I
SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF THE PERSIAN POET SAADI--CHARACTER OF HIS
WRITINGS--THE "GULISTÁN"--PREFACES TO BOOKS--PREFACE TO THE
"GULISTÁN"--EASTERN POETS IN PRAISE OF SPRINGTIDE.
It is remarkable how very little the average general reader knows
regarding the great Persian poet Saádí and his writings. His name is
perhaps more or less familiar to casual readers from its being appended
to one or two of his aphorisms which are sometimes reproduced in odd
corners of popular periodicals; but who he was, when he lived, and what
he wrote, are questions which would probably puzzle not a few, even of
those who consider themselves as "well read," to answer without first
recurring to some encyclopædia. Yet Saádí was assuredly one of the most
gifted men of genius the world has ever known: a man of large and
comprehensive intellect; an original and profound thinker; an acute
observer of men and manners; and his works remain the imperishable
monument of his genius, learning, and industry.
Maslahu 'd-Dín Shaykh Saádí was born, towards the close of the twelfth
century, at Shíráz, the famous capital of Fars, concerning which city
the Persians have the saying that "if Muhammed had tasted the pleasures
of Shíráz, he would have begged Allah to make him immortal there." In
accordance with the usual practice in Persia, he assumed as his
_takhallus_, or poetical name,[1] Saádí, from his patron Atabag Saád bin
Zingí, sovereign of Fars, who encouraged men of learning in his
principality. Saádí is said to have lived upwards of a hundred years,
thirty of which were passed in the acquisition of knowledge, thirty more
in travelling through different countries, and the rest of his life he
spent in retirement and acts of devotion. He died, in his native city,
about the year 1291.
[1] One reason, doubtless, for Persian and Turkish poets
adopting a _takhallus_ is the custom of the poet
introducing his name into every ghazal he composes,
generally towards the end; and as his proper name would
seldom or never accommodate itself to purposes of verse
he selects a more suitable one.
At one period of his life Saádí took part in the wars of the Saracens
against the Crusaders in Palestine, and also in the wars for the faith
in India. In the course of his wanderings he had the misfortune to be
taken prisoner by the Franks, in Syria, and was ransomed by a friend,
but only to fall into worse thraldom by marrying a shrewish wife. He has
thus related the circumstances:
"Weary of the society of my friends at Damascus, I fled to the barren
wastes of Jerusalem, and associated with brutes, until I was made
captive by the Franks, and forced to dig clay along with Jews in the
fortress of Tripoli. One of the nobles of Aleppo, mine ancient friend,
happened to pass that way and recollected me. He said: 'What a state is
this to be in! How farest thou?' I answered: 'Seeing that I could place
confidence in God alone, I retired to the mountains and wilds, to avoid
the society of man; but judge what must be my situation, to be confined
in a stall, in company with wretches who deserve not the name of men.
"To be confined by the feet with friends is better than to walk in a
garden with strangers."' He took compassion on my forlorn condition,
ransomed me from the Franks for ten dínars,[2] and took me with him to
Aleppo.
[2] A dínar is a gold coin, worth about ten shillings of our
money.
"My friend had a daughter, to whom he married me, and he presented me
with a hundred dínars as her dower. After some time my wife unveiled her
disposition, which was ill-tempered, quarrelsome, obstinate, and
abusive; so that the happiness of my life vanished. It has been well
said: 'A bad woman in the house of a virtuous man is hell even in this
world.' Take care how you connect yourself with a bad woman. Save us, O
Lord, from the fiery trial! Once she reproached me, saying: 'Art thou
not the creature whom my father ransomed from captivity amongst the
Franks for ten dínars?' 'Yes,' I answered; 'he redeemed me for ten
dínars, and enslaved me to thee for a hundred.'
"I heard that a man once rescued a sheep from the mouth of a wolf, but
at night drew his knife across its throat. The expiring sheep thus
complained: 'You delivered me from the jaws of a wolf, but in the end I
perceive you have yourself become a wolf to me.'"
Sir Gore Ouseley, in his _Biographical Notices of Persian Poets_, states
that Saádí in the latter part of his life retired to a cell near Shíráz,
where he remained buried in contemplation of the Deity, except when
visited, as was often the case, by princes, nobles, and learned men. It
was the custom of his illustrious visitors to take with them all kinds
of meats, of which, when Saádí and his company had partaken, the shaykh
always put what remained in a basket suspended from his window, that the
poor wood-cutters of Shíráz, who daily passed by his cell, might
occasionally satisfy their hunger.
