Chapter 20

Two years later, in 1850, appeared his delightful book in prose and poetry, 'Tausend und ein Tag im Orient' (Thousand and One Days in the East), a reminiscence of his Eastern wanderings and his sojourn at Tiflis, The central figure is his Oriental friend Mirza-Schaffy. "It occurred to me," he says, "to portray with poetic freedom the Caucasian philosopher as he lived in my memory, with all his idiosyncrasies, and at the same time have him stand as the type of an Eastern scholar and poet; in other words, to have him appear more important than he really was, for he never was a true poet, and of all the songs which he read to me as being his own, I could use only a single one, the little rollicking song, 'Mullah, pure is the wine, and it's sin to despise it.' For his other verse I substituted poems of my own, which were in keeping with his character and the situations in which he appeared." The poems by themselves, together with others written at different times and places, Bodenstedt published in 1856 under the title 'Lieder des Mirza-Schaffy' (Songs of Mirza-Schaffy). Quite unintentionally they have occasioned one of the most amusing of literary mystifications. For a long time they were supposed to be real translations; and even to-day, despite the poet's own words, the "Sage of Tiflis" is considered by some a very great poet. A Tartar by birth, who had absorbed Persian culture, he was a skillful versifier, and could with facility translate simple songs from the Persian into the Tartar language. Bodenstedt put into Mirza-Schaffy's mouth the songs which were written during his intercourse with the Eastern sage, to give vividness to the picture of an Eastern divan of wisdom.

They portray Oriental life on its more sensuous, alluring side. In most musical, caressing verse they sing of wine and love, of the charms of Zuleika and Hafisa, of earthly bliss and the delights of living. Yet with all their warm Eastern imagery and rich foreign dress they are essentially German in spirit, and their prevailing note of joyousness is now and again tempered by more serious strains.

The book was received with universal applause, and on it Bodenstedt's fame as poet rests. It has been translated into all the European languages, even into Hebrew and Tartar, and is now in its one hundred and forty-third German edition. Twenty-four years later Bodenstedt followed it with a similar collection, 'Aus dem Nachlass des Mirza-Schaffy' (From the Posthumous Works of Mirza-Schaffy: 1874), where he shows the more serious, philosophic aspect of Eastern life. Bodenstedt's poems and his translations of Persian poetry are the culmination of the movement, begun by the Romantic School, to bring Eastern thought and imagery home to the Western world. Other well-known examples are Goethe's 'West-Eastern Divan,' and the poems and paraphrases of Rückert and others; but the 'Songs of Mirza-Schaffy' are the only poems produced under exotic influences which have been thoroughly acclimatized on German soil.

Bodenstedt was for a time director of the court theatre at Meiningen; and though he held this difficult position for only a short time, he did much to lay the foundation of the success which the Meininger, as the best German stock company of actors, achieved later on their starring tours through the country. He was ennobled in 1867, while in this position. He spent the last year of his life at Wiesbaden, where he died in 1892.

Bodenstedt was a voluminous writer; his work includes poems, romances, novels, and dramas. 'Vom Atlantischen zum Stillen Ocean' (From the Atlantic to the Pacific Ocean: 1882) is a description of his lecturing tour to the United States the year before. His autobiography, 'Erinnerungen aus Meinem Leben' (Recollections of my Life), gives interesting glimpses into his eventful career. His mind was more receptive than creative, and this, combined with his great technical skill and his quick intuition, fitted him peculiarly to be a translator and adapter. His translation of Shakespeare's works, in conjunction with Paul Heyse, Kurz, and others (fifth edition, Leipzig, 1890), is especially noteworthy, as also his rendering of Shakespeare's sonnets. But he will live in German literature as the poet Mirza-Schaffy.

* * * * *

TWO

To one exalted aim we both are tending, I and thou! To one captivity we both are bending, I and thou! In my heart thee I close--thou me in thine; In twofold life, yet one, we both are blending, I and thou! Thee my wit draws--and me thine eye of beauty; Two fishes, from one bait we are depending, I and thou! Yet unlike fishes--through the air of Heaven, Like two brave eagles, we are both ascending, I and thou!

