-e kur. Buf-e kur and some of the short stories mentioned at the outset of this essay are full of Hedâyat’s very private and personal thoughts, obsessions and experiences, expressed through an obscure and equally personal symbolism which seems to defy general interpretation. But if one looks to Hedâyat’s “philosophical” short stories one can, I think, find clues. The way in which, for instance, Hedâyat makes use of Khayyamic philosophy in S.G.L.L. and turns it into modern, Western existentialist thought,27 while simultaneously maintaining a distinct Iranian tone and mode, can also be detected in Buf-e kur28 or, in a different form, in “Zendeh be-gur.” And rather than seeing this Khayyamic influence in Hedâyat’s works as a fatalism of a metaphysical nature,29 which does not fit well into the larger pattern of the two works just mentioned, it would be more appropriate to see Hedâyat’s interpretation of Khayyam in the framework of modern existentialism and naturalism, where man’s fate, in the form of a relative determinism, is determined by two forces, heredity and environment, and where man struggles to find and know his inner self (“Cut See also Iraj Pârsi Nezhâd in Irânshenâsi, 10, 4 (winter 1999: 753-59). See Leonard Bogle, “The Kayyâmic Influence in The Blind Owl,” Chapter 8 in Hedâyat’s ‘The Blind Owl’. Forty Years After, ed. Michael C. Hillmann, Middle East Monographs, No. 4. (Austin: University of Texas, Austin, 1978). As is evident from this essay, I do not agree the conclusions reached there. 29 See, for example, Bogle, op. cit. 27 28

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off from his religious, metaphysical, and transcendental roots...” as Ionesco says in an essay on Kafka). It is in this tradition, I believe, that Hedâyat, the avant-garde Iranian writer, should be placed.

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A Fenceless Garden Translated from the Persian by Sholeh A. Quinn This is a short story by Muhammad Zarrin, from the eponymous collection of stories, Bâ-e bi- esâr (Tehran: Enteshârât-e Âgâh,1366š /1987). Never before translated, it is included here in homage to the many modern Persian short stories and short-story collections that Heshmat Moayyad has published over the years in translation with his students. The struggle of Elham, the heroine of “A Fenceless Garden,” to understand and express her internal emotions is somewhat reminiscent of the delicate sensibilities of Parvin Eteâmi’s poetry, to which Heshmat Moayyad has devoted much attention. Today is Thursday and for Elham, this day is different from all the Thursdays she previously experienced. Just like Sundays, Mondays, or the other days of the week, which ends tomorrow. Tomorrow is Friday. If she can get through that, she is not so anxious for the upcoming Saturday. She has experienced Saturday in her new situation. The daily work at the company has begun again. The employees do not take Thursday’s work so seriously, and she shares the same view on this matter as the others. Among all the days of the week she likes Thursday the most. Ever since her school days she has always liked this day. Thursday has Friday following it, and Friday, during those years of study and instruction, was a day of fun and play, and in recent years it is the only day that she spends in its entirety with Fariborz. The fresh scent of Friday can be smelled Thursday morning, reaching its culmination close to noon. On Thursdays, the daily work of the company stops at one o’clock in the afternoon, but by noon, in fact, everyone is ready to go home. This is an undeclared, unofficial agreement, which everyone observes with no particular justification. For Elham, the Thursday work hours – unlike Saturday, which is long and heavy – pass easily. By the time she performs a couple of different tasks and has her tea and cookies, noon has arrived. Also, there is no need to eat at the work table at the company. Everyone comes to work unburdened on this day, without their lunch pails or food containers. Fariborz does not like her to take food in a lunch pail. He has not directly said so or made any demands. It is just Elham’s impression that he does not like women who carry lunch pails. Once, during a discussion about women working outside the home, Fariborz criticized, with laughter and joking, women’s gluttony and how, even in the work environment, they cannot resist bringing pickles, cucumbers and the other seasonal condiments.

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Although his ridicule of women who carry lunch pails and his talk about the sharp smell of pickled sour garlic winding down the passageways of their office becomes more exaggerated and is offered jokingly, for Elham it is enough from then on to take some plain food, usually cold, in a sack, and to keep her fancy for fresh fruits and snacks hidden, like an ugly habit. This quick change in mentality is the beginning of a chain of large and small changes, which are all connected to Fariborz’s taste. The single girl of yesterday discovers a new law in order to assume the appearance and conduct of a married woman: if he likes it I like it too; if he doesn’t like it, I don’t like it either. This way everything is easy and clear. There is no more trace of the former indecisions – to engage or not engage in an action, go or not go to a party, wear or not wear a garment. What’s important is what pleases him, and where he is more comfortable, and what kind of people he enjoys. At first, there are some doubts. There is also a kind of uneasiness, but an agreeable uneasiness which, through simple curious questioning, always results in a satisfactory conclusion. This is particular to the time when she has yet to discover everything; some time must pass before she will learn to understand more about him from each brief sign, or change of expression in his face. She prefers this kind of understanding to conspicuous explanations in which everything is said frankly and straightforwardly. That is bare and somewhat coarse, not so agreeable, like formal expressions of gratitude, or complimenting and admiring the cooking of a dish by way of a polite display of manners . . . She does not like that. Later their relationship loses its first bloom. It is very difficult to pinpoint the exact date of it, or the specific reason. At first there are small problems, which she prefers to take as misunderstandings or unintentional mistakes. Do they begin with the dry and empty morning good-byes and indifferent hellos at the time of returning home? Or when she refuses to put on shoes, or a coat that he likes? He does not wear it – the shirt which she has just ironed and placed at his side. He prefers to wear that other shirt which, in his own words, is more comfortable. But is it really more comfortable!? Is this not a disregard for his wife’s good taste? She cannot understand the new behavior of her husband. In her opinion, neither the fatigue of daily work, nor the financial problems caused by cutting back on overtime hours, are good enough reasons. She expects that, just as she keeps her husband’s tastes in mind and puts pleasing him before all else, he too should act the same way in return. Gradually she makes an unpleasant realization: in her husband’s constant work, her desired place is minimal, insignificant. Sadder still, she must not expect to be treated equally. One night at bedtime she is choked with tears and to the amazement and shock of her husband, she cries at length without any explanation. She slowly decides that it is useless to spend time on things she had imagined would cause Fariborz to pay attention to her. Things like using matching dishes for food,

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preparing new sauces of her own, a flower on the table, wearing clothes he likes. In the end, she pays no attention to those indirect signs and signals which used to thrill her when she first discovered them, like a child who finds candy. At that time, phrases like “How many times should I say it? If I’ve told you ten times, I’ve told you 100 times...” and so forth, entered their conversation. And unlike before, there is now little impatience on Thursdays for the daily work to end; Friday is the day for all the uproar which they did not have an opportunity to empty out during the other days of the week. Furthermore, it no longer bothers her to eat things she likes, or to appear gluttonous. In this matter she conceals nothing, and even exaggerates a little bit, without giving any importance to Fariborz’s approval or disapproval. This behavior is more like a kind of face-making. Her older brother always used to grow nervous at the sound of her chewing gum. They were both students in grade school, stubborn and difficult towards each other. Any time she was annoyed with her brother and wanted to hurt him, she deliberately smacked her gum more loudly. Her brother’s objections would begin; first with mild words, certainly mild compared to the uproar which he would later make. The more he objected and grew angry, the more her monotonous smacking took on a regular rhythm. Because she wanted to shatter his pride, she behaved more stubbornly. And it was always Elham who would come out successful in a fight, for in the end, that little haughty boy, harassed and raising an uproar, would leave the room. Her usual retort in this dispute was one short sentence: “I am chewing gum for myself, what does it have to do with you?” Now, many years later, she uses this method of her youth once again. When Fariborz busies himself with reading the evening paper, or a book or a magazine, and pays no attention to her, she sits with a handful of sunflower seeds in front of the television, cracking them open indifferently. Like an old experienced hunter who knows that catching the prey depends on the balance of patience in the ambush, she waits for a reaction from her husband. The sound of her seed-cracking finally gets to him. He rifles aimlessly through his paper or book. For Elham, this rifling, which arises from the distraction of his mind, is like the crunching sound of the prey’s footsteps as she lies in ambush. Fariborz’s first objection is the loud sound of the television, but Elham, like an understanding wife, lowers the volume, and once again resumes cracking seeds. Finally the man loses his temper . . . The prey has fallen into the trap! Elham’s answer, which is given with the calm indifference of contempt, sounds like a gunshot: “I am cracking seeds for myself, what does it have to do with you?” * * * Outwardly she is busy with the many pieces of paper spread out over her desk, but actually she pays no attention to any of them. To no avail, she inscribes the trademark of