* * * * *
The writings of Saádí, in prose as well as verse, are numerous; his best
known works being the _Gulistán_, or Rose-Garden, and the _Bustán_, or
Garden of Odours. Among his other compositions are: an essay on Reason
and Love; Advice to Kings; Arabian and Persian idylls, and a book of
elegies, besides a large collection of odes and sonnets. Saádí was an
accomplished linguist, and composed several poems in the languages of
many of the countries through which he travelled. "I have wandered to
various regions of the world," he tells us, "and everywhere have I mixed
freely with the inhabitants. I have gathered something in each corner; I
have gleaned an ear from every harvest." A deep insight into the secret
springs of human actions; an extensive knowledge of mankind; fervent
piety, without a taint of bigotry; a poet's keen appreciation of the
beauties of nature; together with a ready wit and a lively sense of
humour, are among the characteristics of Saádí's masterly compositions.
No writer, ancient or modern, European or Asiatic, has excelled, and few
have equalled, Saádí in that rare faculty for condensing profound moral
truths into short, pithy sentences. For example:
"The remedy against want is to moderate your desires."
"There is a difference between him who claspeth his mistress in his
arms, and him whose eyes are fixed on the door expecting her."
"Whoever recounts to you the faults of your neighbour will doubtless
expose your defects to others."
His humorous comparisons flash upon the reader's mind with curious
effect, occurring, as they often do, in the midst of a grave discourse.
Thus he says of a poor minstrel: "You would say that the sound of his
bow would burst the arteries, and that his voice was more discordant
than the lamentations of a man for the death of his father;" and of
another bad singer: "No one with a mattock can so effectually scrape
clay from the face of a hard stone as his discordant voice harrows up
the soul."
Talking of music reminds me of a remark of the learned Gentius, in one
of his notes on the _Gulistán_ of Saádí, that music was formerly in such
consideration in Persia that it was a maxim of their sages that when a
king was about to die, if he left for his successor a very young son,
his aptitude for reigning should be proved by some agreeable songs; and
if the child was pleasurably affected, then it was a sign of his
capacity and genius, but if the contrary, he should be declared
unfit.--It would appear that the old Persian musicians, like Timotheus,
knew the secret art of swaying the passions. The celebrated philosopher
Al-Farabí (who died about the middle of the tenth century), among his
accomplishments, excelled in music, in proof of which a curious anecdote
is told. Returning from the pilgrimage to Mecca, he introduced himself,
though a stranger, at the court of Sayfú 'd-Dawla, sultan of Syria, when
a party of musicians chanced to be performing, and he joined them. The
prince admired his skill, and, desiring to hear something of his own,
Al-Farabí unfolded a composition, and distributed the parts amongst the
band. The first movement threw the prince and his courtiers into violent
laughter, the next melted all into tears, and the last lulled even the
performers to sleep. At the retaking of Baghdád by the Turks in 1638,
when the springing of a mine, whereby eight hundred jannisaries
perished, was the signal for a general massacre, and thirty thousand
Persians were put to the sword, a Persian musician named Sháh-Kúlí, who
was brought before the sultan Murád, played and sang so sweetly, first a
song of triumph, and then a dirge, that the sultan, moved to pity by the
music, gave order to stop the slaughter.
To resume, after this anecdotical digression. Saádí gives this whimsical
piece of advice to a pugnacious fellow: "Be sure, either that thou art
stronger than thine enemy, or that thou hast a swifter pair of heels."
And he relates a droll story in illustration of the use and abuse of the
phrase, "For the sake of God," which is so frequently in the mouths of
Muslims: A harsh-voiced man was reading the Kurán in a loud tone. A
pious man passed by him and said: "What is thy monthly salary?" The
other replied: "Nothing." "Why, then, dost thou give thyself this
trouble?" "I read for the sake of God," he rejoined. "Then," said the
pious man, "_for God's sake don't read_."
The most esteemed of Saádí's numerous and diversified works is the
_Gulistán_, or Rose-Garden. The first English translation of this work
was made by Francis Gladwin, and published in 1808, and it is a very
scarce book. Other translations have since been issued, but they are
rather costly and the editions limited. It is strange that in these days
of cheap reprints of rare and excellent works of genius no enterprising
publisher should have thought it worth reproduction in a popular form.
