A PERSIAN LOVE-STORY.*
THE first Englishmen who learnt Persian in order to transact the business of the Law Courts of the East India Company, and were thus able to read Sadi and Hafiz, little thought that they would leave behind them a love for Persian literature among Englishmen. The old Indian when he came home stored in his library, beside Malcolm's Persia, the Gulistan and the Diwan in the original and in translations. Though the next generation may not have been able to read them in the originals, they were able to keep in touch with the poetry of the East by means of the translations, literal or free. Those in whom the taste exists, whether traditional or acquired, will rejoice at the volume before us. In the introduction the true spirit is preserved, and instead of formal statements as to the authorship of the story translated, we are transported into a Persian garden. Without copying, the author has contrived to give something of the charm of the inimitable introduction to the Gulistan :- " A few minutes brought us to the gate of the garden, and in a moment we were out of the pitiless glare, reflected from the bare gravel under a cloudless sky, and in the cool green shelter of an avenue of planes, with smooth white trunks like marble pillars and thick fresh foliage. The clear water ran along the channels, under thickets of roses. There were roses everywhere. Not in beds, nor in plots, but growing as underwood, in untrained luxuri- ance. The fruit trees, peach, almond, cherry, apricot, and apple, had had their day. The Judas tree still stood in the circuit of its own scattered flowers. The violet and the narcissus still held out against time ; but it was the day of the roses, and they triumphed everywhere. I had watched with the Mirza the appearance of every flower and the arrival of every bird, and from the abundant stores of Persian verse the Mirza had hailed, each as it came, with poem or story. Here he was happy. I know,' he said, what you Europeans like is to look at the mountains, or go up among them and kill things. But I like the running water, in a quiet garden, with a rose reflected in it, and the nightingale singing to it. Listen.' It was nearly nine in the morning when, I think, the nightingales sing their best. And the thickets were indeed resonant."
In this garden the Mirza discoursed of history and of the Russians, Turks, and Afghans who had all swooped upon Persia and torn it asunder. He spoke of the uprising of Nadir, who drove back the invaders and extended the boun- daries of his kingdom till his power reached from the Caucasus to Delhi :— "‘ And what,' I said, remains of that ?'—' What remains of the snow of two years ago ? You will say, nothing. But the snow of two years ago has sunk into the rocks, and is drawn into the wells which feed the kanat which waters this garden—this garden of ours. Let us come to the pond and look at the water.' I followed to where the water was collected into a deep basin, walled and paved with green-blue tiles. Look into it and tell me what you see,' he said. I saw in the clear water the reflection of the bright blue sky, and the willows which stood round the pool, and the red geraniums growing by the side. A poet has said that even such is the mirror of thought in which man sees the reflection of the things that are—of the branches of the tree of life. But he only sees the image.' A light green leaf fluttered
• Tho Story of 'Fatah and Hadijeh. Translated from the Persian by Mirza Mahomed and C. Spring Rice. London : Duckworth and Co. Ds. net.1
from the willow into the pond. And sometimes, as you see, a leaf from the tree, a real leaf, falls on the water and hangs between the image and him that looks. And then he knows that there is a real tree as well as the image.' A goldfish swirled to the surface and broke the reflection. And then our passions come from the bottom of our mind and break the image, hunting for worms. But I forgot ; you asked me what was the outcome of Nadir's victories. I will tell you one thing that came of that troublous time.' He drew out a book from the bosom of his dress. The binding was lacquered, the lacquer covering rich flower paintings, the colour dimly showing through the golden film."
The Mirza then tells how the book is a poem written by the Indian poet Fakrir two hundred years ago. The poem is the history of the love-story of Valeh, who was the poet's friend :—
" The next day, an hour after sunrise, I found the Mirza pacing slowly along the garden. He had the book in his hand. We sat down and he read, and as he read he explained the meaning of the lines, and I wrote it down in English."
In regular fashion this poem, the history of the lovers Valeh and Hadijeh, begins with " The praise of God," a Prayer, and " The praise of love." The story itself tells how a
Persian noble had a daughter, who, as a child, was of such exceeding beauty that people said, " Who shall be her husband ?" The father determined that his daughter should wed his brother's child Valeh. The boy's father died, and "his uncle became as his father and Hadijeh was his play- mate." The cousins grew up devoted to one another, and in time the girl's mother proposed to the mother of the boy that they should be married. But the latter was jealous and would not agree. Then arose trouble in the land, and the Afghan Mahmoud conquered Persia and became lord of Isfahan. Now Mahmoud had a courtier who was as ugly in body as he was wicked in mind. He is described as a blot on a picture, or an owl on a fair lawn. This man determined to wed Hadijeh, and by threats both to her mother and her relations obtained the bride. The husband of Hadijeh was obliged to be with the army of his master, and his wife returned to her mother's house, where she saw her cousin. The two lovers met frequently, but no wrong was ever done to the absent husband. At last people who could not under- stand the purity of this great love made scandalous talk. So it came that Valeh determined to go to the desert, and from there he passed into India. After many years letters were exchanged by the two, and the story closes with an account of a vision in which Valeh was united to Hadijeh. Fakrir, the poet-friend of Valeh, wrote this book of love in the year 1750, and Valeh with his own hand added verses to some of the pages. After his death the book was sent to Hadijeh, and it was from her family that the Mirza obtained the precious manuscript. But a bare outline of the story cannot give the charm and sweetness of the tale as when it is told in full.
This beautiful idyll, so strong in the purity of its love, was well worth translating into English; and all lovers of Persian literature will be grateful to Mr. Spring Rice for having added it to the store accessible to the unlearned. The English of the version, as our readers will already have noted, is excellent, full of charm, scholarship, and feeling, and without straining or obscurity the heavy perfume of "youth's sweet- scented manuscript" has been preserved for us. That is a performance which deserves the epithet of masterly. There • must still be many flowers in the Persian garden of poetry ungathered. May we hope that the same hand will pick some of them for us P
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