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the company on top of the note paper. She does not want to submit to one of those fruitless conversations of her co-worker Mrs. Foroughi, who talks of her own complaints, or her conflict with a tenant who is living in her one-bedroom apartment and does not want to leave. Buying an apartment in a newly built complex is one of a series of efforts to which the helpless old maid has weakly resigned herself, in hopes of finding a suitable husband. And with what hardship: a bank loan, depleting the savings from years of typing, and selling all that her old mother possesses. Previously Elham had been a good listener, but now she feels impatient. She wants the time to pass quickly, but for what reason? She does not know. These past few days she has developed a new custom; she constantly checks her watch and reads the time. She remembers last Thursday. Tired and weary, Fariborz leaves the house with a two-day beard growth, without breakfast and without saying good-bye. But she arrives nicely dressed at the company without having taken the previous night's verbal disagreement seriously. Her brother, time and time again, in between those fights about her gum-chewing or her touching his music tapes, has threatened her with eternal sulking, but she needs only to clap and yell hurrah for the soccer team which he follows, and express admiration for them a couple of times between the sportscasts, and all of his sulking is forgotten. But what happened at the end of last week has proven this trick to be unreliable. At the company, she appeared to listen to Mrs. Foroughi’s talk of her mother’s sickness and her own shattered nerves, though somewhat distractedly. Not so much, however, that Elham was not ready for the ease of Thursday. Today it occurs to her that last Thursday belonged to another season, even though it was only a week ago. Those Thursdays all had something which is lacking today. She wants to find a name for it, but not one of the various words which come to her mind is suitable. As the trademarks of the company are lost beneath the skein of the irregular circles, and she adds up their number with a blue fountain pen, a suitable name comes to mind: Happy Thursday. Something easy, soft and flowing, which she used to feel, but not today. Days past, whatever happened, were filled with the perfume of this same happiness. Especially Thursdays. Thursdays are the only days that Fariborz picks her up. After a bit of shopping they go home together. Because of his job difficulties, he cannot accompany her with the old model Paykan that they have on any other day. Suddenly she misses the small mirror which he installed on the car’s windshield visor especially for her. In that narrow rectangular mirror she could only see her eyes and lips – the two features which Fariborz liked more than anything else about her and used to love.

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She feels as though she is sitting in their Paykan on their way back to that old tidy onebedroom apartment which for the longest while people would say had a bride’s aura about it. People speak of a bride in such a way that one imagines oneself standing at the threshold of paradise. In that white dress one is suffused with something extraordinary, something that you would imagine only to be found in the heavens. When everyone holds hands and encircles you and looks at you like a chosen person, how is it possible not to fall under the spell, at the age when your heart beats for pure pleasures and dreams? But a wedding is only a short show of goodness, love and kindness, shining for one moment with all of its attractiveness, with the quick brilliance of a shooting star. When the people have gone, then the actors remain alone, busy with the repetition of the hours, days, months and years, devoid of any excitement and attractiveness except the basic daily needs and daily differences. She finds something humorous about the incidents of the past. When she reviews everything – the wedding, leaving home, living together and then returning to the parents’ home again – like an old silent movie, the speed of the incidents is humorous. It is hard to believe that two people who walk so lovingly, so quickly and excitedly change into beings who seem to come from two different planets. Am I this woman!? And this man is my husband!? She takes every opportunity to cast a glance at the mirror on the wall, or repeatedly scrutinizes her face in her small pocket mirror. All of this looking was not part of her character before. Now, after the separation, she scrupulously seeks for something that suddenly seems absent from her face and body, absent from each succeeding day. Something that had been in her eyes, in the condition of her lips, her hair, has lost its freshness and become deformed. Something in her days – the joy of Thursdays. She prefers to blame the changes in her face and hair on the sleeplessness of the past few nights spent in her parents’ home. The lavatory of their house is lit with a sixtywatt light bulb above the mirror and placed so high that it shows deformed shadows on her face. The image she would see in the vanity mirror of her bedroom, in the gentle light shining through the white lacy curtain in the day time, and in the rays of the lamp shade at the edge of the room at night, was nothing short of a queen. Even if this queen’s authority was limited to that same one-bedroom apartment, it was enough for her. But this picture in the pocket mirror, as if cut out of a photo, reflects something imperfect. And that face in the bathroom mirror at her parent’s house, like the photo of someone fatigued, with dark shadows under the eyes, makes her despair. And the way people behave during these past few days disappoints her. In their meaningful looks, sly and heavy, she senses an attention that is bold, unchecked by consequences. She can no longer hope for her new situation to remain hidden from others. The telephone operator – a fat and thick-chinned widow who knows the important and

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unimportant matters of all the employees’ lives in that tight and narrow room in the basement of the company, the phone booth – her only happiness is to be the first to learn and broadcast news about the employees, as well as news from any corner of the city. Mrs. Foroughi is the operator’s voluntary collaborator in this activity. Elham tries to pay no attention to this matter, maybe because it is the end of the week, and she hopes that Saturday morning she will come to work in better spirits and behave normally once again, as before, with her co-workers. Besides, sooner or later everyone will learn about it. For a few moments of peace, she feels slightly unburdened. This unconcern does not last long. Once again that vague uneasiness takes hold of her, making her impatient for the time to pass and irritable about everything, even the scribbling of the arm of the company. She has no recourse but to console herself. She is hopeful that the telephone operator has not captured anything of her daily conversations with her mother. The same for Mrs. Foroughi who, in conformity with her promise, would respect keeping her secret. She does not want the others to catch a hint of her separation. Aunt Roya once said, “Young widows are like a fenceless garden; every greedy passerby would like to have a taste of the fruits.” Aunt Roya, after marrying three times and separating twice, is opposed to divorce. Death, and not the pronouncement of divorce, separated her last husband from her. For this reason, the last husband holds a special place in Aunt Roya’s heart. When she speaks of the past, she is often fond of saying about him, “Tall, handsome and well-dressed, and in love with your Aunt’s cooking. From the three men that have been in her life, your Aunt has neither a child, nor a photo to hang on the wall of her room, nor an album which would satisfy Elham’s curiosity about how each of them looked.” Alone. Aunt Roya lives in an old house, whose every corner is quiet and dark, as if it has submitted to its sorrowful fate: delapidation. One can hardly tell that the doors, cracked and their color faded, are made of wood. It’s like the skin of Aunt Roya’s hands, which are more like dry tree branches than a living body. She lives out her life in straightened circumstances on the retirement pension of her last husband, and has lately spent the winters with Elham’s parents, but with the improving weather and the beginning of spring, returns to the old house with its small yard. Elham, who has sweet childhood memories of her aunt, after entering on life and gaining distance from her youth, feels a compassion for her aunt, which gives her a sense of moral responsibility to go see her and ask about her health. In the beginning of the marriage, Elham and Fariborz would regularly visit the aunt. These visits were like return trips to a museum of antique and ancient relics in the midst of a modern city.

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She patiently satisfies Aunt Roya’s desire for conversation. The old woman snoozes many hours and days, alone, within the walls of her house, and as soon as her eyes fall upon a familiar person, she wants to talk uninterruptedly of the past and the memories of youth, of her coarse false teeth which hurt her gums, about her sleeplessness, or the bad dreams in which she meets the departed members of the family, and how these dreams surprise and amaze her. Lately, when Aunt talks about her wedding night, and how all three times she had been a charming bride, the story is no longer useless chatter which Elham merely listens to in order to be polite. It does not take too much effort to see that this time-worn face was once fresh, fine, and desirable, and these dusty and hard-ofseeing eyes which are now getting ready for the dust of the grave, once shined with joy and desire... Elham, in wonder, perceives something about old age, like a frightening black vision in the future. In her mind, she continuously exchanges the foggy picture of Aunt Roya in a white wedding dress when she has just turned sixteen, with the lively, bright picture in which she is bent, withered and alone, like a twinkling light. A disturbing image, which she must ignore. She gazes into her pocket mirror and sees her own familiar face–eyes, lips and white orderly teeth. * * * She sees Mr. Rowshan in front of the third-floor elevator. During the last week they have seen each other almost every day. Before this, she would seldom meet him like this, by mere chance. Rowshan is an old employee in the company. Previously his office was next to the one for the office employees, where Elham works. Later, the Accounting Department was moved to the fifth floor, and Rowshan, as a senior employee, left their neighborly proximity, as he put it, and moved to the fifth floor. He always has a smile on his face, even when he criticizes something or is protesting against some event. In spite of the fact that he is almost an old man, and has put on some weight, outwardly he displays the joy and motions of youth. He wears extremely orderly and clean clothes. Not the slightest lack of harmony and bad taste may be seen in his choice of coat and pants, shirts, socks, shoes, or even his belt. His face is always shaved and his half-grey hair is finely combed, and with the mild perfume he wears it always seems as if he just, this very moment, stepped out of a barber shop. He teases everyone and greets the employees of the company, whether man or woman, politely but personably and comfortably. Elham is very pleased with Mr. Rowshan, and she likes his liveliness and happy spirit, and enjoys his dignified and sincere behavior with his wife, Mrs. Rowshan, and the nice relationship which he has with Mozhgan, his twelve year-old daughter. She praises him as an exemplary husband and loveable father. She and Fariborz associated with the