WINE

In THE goblet's magic measure, In the wine's all-powerful spirit, Lieth poison and delight: Lieth purest, basest pleasure, E'en according to the merit Of the drinker ye invite.

Lo, the fool in baseness sunken, Having drunk till he is tired, When he drinks, behold him drunken; When _we_ drink, we are inspired.

SONG

Down on the vast deep ocean The sun his beams doth throw, Till every wavelet trembles Beneath their ruddy glow.

How like thou to those sunbeams Upon my song's wild sea; They tremble all and glitter, Reflecting only thee.

UNCHANGING

In early days methought that all must last; Then I beheld all changing, dying, fleeting; But though my soul now grieves for much that's past, And changeful fortunes set my heart oft beating, I yet believe in mind that all will last, Because the old in new I still am meeting.

THE POETRY OF MIRZA-SCHAFFY

From the 'Thousand and One Days in the East'

Abbas Kuli Khan was one of those gifted ambiguous natures who, without inspiring confidence, always know how to work an imposing effect, inasmuch as they hold to the principle of displeasing no one, as a first rule of prudence.

It so happened then that even Mirza-Schaffy, bribed by the flattery which the Khan of Baku, when he once surprised us in the Divan of Wisdom, lavished upon him, declared him to be a great Wise Man.

The mutual praise, so overflowing in its abundance, which they bestowed on one another put them both in a very happy humor. From the Koran, from Saadi, Hafiz, and Fizuli, each authenticated the other to be the moving embodiment of all the wisdom of earth.

A formal emulation in old and original songs took place between them; for every piece of flattery was overlaid with a tuneful quotation. Unfortunately, however, the entertainment flowed so swiftly that I was unable to note down any coherent account of it.

Nevertheless, being unwilling to let the long session go by without any gain on my part, I requested the Khan to write for me one of his artistic songs in remembrance. He nodded with an approving look, and promised to write the most beautiful song that ever the mouth of man had uttered; a song in praise of his Fatima, playing on her stringed instrument.

Whilst Mirza-Schaffy raised a questioning look on hearing the praise which the Khan expended on himself, the latter took the kalem (reed-pen) and wrote what follows:--

FATIMA PLAYING ON HER STRINGED INSTRUMENT

"O'er the strings thy fingers are straying, O'er my heart stray the tones; And it wanders obeying, Far away from the zones; Up tending, Round thee bending, Round thy heart to be growing And clinging, Round thee flinging, Its glad mirth overflowing-- Oh! thou Spirit from me springing, Life on me bestowing! Dazzled, blinded, confounded, I see in thy glances The whole world and its rounded Unbounded expanses; And round us it dances In drunken confusion, Like floating illusion; Around thee I'm reeling, All round me is wheeling-- And Heaven and Ocean, In flashing commotion, Round us both as thou singest, Roll reeling and rushing-- Thou Joy to me that wingest, Thou Soul from me outgushing!"

_FATIMA_.

Photogravure from a Painting by G.C. Saintpierre.

"O'er the strings thy fingers are straying, O'er my heart stray the tones."

"On the following evening," said Mirza-Schaffy, "I appeared at the appointed hour. During the day I had written a love song which none of womankind could resist. I had sung it over about twenty times to myself, in order to be sure of success. Then I had been into the bath, and had had my head shaved so perfectly that it might have vied in whiteness with the lilies of the vale of Senghi. The evening was calm and clear; from the garden-side where I stood, I could distinctly see my Zuléikha; she was alone with Fatima on the roof, and had her veil put a little back, as a sign of her favor. I took courage, and pushed my cap down behind to show my white head, just fresh shaved, to the maiden's eyes. Thou canst comprehend what an impression that would make on a woman's heart! Alas! my head was much whiter then than it is now. But that is more than ten years since!" he said sorrowfully, and would have continued in this digression if I had not interposed the words:--

"Thy head is quite white enough now to fascinate the most maidenly heart; but thou hast not yet told me how thou sangest thy love song, and what impression it made upon Zuléikha."