It is not one of those ponderous tomes of useless learning which not
even an Act of Parliament could cause to be generally read, and which no
publisher would be so blind to his own interests as to reprint. As
regards its size, the _Gulistán_ is but a small book, but intrinsically
it is indeed a very great book, such as could only be produced by a
great mind, and it comprises more wisdom and wit than a score of old
English folios could together yield to the most devoted reader. Some
querulous persons there are who affect to consider the present as a
shallow age, because, forsooth, huge volumes of learning--each the
labour of a lifetime--are not now produced. But the flood-gates of
knowledge are now wide open, and, no longer confined within the old,
narrow, if deep, channels, learning has spread abroad, like the Nile
during the season of its over-flow. Shallow, it may be, but more widely
beneficial, since its life-giving waters are within the reach of all.
Unlike most of our learned old English authors, Saádí did not cast upon
the world all that came from the rich mine of his genius, dross as well
as fine gold, clay as well as gems. It is because they have done so that
many ponderous tomes of learning and industry stand neglected on the
shelves of great libraries. Time is too precious now-a-days, whatever
may have been the case of our forefathers, for it to be dissipated by
diving into the muddy waters of voluminous authors in hopes of finding
an occasional pearl of wisdom. And unless some intelligent and
painstaking compiler set himself to the task of separating the gold from
the rubbish in which it is imbedded in those graves of learning, and
present the results of his labour in an attractive form, such works are
virtually lost to the world. For in these high-pressure days, most of
us, "like the dogs in Egypt for fear of the crocodiles, must drink of
the waters of knowledge as we run, in dread of the old enemy Time."
Saádí, however, in his _Gulistán_ sets forth only his well-pondered
thoughts in the most felicitous and expressive language. There is no
need to form an abstract or epitome of a work in which nothing is
superfluous, nothing valueless. But, as in a cabinet of gems some are
more beautiful than others, or as in a garden some flowers are more
attractive from their brilliant hues and fragrant odours, so a selection
may be made of the more striking tales and aphorisms of the illustrious
Persian philosopher.
The preface to the _Gulistán_ is one of the most pleasing portions of
the whole book. Now prefaces are among those parts of books which are
too frequently "skipped" by readers--they are "taken as read." Why this
should be so, I confess I cannot understand. For my part, I make a point
of reading a preface at least twice: first, because I would know what
reasons my author had for writing his book, and again, having read his
book, because the preface, if well written, may serve also as a sort of
appendix. Authors are said to bestow particular pains on their prefaces.
Cervantes, for instance, tells us that the preface to the first part of
_Don Quixote_ cost him more thought than the writing of the entire work.
"It argues a deficiency of taste," says Isaac D'Israeli, "to turn over
an elaborate preface unread; for it is the essence of the author's
roses--every drop distilled at an immense cost." And, no doubt, it is a
great slight to an author to skip his preface, though it cannot be
denied that some prefaces are very tedious, because the writer "spins
out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument,"
and none but the most _hardy_ readers can persevere to the distant end.
The Italians call a preface _salsa del libro_, the _salt_ of the book. A
preface may also be likened to the porch of a mansion, where it is not
courteous to keep a visitor waiting long before you open the door and
make him free of your house. But the reader who passes over the preface
to the _Gulistán_ unread loses not a little of the spice of that
fascinating and instructive book. He who reads it, however, is rewarded
by the charming account which the author gives of how he came to form
his literary Rose-Garden:
"It was the season of spring; the air was temperate and the rose in full
bloom. The vestments of the trees resembled the festive garments of the
fortunate. It was mid-spring, when the nightingales were chanting from
their pulpits in the branches. The rose, decked with pearly dew, like
blushes on the cheek of a chiding mistress. It happened once that I was
benighted in a garden, in company with a friend. The spot was
delightful: the trees intertwined; you would have said that the earth
was bedecked with glass spangles, and that the knot of the Pleiades was
suspended from the branch of the vine. A garden with a running stream,
and trees whence birds were warbling melodious strains: that filled with
tulips of various hues; these loaded with fruits of several kinds. Under
the shade of its trees the zephyr had spread the variegated carpet.