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Rowshan family a few times, but that did not last and was not continued. Once again the reason is Fariborz’s taste, who does not like Mr. Rowshan. Fariborz’s strictness with others, for instance Rowshan, slowly involves Elham in doubt; might he display envy towards people who are better off, and more successful in their jobs? However, she knows fully well that Fariborz, however egotistical and pleased he may be with himself, is not an envious person. She cannot understand how it is possible for him to dislike a person like Rowshan, and avoid his company. She herself, whenever she sees Rowshan, gets the pleasant feeling that polite, warm and intelligent people create in others. Other employees that she knows must agree with her view of Rowshan, although she has hardly ever discussed this matter with them. Mrs. Foroughi once mentioned Rowshan with hatred, likening him to a mean, shameless glutton. At any rate, her view is a personal matter, but according to Elham, Mrs. Foroughi has a lot of scruples where her own nobility is concerned. Fariborz, too, without any proper reason, uses disagreeable expressions in relation to Rowshan. “This Rowshan is one of those men who think women, just like himself, are underdeveloped.” Tonight they have returned from Mr. Rowshan’s party. This is their last contact with them. This is the night when, after the quarrels, Elham ceases to insist on associating with the Rowshan family because, in her opinion, Fariborz is a stubborn man, obstinate and selfish. Elham thinks that it was an excellent and entertaining party, and now she is upset with her husband’s doubts about her best male co-worker. If she chooses not to mind Fariborz’s talk, one of the useless quarrels which has been a regular nightly or weekly program during the past year of their life together, is very unlikely to erupt. But why must her husband talk this way about others? And even more important, accuse others of his own way of thinking? “Why do you say ‘that Rowshan’? Say ‘I, myself, think this way.’” Fariborz remains silent, not to agree with his wife; he is in no mood for fuss or argument. He said something, but does not expect his wife to show any sensitivity about it. But Elham, while hanging her clothes, continues: “Rowshan is intelligent and understanding. He respects women. Just the opposite of you – you do not respect even your own wife, let alone others.” She heads for the kitchen. “An exemplary man, a good husband, an exemplary father. It’s enjoyable to see him and his family!” She drinks a glass of water and returns to the salon, where Fariborz is sitting. “Besides this, the man’s behavior with others is delightful, and so are his clothes, his manners and education, his mentality. No one enjoys sour-faced people!” Now it is difficult for Fariborz to remain silent. He is always sensitive about people’s ambiguous words, particularly when used in a debate like this. “If people do not

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like sour-faced people–well, so be it. Everyone doesn’t have to smile from morning to night like the weak-minded Rowshan and his peers.” “No one wants you to laugh morning till night; as long as you don’t insult people, it’s enough.” “I have not insulted anyone, I just gave my opinion about him.” “No, you did not give your opinion about him, you just insulted him, both him, and all women.” “What insult?” “That Rowshan is stupid and backwards, that women are underdeveloped, everyone is underdeveloped except you. You’re the only one who understands. You think the entire universe revolves around you.” “No, ma’am, the entire universe revolves around Mr. Rowshan. I’m fed up with hearing so much about Mr. Rowshan. Don’t you know anyone more important than this man with that ridiculous girdle of his?” This time it is Fariborz who goes towards the kitchen. Elham, having lost her temper, goes after him, and in a nervous tone says, “Is it a sin if a man wears a girdle? Is it bad if someone is outwardly pleasing and well-dressed? Why do you make fun of any positive quality that exists in others?” “Why shouldn’t I? A man of his age, who wants to win the hearts of this or that person like a youth of twenty-five! Well, it’s ridiculous, very ridiculous.” “Rowshan never tries to win anyone’s heart.” “Yes he does.” “I said he doesn’t!” “Then is he wearing that ridiculous girdle for me? His lewdness makes me sick!” “Go ahead and say it – he is also promiscuous. I know you want to say it, so why are you quiet?” “What do I know, maybe he is!” “Doesn’t it bother you to disgrace such a man?” Fariborz takes a bottle of water out of the refrigerator, and he still hasn’t put it to his mouth when Elham, with a shaking voice, almost shouts, “A man like Rowshan is not like those dirty-doers!” And then, as if suddenly discovering something, “But you are!” Fariborz, in amazement: “Me?!” “Yes, you! When someone judges others in this way, it means he is projecting himself.” Right there, at the kitchen door, Elham points her finger at Fariborz, who is standing stupified next to the refrigerator, and tear-stained, continues: “Let me tell you, I don’t trust you at all. Your disregard for me is no easy thing. Your superficial calm no longer deceives me. It is you who betrays your wife, do you understand? It’s been a long

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time that I’ve known, I just didn’t want to say it to your face.” Then she starts crying, with no real proof of her husband’s betrayal. Mr. Rowshan’s life, in Elham’s eyes, is bright, without any dark stain of character. He never complains about anything, and he is not pessimistic, like Fariborz, who always looks at the negative aspects of life. Perhaps his only sensitivity – not that it seems so important – is about his age. His feelings get hurt if he is not considered one of the young employees, out of respect for him. Besides this, his only worry and complaint is about his weight, which he diligently tries to lose. The sauna, taking walks, and restraint in eating, and this last one is, as he calls it, the most difficult torture that he forces himself to endure in order to reach his ideal weight. In her brief encounter with Rowshan in front of the elevator, she realizes that he too has probably heard the story of her divorce. He does not ask a single word about Fariborz, whereas he always used to ask inquire after Fariborz in their daily exchange of greetings. Elham is waiting as usual to hear him ask something about Fariborz. With this thought in mind she goes on about some useless, irrelevant topic so that the prolonged conversation may offer some opportunity to mention Fariborz. But Rowshan, like a suspicious person who doesn’t trust what the other person is saying, merely asks about her health and spirit several times: “Are you well? Very good! Can I rest assured that you are well?” When they part, she has a bad feeling; it occurs to her that a man whose befitting behavior she has always trusted has been unkind and disrespectful towards her former husband. What do acquaintainces do in this situation? What must they say? Must they not at least express regret? Wouldn’t it have been nice if he had also asked about Fariborz? Do people forget each other this easily? * * * Without any particular reason, she calls her mother, with the same old daily news. During her entire life with Fariborz, the talks with her mother would at least give her a feeling of security, which would, in turn, give her a sense of self-confidence. All the good old times and sweet memories are gathered together where her mother is. The color of the walls of the hallways and rooms, the wooden door frames, and the shape of the windows, like the pictures in a children’s book, are parts of a simple world. And you would imagine her mother’s kitchen always filled with the aroma of good food, the steam and smell of cooking would rise up until a time without end. Such feelings about her home create a kind of yearning in her, like feelings of being far away from one’s own country.... The home which in her mind was so loveable, kind, and full of things to see, has so quickly become a boring place in which nothing happens except daily routine. The doors and windows, the old smell of the kitchen, and

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the carpets which, with the same designs and patterns, lie in the same settled places, are far distant from the excitement and movement which surged through the one-bedroom apartment which she had with Fariborz, in spite of the crying and the tumult. Her parents’ home, like the closet of her mother’s clothes, gives a stagnant smell. She cannot bear the calmness of a man and woman who no longer have much expectation from life and the future, except to pass the day without foot or back pain, without blood pressure rising and falling, and eat something enjoyable that will not upset their stomachs. With regret, she realizes that the life at her parents’ house is only beautiful in memories, and the past, perhaps for the very reason that it is over, is what is dear and likeable. . . More important, the home does not accept her. With the expectations that she has, she appears to be an unsuitable match for the life of her old parents. She feels like an adult wanting to sleep in a crib in hopes of happy childhood dreams. The rooms appear to her to be poorly lit, small, and unsuitable. She rarely sees any pure and bright colors anywhere inside. A porcelain vase with a few plastic flowers of a dirty yellow hue, a lifeless form, a couple of old pieces of lace on the black-and-white television and the poorly-patterned niche in the living room – these are the ornaments of the house, along with one landscape oil painting which has no semblance to anything. When Mrs. Foroughi reminds her that it is nearly noon, she is not so enthusiastic to leave the company. Thursdays past, at these last moments, she was always worried that Fariborz, should he not find a free parking space, would get tired and agitated from pointlessly driving back and forth. * * * When she enters the street, she feels the strong heat of the air, almost having forgot that it is the peak of summer. The sun shines sharp and hot. Cars pass noisily and several tired, nervous and impatient people wait at the edge of the street for a taxi. They all look eager to flee as soon as possible from the street to their homes. But for Elham, the arrival or non-arrival of a taxi which is going in her direction is not so important. She starts walking home along her usual route. A few feet further on is a familiar fruit stand where she always used to shop. She wants to buy a little bit of fruit. In front of the store, below the bower which shines red and white in the sunlight, various fruits are displayed, including a box of plums, purple as burned charcoals. “Out of all the fruits, Fariborz likes peaches the most.” She quickens her steps, moving away from the fruit seller. She feels something heavy in her chest, as if she can no longer bear her pain and sorrow alone. She wants to find someone to help her. The glare of sunlight on the window of a red Datsun, which has stopped right by her, keeps her from seeing its driver, but she recognizes the voice and then the face of