"I had folded the song," said the Mirza, "round a double almond kernel, and thrown it on the roof, as a keepsake for the Beauty, before I began to sing it; and then I began with clear voice:--

"What is the eye of wild gazelle, the slender pine's unfolding, Compared with thy delightful eyes, and thine ethereal molding? What is the scent from Shiraz' fields, wind-borne, that's hither straying, Compared with richer scented breath from thy sweet mouth out-playing?

What is Ghazel and Rubajat, as Hafiz ere was singing, Compared with one word's mellow tone, from thy sweet mouth outwinging?

What is the rosy-chaliced flower, where nightingales are quaffing, Compared with thy sweet rosy mouth, and thy lips' rosy laughing? What is the sun, and what the moon, and all heaven's constellations? Love-glancing far for thee they glow with trembling scintillations! And what am I myself, my heart, my songful celebration, But slaves of royal loveliness, bright beauty's inspiration!"

"Allah, how beautiful!" I cried. "Mirza-Schaffy, thy words sound as sweet as the songs of the Peris, in the world of spirits! What is Hafiz to thee? What is a drop to the ocean?"

MIRZA-SCHAFFY

From the 'Thousand and One Days in the East'

My first object in Georgia was to secure an instructor in Tartar, that I might learn as quickly as possible a language so indispensably necessary in the countries of the Caucasus. Accident favored my choice, for my learned teacher Mirza-Schaffy, the Wise Man of Gjändsha, as he styles himself, is, according to his own opinion, the wisest of men.

With the modesty peculiar to his nation, he only calls himself the first wise man of the East; but as according to his estimation the children of the West are yet living in darkness and unbelief, it is a matter of course with him that he soars above us in wisdom and knowledge. Moreover, he indulges the hope that, thanks to his endeavors, the illumination and wisdom of the East will also, in the progress of years, actually spread amongst us. I am already the fifth scholar, he tells me, who has made a pilgrimage to him for the purpose of participating in his instructions. He argues from this that the need of traveling to Tiflis and listening to Mirza-Schaffy's sayings of wisdom is ever becoming more vividly felt by us. My four predecessors, he is further of opinion, have, since their return into the West, promoted to the best of their ability the extension of Oriental civilization amongst their races. But of me he formed quite peculiar hopes; very likely because I paid him a silver ruble for each lesson, which I understand is an unusually high premium for the Wise Man of Gjändsha.

It was always most incomprehensible to him how _we_ can call ourselves wise or learned, and travel over the world with these titles, before we even understand the sacred languages. Nevertheless he very readily excused these pretensions in me, inasmuch as I was at least ardently endeavoring to acquire these languages, but above all because I had made the lucky hit of choosing him for my teacher.

The advantages of this lucky hit he had his own peculiar way of making intelligible to me. "I, Mirza-Schaffy," said he, "am the first wise man of the East! consequently thou, as my disciple, art the second. But thou must not misunderstand me: I have a friend, Omar-Effendi, a very wise man, who is certainly not the third among the learned of the land. If I were not alive, and Omar-Effendi were thy teacher, then he would be the first, and thou, as his disciple, the second wise man!" After such an effusion, it was always the custom of Mirza-Schaffy to point with his forefinger to his forehead, at the same time giving me a sly look; whereupon, according to rule, I nodded knowingly to him in mute reciprocation.

That the Wise Man of Gjändsha knew how to render his vast superiority in the highest degree palpable to any one who might have any misgiving on the point, he once showed me by a striking example.

Among the many learned rivals who envied the lessons of Mirza-Schaffy, the most conspicuous was Mirza-Jussuf, the Wise Man of Bagdad. He named himself after this city, because he had there pursued his studies in Arabic; from which he inferred that he must possess more profound accomplishments than Mirza-Schaffy, whom he told me he considered a "_Fschekj_," an ass among the bearers of wisdom. "The fellow cannot even write decently," Jussuf informed me of my reverend Mirza, "and he cannot sing at all! Now I ask thee: What is knowledge without writing? What is wisdom without song? What is Mirza-Schaffy in comparison with me?"