"In the morning, when the desire to return home overcame our inclination
to remain, I saw in my friend's lap a collection of roses, odoriferous
herbs, and hyacinths, which he intended to carry to town. I said: 'You
are not ignorant that the flower of the garden soon fadeth, and that the
enjoyment of the rose-bush is of short continuance; and the sages have
declared that the heart ought not to be set upon anything that is
transitory.' He asked: 'What course is then to be pursued?' I replied:
'I am able to form a book of roses, which will delight the beholders and
gratify those who are present; whose leaves the tyrannic arm of autumnal
blasts can never affect, or injure the blossoms of its spring. What
benefit will you derive from a basket of flowers? Carry a leaf from my
garden: a rose may continue in bloom five or six days, but this
Rose-Garden will flourish for ever.' As soon as I had uttered these
words, he flung the flowers from his lap, and, laying hold of the skirt
of my garment, exclaimed: 'When the beneficent promise, they faithfully
discharge their engagements.' In the course of a few days two chapters
were written in my note-book, in a style that may be useful to orators
and improve the skill of letter-writers. In short, while the rose was
still in bloom, the book called the Rose-Garden was finished."
Dr. Johnson has remarked that "there is scarcely any poet of eminence
who has not left some testimony of his fondness for the flowers, the
zephyrs, and the warblers of the spring." This is pre-eminently the case
of Oriental poets, from Solomon downwards: "Rise up, my love, my fair
one, and come away," exclaims the Hebrew poet in his Book of Canticles:
"for lo! the winter is past, the rain is over and gone: the flowers
appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds has come, and the
voice of the turtle is heard in our land. The fig-tree putteth forth her
green fruits, and the vines with the tender grapes give forth a good
smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away."
In a Persian poem written in the 14th century the delights of the vernal
season are thus described: "On every bush roses were blowing; on every
branch the nightingale was plaintively warbling. The tall cypress was
dancing in the garden; and the poplar never ceased clapping its hands
with joy. With a loud voice from the top of every bough the turtle-dove
was proclaiming the glad advent of spring. The diadem of the narcissus
shone with such splendour that you would have said it was the crown of
the Emperor of China. On this side the north wind, on that, the west
wind, were, in token of affection, scattering dirhams at the feet of the
rose.[3] The earth was musk-scented, the air musk-laden."
[3] Referring to the custom of throwing small coins among
crowds in the street on the occasion of a wedding. A
dirham is a coin nearly equal in value to sixpence of
our money.
But it would be difficult to adduce from the writings of any poet,
European or Asiatic, anything to excel the charming ode on spring, by
the Turkish poet Mesíhí, who flourished in the 15th century, which has
been rendered into graceful English verse, and in the measure of the
original, by my friend Mr. E. J. W. Gibb, in his dainty volume of
_Ottoman Poems_, published in London a few years ago. These are some of
the verses from that fine ode:
Hark! the bulbul's[4] lay so joyous: "Now have come the days of spring!"
Merry shows and crowds on every mead they spread, a maze of spring;
There the almond-tree its silvery blossoms scatters, sprays of spring:
_Gaily live! for soon will vanish, biding not, the days of spring!_[5]
Once again, with flow'rets decked themselves have mead and plain;
Tents for pleasure have the blossoms raised in every rosy lane;
Who can tell, when spring hath ended, who and what may whole remain?
_Gaily live! for soon will vanish, biding not, the days of spring!_
* * * * *
Sparkling dew-drops stud the lily's leaf like sabre broad and keen;
Bent on merry gipsy party, crowd they all the flow'ry green!
List to me, if thou desirest, these beholding, joy to glean:
_Gaily live! for soon will vanish, biding not, the days of spring!_
Rose and tulip, like to maidens' cheeks, all beauteous show,
Whilst the dew-drops, like the jewels in their ears, resplendent glow;
Do not think, thyself beguiling, things will aye continue so:
_Gaily live! for soon will vanish, biding not, the days of spring!_
* * * * *
Whilst each dawn the clouds are shedding jewels o'er the rosy land,
And the breath of morning zephyr, fraught with Tátár musk, is bland;
Whilst the world's fair time is present, do not thou unheeding stand:
_Gaily live! for soon will vanish, biding not, the days of spring!_
With the fragrance of the garden, so imbued the musky air,
Every dew-drop, ere it reaches earth, is turned to attar rare;
O'er the parterre spread the incense-clouds a canopy right fair:
_Gaily live! for soon will vanish, Biding not, the days of spring!_
[4] The nightingale.