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Mr. Rowshan, inviting her to get in. As though deaf and dumb, as soon as she sees Mr. Rowshan’s familiar face, she gets in. For one moment, Rowshan’s face appears like a devoted friend or a kind father who has come to her cry for help. The first moments in the car she nearly bursts into tears, but she controls herself. After they start moving, a warm wind dries her sweaty forehead, and she finds an opportunity to thank Mr. Rowsahn for his kindness. Rowshan says with his usual laughter: “The way you were walking along the sidewalk, it occurred to me to pick you up before others do.” Then he laughs from the bottom of his heart. Rowshan’s jokes are sometimes gaudy and trite, but coming from a man like him, such words should not be taken to heart. Elham, looking for something to say, asks about Mrs. Rowshan and says, “I miss your wife.” “You are very kind.” “How is Mozhgan, is she well?” “Mozhgan is well, too. But let us see, how are you?” “I am fine.” She prefers to say, “I’m a wreck.” For a moment she wants to submit herself to the trust which she feels in Rowshan, and tell him the details of her heartache, to complain about his disregard for Fariborz, and talk about her feelings in those last moments when she was still Fariborz’s legal wife, and to explain that she would not have given consent to a divorce if she had not been so stubborn and proud. She is inclined to confess honestly to someone that, until the last moments, she had no clear perception of the separation. Rowshan asks, “Where were you going?” “Me? I was going home.” “These days one can only go home.” “You are right.” “So, is home agreeable?” Elham thinks that, at any rate, sitting at home is better than going to see people who understand nothing and are busy with their daily problems, but which home? She feels that she misses her own house. She wants to see once again the neighbor women on the stairwell landing, or in the parking enclosure. They gather in the evenings, in the yard or in the parking area. Their children are busy playing and riding bikes, and while they keep the little ones under their gaze, they talk to each other about everything. Elham was the only one among them who had not become a mother, and they did not mind asking her, with laughter and joking, about the delay in her getting pregnant. She herself always thought that she would have enough time to realize this expectation. In her heart she tries to imagine Fariborz busy washing dishes or cleaning the rooms. He will understand that housekeeping is not an easy job! Has he missed me? Just

348

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please God, don’t let him forget to water the flowers. The ones in the living room are in plain view, but that one on top of the kitchen cupboard, is probably thirsty. “Do you know that you are very popular in the company?” “Who?” “You!” He says “you” with emphasis. To Elham, this kind of talk from a man like Rowshan, who even in family gatherings addresses his wife and daughter formally, is a bit odd, but she neither wants to be suspicious, nor does she feel like talking about being or not being popular. It is some while now since these kinds of questions have been important to her. She decides to get out at the next intersection, a place where she can, via the southern city route, get straight home by taxi. “I hope I have not been an inconvenience. I’ll get out further down, at that intersection. You were truly kind, Mr. Rowshan.” Rowshan, like someone whose mind is elsewhere, asks, “You didn’t eat lunch, did you?” No employee eats lunch on Thursdays in the company. She responds negatively, as she picks up her purse from next to her legs, and gets ready to get out. “Please greet your wife and Mozhgan on my behalf. Your kindness...” With a smile, Rowshan prevents her from continuing to talk: “Stop with these formalities! They have gone up north for a few days and are fine. Think about us – me and you! You just said you haven’t eaten lunch. Well, let’s go to my house. . .” Elham looks at him in surprise. “. . .And fix me a nice meal! Do you know how long it has been since I’ve tasted the cooking of a pretty woman like you?” She is shocked at Rowshan’s behavior, but after all, one always answers formalities with gratitude and appreciation. Rowshan, without paying attention to Elham’s polite thank you, continues talking: “Everything is at home – you just have to put on some comfortable, soft clothes.” At this moment, they arrive at the intersection, and with her female intuition Elham has felt something unpleasant in Rowshan’s attitude and talk, and is happy to be getting out. “If it is possible, right here. . .” Rowshan quietly turns towards the northern part of the city and…“Then I want to show you a film so you’ll catch on fire.” Elham angrily looks at him, as if something sharp has bored into her body. “Please, stop, Mr. Rowshan.” She is also now a bit nervous. “Please let me get out right over here.”

349

Sholeh A. Quinn

Rowshan, without paying any attention to her condition, says lewdly, “I’m not too much of a devil.” He turns towards Elham, “Am I?” Elham is thoroughly agitated. “Well, what can I say?” She smiles out of habit, and quietly continues. “Please, kindly let me go!” Her voice sounds frustrated and pleading –she wants to get out quickly get and flee from Rowshan’s unrelenting remarks. She seems afraid of hearing more undesirable things in the sentences which Rowshan utters with ease and without thinking. Rowshan passes the car next to him by changing gears, and drives faster. “You are like an inexperienced bird, are you making an excuse or are you truly busy? Let me promise you…” With a laugh he puts up his right arm, “I promise that if you don’t want me to, I won’t do anything naughty.” Amazed, she looks at Rowshan as if she has just noticed his drooping lips and loose muscles and sagging foolish face. The unsuitable desire behind his words, which she had not wanted to face, is now obvious. She trembles. And then...from the condition of his eyes, which are looking at her selfishly, arrogantly and with illegitimate appetite, she suddenly feels that she has been humiliatingly offended. She does not know what to do, or what to say; she is in a state of submission rising from despair, like a defenseless person who submits to his own fate with no resistance. “I promise, only with your consent!” Rowshan’s voice trembles a bit, seemingly excited by the thoughts in his mind. But Elham quietly looks ahead, as if no longer expecting any fearful subject in his words. She feels his hand on her leg, light at first, then heavy. “I promise!” Aunt Roya had said, “Young widows are like a fenceless garden; every greedy passerby would like to have a taste of the fruit.” Tears fall on her cheeks. Tears had also fallen uncontrollably in the divorce office, too, where her feminine attachments had been taken away and she had been left alone... and now, she was being changed into what? Into a free and easy lover – a lewd woman? She cannot control the convulsions of her sobbing cries – her crying reaches a crescendo. Rowshan is astonished. Elham, who no longer pays any attention to him, keeps her face down, refusing to look across at him. She takes a kleenex out of her purse and wipes the tears that have drenched her entire face. Hiccuping, she says: “I always thought of you as my father.” Rowshan, like someone who had heard something ugly and unexpected, nervously and hastily drives his car to the side of the road. “What nonsense! Really, what nonsense! Me, in your father’s place? Don’t tell me you thought of yourself as a fourteenyear old?!”

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* * * She walks in the hot sun, along the side of the street. She feels worn out, like the image of herself that she saw in the bathroom mirror at her parents’ house. Something has broken inside her, something which she only now, just as it has broken, realizes had existed.

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Refuting Rushdie in Persian Paul Sprachman Rutgers University Not long after it appeared in 1988, The Satanic Verses (SV) inspired a number of authors to refute it in Persian. These writers treat Rushdie’s novel as a work of theology and philosophy, and, in the long tradition of raddiyeh-nevisi or “refutation-writing,” present a variety of arguments based on Islamic sources to expose its falsehoods and slanders. This article examines the conventions of Rushdie refutation in Persian. It shows how refuters have taken advantage of the license afforded by polemical works to circumvent the absolute suppression of SV in Iran to translate certain parts of the banned work into Persian. One of the customary ways around the prohibition against publishing the unprintable is to invoke the saying naql-e kofr kofr nabshad or “transmission of blasphemy is not considered blasphemous” (Dehkhod 4:1825). This is explicit in the introduction of one of the most traditional refutations (Hdi Modarresi, 9). Refutations of SV are important in general, because, as is often the case in raddiyeh literature in Arabic and Persian, they are the only permissible fora for public discourse of the text. At times, the refutation provides the sole evidence that the refuted text existed. One of the first Persian attacks on SV is eqrat-e Salmn Roshdi (“The Inferiority of Salman Rushdie”) by Mo af oseyni abab’i, a thirty-eight-page pamphlet that appeared about a year after Rushdie’s novel. The author argues that the Indian-born, but Anglophilic author’s nearly congenital inferiority made him the ideal tool for plots designed to undermine Islam and the Islamic Republic of Iran. In his work, oseyni abab’i develops a theory repeated often in Rushdie refutation: that the author of SV is a self-hating Muslim, fatally wounded by a West that has used him to undermine Islam. eqrat-e Salmn Roshdi is not oseyni abab’i’s first refutation of secular works about the Prophet Mohammad. He is also responsible for a three-volume response to Ali Dashti’s Bist-o seh sl (“Twenty-three Years”- an examination of the Prophet’s political career by a cleric who left the fold) that reproduces almost all of the banned work to refute it. To contextualize Rushdie’s inferiority in the history, oseyni abab’i briefly summarizes anti-Islamic polemics, beginning with literature that emerged after Christian defeats in the Crusades. He describes how Voltaire distorted Islam and then turns his attention to those he calls “biased Orientalists” (22). Among the offending scholars he mentions are the Jesuit priest Henri Lammens, who depicted Mohammad as a “voluptuous imposter” (Simon 1986: 104), and Ignác Goldziher, whom he terms the “Jewish by origin (yahudi al-al) Orientalist” (24). He tars both with the

Paul Sprachman

same brush, but fails to mention that Goldzhiher was highly critical of Lammens’ approach to Islam. oseyni abab’i devotes a scant twelve pages to Rushdie’s work. He does not turn to SV until page 32 of his writing. This does not leave much room for translation, nevertheless some of the first Persian renderings of Rushdie’s English appear in the last six pages of the pamphlet. Rushdie describes the Prophet Mohammad’s three early companions, Khalid, Salman, and Bilal, as “[a] trinity of scum” (101). In oseyni abab’i’s Persian, this is mosalles-e tofleh, literally “triangle of scum.” Given the gaudy irreverence of SV, thluth “trinity” or, even more profane, slus-e aqdas-e tofleh “holy trinity of scum,” would have conveyed the sarcasm of the original more faithfully and, at the same, have bolstered oseyni abab’i’s argument.1 oseyni abab’i also Persianizes the names of Rushdie’s main characters in his pamphlet. “Chamcha” becomes “Chamch,” which lengthens the final vowel; however, Persian possesses the Hindi term ‡˜‡ȡ , or “spoon,” in the form chamcheh (short “a”), with the same literal meaning. It is not clear why H oseyni abab’i chose the English spelling, but subsequent refutations follow his path: ©Š^Š2 € Š©Š^Š2 In his article “’yeh-h-ye Sheyni’ va Mas’aleh-ye Tamaddon-e Gharb” (“The Satanic Verses and the Problem of Western Civilization”), Na rollh Purjavdi, the editor of the Persian review of books Nashr-e Dnesh, also portrays Rushdie as an Englishman manqué aching to betray Islam. Because he finds SV “boring, fatiguing, and, most of all, nauseating” (3), Purjavdi only managed to “leaf through” about half of the novel. This distaste does not prevent him from translating a tiny part of Rushdie’s large burlesque of Imam Khomeini and the nascent Islamic Republic (205-15). In it the exiled Imam listens to his radio spokesman, the American convert Bilal X, deliver the Imami line on his enemies: Bilal continues to address the darkness. ‘Death to the tyranny of the Empress Ayesha, of calendars, of America, of time! We seek the eternity, the timelessness of God. His still waters, not her flowing wines.’ Burn the books and trust the Book; shred the papers and hear the Word, as it was revealed by the Angel Gibreel to the Messenger Mahound and explicated by your interpreter and Imam. ‘Ameen,’...[SV 211]. Wb/ bŠ02 * ¬  » :#  d ¹@ E!  *  *  #*    ?¤* 7  j_  q * #/ @ j_+b#* E| ‚  .  * ¬   K * ¬  j ^Ž; 1

An Arabic translation of this section of SV (Darvish 1994: 147) reads thluth al- uthlah “trinity of the dregs.”

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 # "/  / Ÿ/ .# ^‚ | d + * ²Ž  #* / * + ._#@ Ÿ +Q  [; *   ‘ #  0  * X 0‰  ;/G ^ * j#  ^ * «.YK .#  K  7   Purjavdi’s translation shows an excellent command of both languages and cultures. His word choice is often inspired. For example, he uses the philosophical term l-zamni to convey “timelessness.” Moreover, his “Death to America” (marg bar mrik) sounds so much more authentic in translation than it does in the original. This brief sample demonstrates how apt Persian would be as a medium for SV, which often breaches its English confinement with outbursts of Hindi-Urdu-Persian-Arabic (e.g., “Ho ji!” [3]; “ekdumjaldi” [12]; “Vilayeti” [44], “Ameen” [the present excerpt], etc.). Despite its many virtues, Purjavdi’s translation is not completely faithful. He omits (without ellipsis) the phrase “His still waters, not her flowing wines,” which could easily have been something like b-h-ye rked-e khod, na mey-h-ye jri-ye malekeh. This omission slights the basic of opposition of water and wine (e.g., “water will have its day and blood will flow like wine” 209) that runs through SV. Another pamphlet-sized refutation of SV is yatollh Dr. Mo ammad deqi’s yt-e ra mni (“The Merciful Verses”) which, as is common in raddiyeh literature, echoes the title of the offending work. deqi condemns Rushdie for out-deviling all previous anti-Islamic demons by putting this song into the same mouth that communicated revelation to Mohammad, that of the Angel Gibreel (Jebril): “O, my shoes are Japanese/ These trousers English, if you please/ On my head, red Russian hat/ My heart’s Indian for all that” (SV 5).2 deqi’s translation (14) is accurate but omits the two rhyming tag lines, “if you please” and “for all that.” In the shortened Persian version, then, Rushdie’s theme that racination is possible in the face of the modern world’s incessant cultural amalgamation is lost. More daring is deqi’s translating of one of the most offensive passages to Moslems in SV, an episode that throws everything the Prophet Mohammad revealed into question. The episode is based on the boast of one of Mohammad’s scribes that he, not God, was the source of some of the revelations. In SV the Persian immigrant and Rushdie’s namesake, Salman, serves as the false scribe. As deqi insists, this substitution is fiction, but it makes sense in a novel about plural reincarnation. The translated (SV 367) segment, which begins in the third person and then switches to Salman’s first, is:

2

This is the line of the famous opening song from Raj Kapoor’s 1955 RKO Pictures film, Shri 420. [ED.]

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After that, when he sat at the Prophet’s feet, writing down rules rules rules, he began, surreptitiously, to change things. ‘Little things at first. If Mahound recited a verse in which God was described as all-hearing, all-knowing, I would write, all-knowing, all-wise. Here’s the point: Mahound did not notice the alterations. So there I was, actually writing the Book, or rewriting, anyway, polluting the word of God with my own profane language. But, good heavens, if my poor words could not be distinguished from the Revelation of God’s own Messenger, then what did that mean? What did that say about the quality of the divine poetry? ! /¹* j+!  / Y&  * +Q 0^«   Y’  ^   / W^ *  `2 #+*  E| ¹  «; *    ! 0^«  _Q2  /#*  . 7 «; `2 ^* _| „  ”& ##@ K /     * /  K « #  »  Y * «# »  * €^ _ j`2 ^*   _| „ _+!  Y j* "  d ¹@  *  _+!  / d + Y  7* Y Y WŽŽ‘ / Y * * j  ^ ‰; † «; ¬/`* #@   j7   "|K  –€ 7@ ž   * * / ##@ 7¤  7    ` ^+ _  / K #! ^  W!# &  ##@ " +  ‘ * Y `2  † ^  W[  ^K  | ‹  _• "/ */ + `2 2 * ‡ ©* Y * * j  #‰ As usual, deqi’s technique is faithful (but hardly as artful as Purjavdi’s) to the original except at certain crucial points. The italicized words are translations of simple-as opposed to compound-attributes of God found in the Qur’an. These epithets, called the “beautiful names” (al-asm’ al- osn: traditionally 99 in number) consist of an Arabic noun fronted by the article al-. Thus God is al-Kabr, or “The Great.” Rushdie gives the English terms an Arabic cachet by prefixing “all-” to them. All-hearing (al-sam), all-knowing (alalm) occur one after the other in Qur’an 2: 127, while the phrase all-knowing, all-wise (al- akm) comes in 2: 35. The coincidence makes Mahound’s failure to notice the substitution understandable; however, instead of translating these attributes with the standard Arabic (and, therefore, Persian) words, deqi (16) uses more conventional terms. Thus in his translation, all-hearing becomes vqef, merely “aware,” and allknowing, lem, is merely “knowledgeable.” These Persian translations are pale shadows of the original terms. They obscure the references to the Qur’an that are clear in English. One can only speculate about why

deqi chose to neuter the “beautiful names” this way? Perhaps he was too mindful of the Quranic injunction against mocking the Word of God. It is surprising that even in the licensed environs of raddiyeh writing, where transmitting profanity is not profane, he was reluctant to render Rushdie’s blasphemous pastiche in full.

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Refuting Rushdie in Persian

The most complete Persian refutation of Rushdie’s work is Naqd-e tow e’eh-ye yt-e Shey ni (“Analysis of The Satanic Verses Conspiracy”: Naqd) by Seyyed A Allh Mohjerni, Iranian Minister of Culture and Islamic Guidance (1997-2000). 3 Naqd combines the conventions of traditional raddiyehs and the techniques of modern literary and film criticism. He carefully distinguishes Rushdie the blasphemer who chose to undermine faith itself, and Faulkner and Jean Luc Goddard, who did not slander belief in God (86). And like an old-time refuter Mohjerni appeals to proverbial Arabic to support his contention that Rushdie is overly concerned with infidelity and sexual immorality: man a abba shay’an akthara dhikrahu “he who loves something mentions it often” (47). Since its publication in September 1989, Naqd has been republished at least eleven times. In November 1997 alone, 3,150 copies of the eleventh edition, which I have before me, were produced. This publishing history makes Mohjerni’s analysis a runaway best-seller in Persian, comparable to such romance novels as Nzi afavi’s Dln-e behesht (9th edition, 1991, 5,000 copies). Because blasphemy remains relevant in Iranian political discourse, it may yet scale the Himalayan heights of Bmdd-e khomr (“The Morning of the Hangover”) by F. jj Seyyed Javdi (17th edition, 1998, 10,000 copies). The popularity of Mohjerni’s justification of Imam Khomeini’s fatwa may also stem from popular curiosity about SV and the thirst for a complete Persian translation of the work. In certain respects, intellectual life in the Islamic Republic resembles what one finds in all cultural dictatorships. In those places, a few anointed readers have free access to banned works that the thought police deny ordinary mortals “for their own good.” Mohjerni’s writing, however, is not pulp fiction. It is an omnibus indictment of the West, dense with allusions to Islamic jurisprudence, works of world literature, and oseyni abab’i -type attacks on biased Orientalists. The author does not limit his discussion to SV, but mines Midnight’s Children (MC) and Shame for information about the novelist’s life and mentality. Readers of Naqd learn, for example, that the fictional Saleem Sinai in MC and Omar Khayyam Shakil in Shame have so much in common with the real Salman Rushdie that the three of them are virtually one person (Naqd 45, 48). Mohjerni also quotes broadly from Rushdie’s non-fiction in support of the Englishmanmanqué theory of SV’s genesis. Mohjerni’s translations of SV are like those of Purjavdi and deqi – faithful to what they translate, but incomplete. Characteristic of this is his version of the Babasaheb Mhatre story (SV 21) about a genie in a glass. After Gibreel was orphaned, Mhatre, his stepfather, tells the young man about his experience with spirits. The story

3

For information on the former minister’s career and works, see http://www.mohajerani.com.