[5] In the original Turkish:
_Dinleh bulbul kissa sen kim gildi eiyami behár!
Kurdi her bir baghda hengamei hengami behár;
Oldi sim afshan ana ezhari badami behár:
Ysh u nush it kim gicher kalmaz bu eiyami behár._
Here we have an example of the _redíf_, which is common
in Turkish and Persian poetry, and "consists of one or
more words, always the same, added to the end of every
rhyming line in a poem, which word or words, though
counting in the scansion, are not regarded as the true
rhyme, which must in every case be sought for
immediately before them. The lines--
There shone such truth about thee,
I did not dare to doubt thee--
furnish an example of this in English poetry." In the
opening verse of Mesíhí's ode, as above transliterated
in European characters, the _redíf_ is "behár," or
spring, and the word which precedes it is the true
rhyme-ending. Sir William Jones has made an elegant
paraphrase of this charming ode, in which, however, he
diverges considerably from the original, as will be seen
from his rendering of the first stanza:
Hear how the nightingale, on every spray,
Hails in wild notes the sweet return of May!
The gale, that o'er yon waving almond blows,
The verdant bank with silver blossoms strows;
The smiling season decks each flowery glade--
Be gay; too soon the flowers of spring will fade.
This Turkish poet's maxim, it will be observed, was "enjoy the present
day"--the _carpe diem_ of Horace, the genial old pagan. On the same
suggestive theme of Springtide a celebrated Turkish poetess, Fitnet
Khánim (for the Ottoman Turks have poetesses of considerable genius as
well as poets), has composed a pleasing ode, addressed to her lord, of
which the following stanzas are also from Mr. Gibb's collection:
The fresh spring-clouds across all earth their glistening pearls
profuse now sow;
The flowers, too, all appearing, forth the radiance of their beauty
show;
Of mirth and joy 'tis now the time, the hour, to wander to and fro;
The palm-tree o'er the fair ones' pic-nic gay its grateful shade
doth throw.
_O Liege, come forth! From end to end with verdure doth the whole
earth glow;
'Tis springtide once again, once more the tulips and the roses blow!_
Behold the roses, how they shine, e'en like the cheeks of maids
most fair;
The fresh-sprung hyacinth shows like to beauties' dark, sweet, musky
hair;
The loved one's form behold, like cypress which the streamlet's bank
doth bear;
In sooth, each side for soul and heart doth some delightful joy
prepare.
_O Liege, come forth! From end to end with verdure doth the whole
earth glow;
'Tis springtide once again, once more the tulips and the roses blow!_
The parterre's flowers have all bloomed forth, the roses, sweetly
smiling, shine;
On every side lorn nightingales, in plaintive notes discerning, pine.
How fair carnation and wallflower the borders of the garden line!
The long-haired hyacinth and jasmine both around the cypress twine.
_O Liege, come forth! From end to end with verdure doth the whole
earth glow;
'Tis springtide once again, once more the tulips and the roses blow!_
I cannot resist the temptation to cite, in concluding this introductory
paper, another fine eulogy of the delights of spring, by Amír Khusrú, of
Delhi (14th century), from his _Mihra-i-Iskandar_, which has been thus
rendered into rhythmical prose:
"A day in spring, when all the world a pleasing picture seemed; the sun
at early dawn with happy auspices arose. The earth was bathed in balmy
dew; the beauties of the garden their charms displayed, the face of each
with brilliancy adorned. The flowers in freshness bloomed; the lamp of
the rose acquired lustre from the breeze; the tulip brought a cup from
paradise; the rose-bower shed the sweets of Eden; beneath its folds the
musky buds remained, like a musky amulet on the neck of Beauty. The
violet bent its head; the fold of the bud was closer pressed; the opened
rose in splendour glowed, and attracted every eye; the lovely flowers
oppressed with dew in tremulous motion waved. The air o'er all the
garden a silvery radiance threw, and o'er the flowers the breezes
played; on every branch the birds attuned their notes, and every bower
with warblings sweet was filled, so sweet, they stole the senses. The
early nightingale poured forth its song, that gives a zest to those who
quaff the morning goblet. From the turtle's soft cooings love seized
each bird that skimmed the air."