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serves Mohjerni’s purpose because it shows how doubts about God germinate in one of SV’s principal characters, the mad dreamer Gibreel, who (like the hybrid Rushdie/Sinai/Khayyam) loses his faith at an early age: Once (Mhatre recounted) the glass had been visited by the most cooperative of spirits, such a too-friendly fellow, see, so I thought to ask him some big questions. Is there a God, and that glass which had been running round like a mouse or so just stopped dead, middle of table, not a twitch, completely phutt, kaput. So, then, okay, I said, if you won’t answer that try this one instead, and I came right out with it, Is there a Devil. After that the glass–baprebap!–began to shake–catch your ears!–slowslow at first, then faster-faster, like a jelly, until it jumped!–ai–hai!–up from the table, into the air, fell down on its side, and–o–ho!–into a thousand and one pieces, smashed. Believe don’t believe, Babasaheb Mhatre told his charge, but thenandthere I learned my lesson: don’t meddle, Mhatre, in what you do not comprehend.

K  #   »/  E‘ G * * .!   ¼ | / ‘/ / * H ^  X‹ | .W "*   * ¬/`*  _ |ß ?ß Y / ‰ ##@ d‰ @ ^  j#  –x .#   ”b&+  /@  ¥+  ;  ‰  ##!   ; *  ! | W ¹! K .* ´  _Q  Y * #*  /` *  !  d ;   *  "#! "# `  !   q * *  #   ! " :#  @ *  K  / / Y – K  E‘ G * *  !  _Ž; ; H ". x  ^ ¬/  `2 * Mohjerni’s translation (79) omits the underlined parts without indicating the omissions. In his version, readers only find the simple message that infidelity (in every sense) is immorality. The originality and playfulness of Rushdie’s language do not concern him here. Because the exclamation “baprebap,” the Hindi-Urdu doubling “slowslow,” and the breathless fusion “thenandthere” are irrelevant to his moralistic reading of the novel, he ignores them. This is editing, not translating. There are also times when Mohjerni adds things. He (106) translates the now infamous epithet “bastard” ( armzdeh) that Rushdie (95) uses to characterize the Prophet Ibrahim, who abandoned his wife Hagar and their son Ibrahim in the desert. In Mohjerni’s translation, armzdeh cannot stand alone. He fronts it with the Arabic phrase al-iyd be-llh-”God forbid,” which acts like an amulet deflecting any harm repeating the slur might bring. It appears that the need for an apotropaic formula is stronger than the license granted by refutation writing.

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Mohjerni (65) also asks why western Orientalists are so drawn to controversial aspects of the Prophet’s biography like the Satanic Verses affair. In his opinion, no scholar who accepted the Qur’an as the word of God, could say that the Prophet had altered the revelation or had allowed Satan to put words into his mouth. He argues that since the Moslem scholarly world had long ago closed the book on the Verses, Orientalist interest in it could only be explained by ulterior motives that go back to the Crusades. Mohjerni specifically accuses three Western scholars of the biographical literature on Mohammad, Mohammad Sir William Muir, Montgomery Watt, and Theodor Nöldeke, of poisoning the wellsprings of Islamic faith with their secular studies of the sources. In his view, SV is merely a continuation of the Western assault on Islam, a fictional outgrowth of biased Orientalism. But do all indigenous scholars see the affair as a dead issue? Judging from the source materials used in Naqd, Mohjerni is well-read in a variety of languages and literatures. One must assume that he is familiar with the works of the Iranian scholar Dr. Abbs Zaryb (Kho’i), author of a biography of the Prophet the first part of which appeared in 1991. In his refutation of the affair (159-66), Zaryb quotes extensively from the Arabic sources, pointing out their internal inconsistencies, but he never mentions the works of Western Orientalists on the affair. In fact, in his introduction (10) he argues that a secular approach to scholarship on Islam, one that treats religion like any other social phenomenon is pernicious because it undermines true belief. The question arises: If the Satanic Verses were a dead issue, why would a prominent Moslem scholar, who like Mohjerni views religious belief as the sine qua non of valid scholarship on Islam, devote seven pages of his biography of the Prophet to their refutation? SV refuters reject the distinction Rushdie’s defenders make between fiction, whether magically real or not, and non-fiction. They read the novel as an anti-Islamic tract by a turncoat Moslem that promotes irreligion. To defame it they use the tools of polemical literature, namely: appeals to the Qur’an, to traditional literature, to Arabic sources and aphorisms; partial citation and motivated translation; identification of the author with his characters, etc. With the boundary between fiction and non-fiction gone, SV has become a test of faith in the Islamic Republic.4 Defending Rushdie’s right to write was tantamount to opposing religion itself. As Shahrnush Prsipur (383) writes in her prison memoirs, Like other writers inside the country, I kept silent on the Rushdie issue. For it was clear that if I were to defend him in the name of freedom of

4

For a complete discussion of this aspect of SV and the function of the fatwa against it in Iran, see Kmrn, 124-131.

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expression, I would immediately become suspect of helping the enemies of religion in the name of free speech. Only the refuters can discuss the book and its author in public, because there is no question about their fidelity to the Islamic Republic. But, as shown above, even they have approached SV with sanitizing quotation marks and apotropaic language. The irony is that in the translations, however limited and limiting, one glimpses how appropriate Persian would be as a medium for Rushdie’s novel.

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Works Cited Darvish, del and Emd. al-yt al-Shay niyah: bayn al-qalam wa’l-sayf (London, 1989). Dashti, Ali. Bist-o seh sl, 4th ed., S. N.: S. D., ca. 1980; English translation: Twenty Three Years: A Study of the Prophetic Career of Mohammad, trans. F.R.C. Bagley (Boston: George Allen & Unwin, 1985). Dehkhod, Ali Akbar. Amthl va ekam, 3rd ed. (Tehran: Amir Kabir, 1352/1973). jj Seyyed Javdi, Fattneh. Bmdd-e khomr (Tehran, 1377/1998). oseyni abab’i, Mo af. eqrat-e Salmn Roshdi (Tehran: Sherkat-e Sehmi-e Enteshr, 1368/1989). ____________, Khinat dar gozresh-e trikh: Naqdi-e ketb-e ‘Bist-o seh sl,’ 3 vols. (Tehran: Enteshrt-e Chpakhsh, 1362/1983). Kmrn, Rmin. Setiz va modr (Sp‚nga, Sweden: Baran, 1998). Modarresi, Hdi Allmeh Seyyed. Raddi bar yt-e Shey ni, trans. amid Re Sheykhi (Qom: Knun-e Nashr-e Andisheh-h-ye Eslmi, 1992). Mohjerni, Seyyed A Allh. Naqd-e tow e’eh-ye yt-e Shey ni (Tehran: Enteshrte Eelt, 1376/1997) (Naqd). Prsipur, Shahrnush. Kh ert-e zendn (Sp‚nga, Sweden: Baran, 1996). Purjavdi, Na rollh. “‘yeh-h-ye Sheyni va mas’aleh-ye tamaddon-e gharb,” Nashr-e Dnesh 9: 3(April-May 1989): 2-9. Rushdie, Salman. Midnight’s Children (NY: Knopf, 1980) (MC). ____________. Shame (New York: Knopf, 1983). ____________. The Satanic Verses (New York: Viking, 1989) (SV).

deqi, yatollh Dr. Mo ammad. yt-e Ra mni (Tehran: Farhang-e Islmi, 1409 a.h./1989).

afavi, Nzi. Dln-e behesht (Tehran: Enteshrt-e Qoqnus, 1380/2001). Simon, Róbert. Ignác Goldziher: His Life and Scholarship as Reflected in his Works and Correspondence (Budapest: Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, 1986). Zaryb (Kho’i), Abbs. Sireh-ye Rasul Allh: bakhsh-e avval, az ghz t Hejrat (Tehran: Sorush, 1370/1991).

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From Dawn’s Art Michael Bylebyl It was late July or early August, a time when everything was as green as it would grow and summer had not yet started to wane. I woke to the window facing east and a blue sky which was quickly turning bluer. The horizon held my attention as I strained to see the sun’s first shine. It was still too early. But going back to sleep was impossible. What would happen when the sun actually did cross the threshold of the horizon? Quietly I put on my clothes, stole through the house, slid out the side door and headed east. I walked about a mile, past dewy gardens and trees full of seemingly ecstatic birds. They were definitely tweeting about something and I wanted to be in on what it was. Finally, beyond the Projects, a field opened up along the bank of the old Erie Canal. I sat down and focused upon a hedgerow along the eastern sky. When the moment was almost upon us the birds stopped singing. It was as though they were taking a collective deep breath before day could properly begin. The silence lasted until the sun’s disk gleamed over the horizon. Then, as the impossible firebrand burned its way into our eye roots, they started to sing. Applause! Waves of hope and vision expanded along the hagioplaise. Forever, it seemed. By the time the sun had taken its place in the morning sky, the tide subsided. As I turned to leave I noticed a strange look to my surroundings. Each object appeared to have a unique signature which had not been obvious before. It was as if the whole background of taken-for-granted entities had blossomed into a neon candy store of individuals. My first step took on the dimensions of a major event. I wanted to walk. I started to run. My balance fell. A passing car resembled my bearings. Mark. This was no ordinary state. The walk home seemed to last for hours. Having been supercharged with so many new impressions, reality slowed like a film or video which has had extra frames added. Sky, rock, trees, etc., were more “there” than before. How wrong Socrates had been, or at least his words, I thought, in translation. It wasn’t the thing’s form which mattered. I needed a pen. Back at the house I wrote. With deliberation seeming as easy as yes, pages of notes flew into existence. Whatever was needed was there. It all made sense. As morning rolled into afternoon, however, the train began to slow down. By five o’clock the magic had disappeared. Morning seemed far away. But tomorrow…? It wasn’t the same. Clouds. Then rain. Go back to the scribbled notes. What is this word? What was he talking about?

Michael Bylebyl

Other concerns moved back in. Oh sure, I thought about dawn from time to time and would resolve to go the next day. And I would imagine myself walking to that field in the pre-dawn light. But the alarm clock was not enough. The space refused to open. Cut to two years later. While reading a book about the Medieval physician/philosopher Avicenna, a key appears. The author, Henry Corbin, refers to a text in which dawn is associated with a special mode of perception. I recall my experience and resolve to find it. The book is not easy to locate. After several months of looking, a copy appears in the uncataloged section of the old Oriental Institute library in Chicago. In a window alcove on a dark wooden shelf its dingy red cover is illuminated with gold letters spelling out the words Opera Metaphysica et Mystica. The book feels unusually heavy as if it were stone. A thick layer of grey dust suggests that it has not been touched for many years. Upon opening the book a cracking sound pierces the stuffy air. Maybe the binder glue has crystallized in the many years since publication. Inside hangs a curtain of obscurity. It is laced with black Arabic letters. Fortunately Corbin, the editor, provides a non-arabic introduction. He asserts that the texts have been written during the twelfth century A.D. by an Iranian named Shihab al-Din al-Suhrawardi. Among them is the one about dawn. It is called Hikmat al-Ishrak. With the help of a dictionary I translate it as Wisdom of Dawning. After deciphering the first few pages of Arabic, it becomes apparent that the author is not talking about the literal ascent of the sun. He uses the word ishrak (active participle) to indicate an extraordinary experience of knowing. Through the active agency of this “dawning” Suhrawardi claims to have a unique access to truth, one which was discovered by certain philosophers and wise men of antiquity. It is precisely this access which has allowed him to realize the principles and concepts which he will present in the ensuing chapters of his Wisdom of Dawning. Given my past experience I was excited to learn about this “special” mode of perception. What fired my curiosity even more were the circumstances of Suhrawardi’s death. Apparently his ideas were so compelling that the religious authorities wanted to silence him. They accused him of heresy and despite the backing of the son of the most powerful ruler in the Middle East, Salah al-din (Richard’s foe in the crusade), found him guilty and had him executed at the age of 36. So what or who was this dawning Muse which had caused Suhrawardi to sacrifice half his life? Before me stood the maze of philosophic logic of The Wisdom of Dawning. Written in the style of formal treatise it elaborated principles and proof with clear syllogistic reasoning. There were other writings as well: a series of strange first person narratives which glittered like so many jewels. With titles like The Crimson Intellect their subtle facets hinted at weird occult adventures and high metaphysical anomalies. Each

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one presented itself with the ultimate cipher of “dawning” seeming to appear on the horizon of the next page. With the help of Fazlur Rahman and Heshmat Moayyad I navigated the obscure passages of Suhrawardi’s writings, raytracing the voyages of Mohammad, Alexander, Gilgamesh, Gabriel, the Green One and a host of other real and imagined mythical figures. I took notes, translated, had realizations and further realizations. These came together in the form of a sequential ta’wil entitled The Wisdom of Illumination. It attempted to fathom the story of Suhrawardi’s quest. Although the text of The Wisdom of Illumination satisfied a peculiar craving for order, it seemed far removed from that original experience of dawn. I needed to see things from a different perspective. My chance came in the form of a letter from the Iranian Academy of Philosophy in Tehran. Its director, Seyyid Hossein Nasr, was interested in Suhrawardi. There would be seminars conducted by Henry Corbin, the original editor of his writings and master of the ishraqi exegesis of texts. Other scholars and thinkers whose writings had skirted the limits of ordinary reality would also be in residence. Living quarters would feature the subtle grace of a walled garden and reflecting pool. A scholarship would cover funds. Arriving in Tehran in September 1976, I was struck with cultural lightning. It blasted away dreamy scenes woven from years of studying Middle Eastern writings. Instead I found a modern metropolis bursting the seams of its traditional mosques and minarets with high-rise apartments and square office buildings. The oil boom of the early seventies had injected billions of dollars into Iran’s economic right arm and pumped many Iranians and foreign corporations up into a wild frenzy of building and speculation. Thus my first step onto Iranian soil was accompanied by no haunting strains of Omar Khayyam’s Rubaiyat. Instead an untuned Mercedes luggage truck drove along the runway and bathed us visitors in an initiatory dousing of thick black diesel smoke. Inside the airport I found a phone and called the Institute for a ride. As I fumbled with the strange coins and operators, I noticed that I was surrounded by men and women who were wearing the latest European and American style clothes. As I wondered what had become of the traditional veils and headwraps the Institute’s secretary told me that a driver would be by later. Exhausted after staying up all night, I sank into a chair across from windows looking out towards the Elborz mountains. Dawn was just breaking. As the sun rose over the horizon, the grey mountains turned a glowing salmon pink. While dozing off the following lines ran into view: The sepulchral houses of old Iran at dawn the mist gray the windows lattice till ….

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A porter wearing a yellow coat woke me up. He was shaking my arm and pointing outside where an orange colored vehicle stood waiting. Standing beside the car was a wiry Iranian with a thick black moustache. In broken English he greeted me and placed my luggage in the trunk. As soon as I sat down my head was jerked back as the driver hit the gas pedal and tore out of the airport parking lot. From that moment until we reached the Academy my hand gripped the door handle. The driver was mad. Everyone on the road was crazy. No one paid attention to stop lights, pedestrians or right-of-ways. The Iranian behind the wheel was obviously good because he did not have to slow down like the others on the road. His skill was all bravado. He wanted his morning glass of tea. The Academy did not look like anything even remotely academic but rather like it had been crafted in a Persian Miniature Painting. Decked out with the traditional walled garden, it featured a reflecting pool, cypress trees and carefully cultivated flowers and shrubs. The building itself was bright and airy, old by Tehran standards, i.e., built more than ten years before, and semi-classical in its lines. It was basically the home of a wealthy Iranian who had donated it to the cause of further studies. What really caught my attention was the slightly-below-ground first floor. Done in turquoise ceramic tiles it featured a small indoor reflecting pool, eye-level view of the gardens and a periphery of alcoves and niches which were furnished with newly carved oak tables and chairs. I sat down at one of the tables and spread out my books and notes. As I looked them over I had the sense of having entered into a realm which had somehow emerged from the pages of the texts which I had been studying. All those years of intense creation of some imagined voyage into the hagioplaise had landed me right in the middle of it. My family, friends and living space were all way off to the west a gillion miles away. Now I had to figure out what I was supposed to do. Towards the end of my first week in Tehran I took a trip to Mt. Damavand. Located to the east of Tehran in the Elborz range, this enormous mountain figured prominently in ancient Iranian mythology as well as Suhrawardi’s world view. It was believed to be the highest mountain in the world and home to the Simurgh, a legendary bird who was supposed to possess supernatural powers. On a clear day you could see Mt. Damavand’s snow-covered peak from downtown Tehran. I went with John Werkman, a Fullbright scholar who was conducting research on current trends in Iranian society. He wore a watch whose movement had been replaced by a photo of Woody Allen. The face made sense. By now I had discovered the uselessness of western style time in a realm where it meant nothing. Over here all reckoning was based on the “tomorrow” principle. The accommodations which had been illustriously described in the Institute’s brochure would be ready “tomorrow.” Scholarship funds for such trivial items as food and temporary lodging would also be there “tomorrow.” In fact the seemingly rock solid infrastructure built up around years of time clocks, news reports

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and pay envelopes which westerners rely on had vaporized without the universal belief of its participants. This East was different. Around noon we boarded a bus going east. As the double-decker left Tehran, the mountains rose higher and higher. An hour into the trip and it seemed like the cliffs and little shrubs were painted by the medieval miniaturist, Sultan Muhammad. For a former midwesterner used to the flat of the Great Plains, this terrain seemed incredibly high. The bus arrived at the base of Mt. Damavand in the early afternoon. Werkman and I hitched a ride to the highest elevation which you could reach by car. The road was made of packed dust, pulverized remnants of the long dormant volcano which Mt. Damavand in fact was. It was as fine as flour and quickly dusted shoes, shirt and sweaty arms with tan powder. It was late afternoon by the time we started to climb. The side of the mountain consisted of loose gravel with occasional stretches of large rocks. Aside from an occasional slip on the gravel, it was easy going. Werkman and I raced upwards, oblivious to the dangers of the bends which manages to kill a few unwary climbers every year. Within two hours of running and climbing we were halfway up the gentle part of Mt. Damavand. Only one problem: it was 6:00 P.M. Because of the enormous height of the surrounding mountains the sun was quickly obscured behind a nearby peak and it started to get dark. We had not counted on this quick end of daylight and started to pick our way back down. Being a complete novice at mountain climbing, I had not realized that going down was more difficult than going up. You had to look below in order to see where you were placing your next step. That meant realizing how high up you were. No running this time. Within a half-hour the mountains blocked out light. No light, no provisions and the temperature dropping fast. Things were starting to look pretty scary. All of a sudden everything changed. There on the backdrop of an exceptionally high peak a soft white glow began to appear. Soon it had flooded the valley in a display of milky light as a totally unexpected full Moon rose above the mountains. It ascended above the southern peaks and lit up the side of Mt. Damavand to such an extent that even the tiny bits of gravel underfoot cast shadows. Gratefully and humbly we slowly made our way back down. My transgression of the mountain space was not forgiven so easily however. As we neared the base of Damavand the yelping of dogs reverberated through the cold air. They were headed our way. I had heard stories about Iranian country dogs being especially vicious. Werkman called out for help, hoping there might be a human within earshot. After a few minutes a faint answer came back from a nearby shepherd who was tending his flock. He called off the dogs. He laughed when he saw how lightly I was dressed in the cool air and said that we were divunih, i.e., crazy, to be on the mountain so late. “Lunatics” I thought and boarded the next bus for civilization.

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Back in Tehran I decided to put the big flashy adventures on hold and geared up for Corbin’s appearance the following day. The lecture hall was a bright room on the first floor of the Institute with a large portrait of the Shah hanging ominously on the front wall behind the podium. The Shah wore an expression on his face which seemed designed to suggest sternness and displeasure at a group of subjects who almost never met his European jet-set expectations. Whatever was going to take place today he had already made up his mind about its unworthiness. Insolence would not be tolerated. When Corbin walked into the room, his appearance surprised me. He was short, portly and white-haired, not at all the image conjured up from reading his books. With a deep suave voice he spoke exclusively in a French which was unique for its highly original sentence structure. Some of this was due no doubt to his expansive imagination. Some was due to the fact that he was almost totally deaf. At the start of the lecture he turned off his hearing aid, closed his eyes, and for the next hour shared with us the treasures of his imagination. Even though some of the details of Corbin’s lecture escaped me, I was struck by the man’s presence and the way his voice seemed to inhabit the hall. He seemed to be “out there” in a way which was unnerving, especially when he intoned the phrase “monde visionaire” as though the lecture was being conducted from some other dimension of reality. A lifetime of belief had created a terre celeste which he clearly inhabited and made visible to others. After the lecture I went downstairs to meditate on the extraordinary phenomenon which I had experienced in the hall. I wanted to understand how such presence was possible. As I looked across the reflecting pool I noticed the image of a woman’s face. The red hair and hazel eyes suggested Kurdish or Armenian ancestry. As I turned to look at the reality behind the reflection my gaze encountered a pair of intense green eyes. They riveted attention in a way which was both terrific in their fierceness and dazzling in the crystalline nature of the green. The woman’s gaze made me feel uncomfortable as though she was looking right through me. In a slightly agitated tone I asked if there was something I could do for her. She replied sarcastically with the question, “Are you the one who is supposedly studying Suhrawardi?” Even more agitated I shot back, “Yes, and what of it?” “You’re wasting your time,” she chided and turned to leave. Somewhat unsettled I retorted, “And who might you be?” She replied, “Layla Qashangi. You really don’t know do you?” and with that she started to walk away. Realizing that I was about to miss some boat of colossal importance I humbled my tone with, “Layla, I’m sorry I didn’t know who you were. I’m here to learn what I can about Suhrawardi and I would appreciate your help.” At this she paused for a minute and then responded, “Fine. If you are interested in actually learning something about Suhrawardi, meet me this evening at the fourth teahouse in Shemiran.” Before I could respond, she turned around and headed for the door. “What time?” I called after her. Instead of

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answering she shook her head back and forth as though she could not believe that I did not know and disappeared up the stairway. Given the fact that I had no specific time to be there, I assumed that I was supposed to intuit the correct time. “This is all stupid,” I thought. “Probably some trick to play on the dumb American.” Still, there was something compelling about the certainty with which she spoke. At around seven o’clock as the sun started to go down behind the mountains, I boarded a bus up the main avenue to Shemiran, a popular resort area in he northernmost part of Tehran. From the bus terminal I walked through the foothills of the Elborz mountains to the fourth teahouse. The teahouse was nothing more than a rustic log cabin which had about five or six long tables. It was located in a narrow canyon alongside a briskly flowing stream which flowed down from the melting snows in the mountains above. When I arrived there was just enough light to see the outline of the mountains towering around. Inside the cabin a few hikers were seated with their glasses of tea. I chose an empty table, sat down and ordered tea. After a few minutes an elderly Iranian walked over and said, “You must be Layla’s friend. Please step this way.” He then turned around and walked out the door. I had no choice but to see where he was going. Outside the cabin I asked him where we were going. He answered me with the word, “Alamut.” As the word echoed in the close space of the little canyon, I felt a wave of enthusiasm. Alamut was the site of a castle which had been built during the Medieval Period as a stronghold for Hassan al-Sabbah, the head of the Ismaeli Assassins, or popularly known as the “old man of the mountains.” I knew that the castle site was to the north of Tehran, but I had not realized that it was within walking distance. I followed the old man for almost an hour. Every time I tried to say something to him he motioned for me to be quiet. Silently we walked farther and farther back up into the mountains until we reached a point where you could no longer see the lights of Tehran. We were now in total darkness. At this time my guide told me to look up and as I did I felt a sharp blow to the base of my skull. Instantly I fell backwards into a deep ravine. Horrified at the prospect of having my back broken in the fall, images of thieves or anti-American terrorists flashed before me. Strangely enough however as my body slid along the deepening ravine I did not feel any pain from the rocks and gravel. After a slide of what I determined to be about fifty feet, I experienced an incredible subtlety as though my body weighed nothing at all. I looked around and about ten feet away I saw a bearded figure who was wearing a red robe. He walked over and introduced himself. He said that his name was Shihab al-Din al-Suhrawardi. As I looked at Suhrawardi a number of questions swarmed into my head and did battle with my overwhelming disbelief at seeing someone who had been dead for eight hundred years. As my mind became engrossed in trying to figure out what in fact was going on, my vision of him blurred. The overload of questions seemed to impair my

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perception. I tried to concentrate on one question alone and he came into focus again. At this point Suhrawardi laughed and said something about my having trouble with his writings. I asked him which of his stories was first in succession. After a moment of reflection he answered “The Crimson Intellect.” I said, “How is that possible since …” However before I had a chance to finish my question, he started to recite his extraordinary text. As soon as the last word had echoed out of Suhrawardi’s mouth, I heard a loud explosion in my right ear. I turned to face the source of the noise and as I did so it felt like my whole body was being wrenched by some gigantic torque converter. As the tension subsided I noticed details of a doorway about ten feet away. I tried to concentrate upon its shape and as I did so I realized that I was seated back at the teahouse looking at the door. The manager was trying to get my attention by opening and closing it, making a sound which I now recognized to be the explosion. I was the only patron left in the building. Fully cognizant now of where I was, I quickly reached in my pocket for a few rials, laid them on the table and headed for the door. Outside I was surprised to see a quarter moon in the sky. It gave off enough light so that I could find my way along the steep path down. When I arrived at the base of the mountain range, I caught the next bus heading south.

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Backlist Iranian Studies Series: J.C. Bürgel & Ch. van Ruymbeke (eds.) Nizami: A Key to the Treasure of the Hakim ISBN 978 90 8728 097 0

J. Coumans The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám. An Updated Bibliography ISBN 978 90 8728 096 3

A. Sedighi Agreement Restrictions in Persian ISBN 978 90 8728 093 2

A.A. Seyed-Gohrab Courtly Riddles. Enigmatic Embellishments in Early Persian Poetry ISBN 978 90 8728 087 1

A.A. Seyed-Gohrab & S. McGlinn (eds.) One Word – Yak Kaleme. 19th Century Persian Treatise Introducing Western Codified Law ISBN 978 90 8728 089 5

A.A. Seyed-Gohrab & S. McGlinn (eds.) Safina Revealed. A Compendium of Persian Literature in 14th Century Tabriz ISBN 978 90 8728 088 8

A.A. Seyed-Gohrab, F. Doufikar-Aerts & S. McGlinn (eds.) Embodiments of Evil: Gog and Magog. Interdisciplinary Studies of the 'Other' in Literature & Internet Texts ISBN 978 90 8728 090 1

S. Tabatabai Father of Persian Verse. Rudaki and his Poetry ISBN 978 90 8728 092 5

Forthcoming titles in the Iranian Studies Series: J.T.L. Cheung, The Nartic Epic Tradition. Remnants of Iranian Lore from the Caucasus

R. Rahmoni & G. van den Berg, The Epic of Barzu as Narrated by Jura Kamal S.R.M. McGlinn, Abdul-Baha’s Sermon on the Art of Governance J.T.P. de Bruijn, The Journey of the Faithful to the Place of Return. A Persian Allegory on the Development of the Human Soul by Sanâ'i of Ghazna, Founding Father of Persian Sufism