In this way he was continually plying me with perorations of confounding force, wherein he gave especial prominence to the beauty of his name Jussuf, which Moses of old had celebrated, and Hafiz sung of in lovely strains; he exerted all his acuteness to evince to me that a name is not an empty sound, but that the significance attached to a great or beautiful name is inherited in more or less distinction by the latest bearers of this name. He, Jussuf, for example, was a perfect model of the Jussuf of the land of Egypt, who walked in chastity before Potiphar, and in wisdom before the Lord.

THE SCHOOL OF WISDOM

From the 'Thousand and One Days in the East'

"Mirza-Schaffy!" I began, when we sat again assembled in the Divan of Wisdom, "what wilt thou say when I tell thee that the wise men of the West consider you as stupid as you do them?"

"What can I do but be amazed at their folly?" he replied. "What new thing can I learn from them, when they only repeat mine?"

He ordered a fresh chibouk, mused awhile meditatingly before him, bade us get ready the _kalemdan_ (writing-stand), and then began to sing:--

"Shall I laughing, shall I weeping Go, because men are so brute, Always foreign sense repeating, And in self-expression mute?

"No, the Maker's praise shall rise For the foolish generation; Else the wisdom of the wise Would be lost from observation!"

"Mirza-Schaffy," said I, interrupting him again, "would it not be a prudent beginning to clothe thy sayings in a Western dress, to the end that they might be a mirror for the foolish, a rule of conduct for the erring, and a source of high enjoyment for our wives and maidens, whose charm is as great as their inclination to wisdom?"

"Women are everywhere wise," replied my reverend teacher, "and their power is greater than fools imagine. Their eyes are the original seat of all true devotion and wisdom, and he who inspires from them needs not wait for death to enter upon the joys of Paradise. The smallest finger of woman overthrows the mightiest edifice of faith, and the youngest maiden mars the oldest institutions of the Church!"

"But thou hast not yet given me an answer to my question, O Mirza!"

"Thou speakest wisely. The seed of my words has taken root in thy heart. Write; I will sing!"

And now he sang to me a number of wonderful songs, part of which here follow in an English dress.

MIRZA-SCHAFFY'S OPINION OF THE SHAH OF PERSIA

A learnèd scribe once came to me from far: "Mirza!" said he, "what think'st thou of the Shah? Was wisdom really born in him with years? And are his eyes as spacious as his ears?"

"He's just as wise as all who round them bind Capuche and gown: he knows what an amount Of stupid fear keeps all his people blind, And how to turn it to his own account."

MIZA-SCHAFFY PRAISES THE CHARMS OF ZULÉIKHA

Looking at thy tender little feet Makes me always wonder, sweetest maiden, How they so much beauty can be bearing!

Looking at thy lovely little hands Makes me always wonder, sweetest maiden, How they so to wound me can be daring!

Looking at thy rosy luring lips Makes me always wonder, sweetest maiden, How they of a kiss e'er can be sparing!

Looking at thy meaningful bright eyes Makes me always wonder, sweetest maiden, How for greater love they can be caring

Than I feel. Oh, look at me, and love! Warmer than my heart, thou sweetest maiden, Heart in thy love never will be sharing.

Listen to this rapture-reaching song! Fairer than my mouth, thou sweetest maiden, Mouth thy praise will never be declaring!

AN EXCURSION INTO ARMENIA

From the 'Thousand and One Days in the East'

Now follow me into that blessed land wherein tradition places Paradise, and wherein I also placed it, until I found that it lay in thine eyes, thou, mine Edlitam!

Follow me to the banks of the Senghi and Araxes, rich in bloom, sacred in tradition; where I sought for rest after long wandering in the mazes of a strange land, until I knew that rest is nowhere to be found but in one's own bosom; follow me into the gardens where Noah once planted the vine for his own enjoyment and heart's delight, and for the gladness of all subsequent races of toiling men; follow me through the steep mountain-paths overhung with glaciers, to the arid table-lands of Ararat, where, clad in a garment red as blood, on his steed of nimble thigh, the wild Kurd springs along, with flashing glance and sunburnt face, in his broad girdle the sharp dagger and long pistols of Damascus, and in his practiced hand the slender, death-slinging lance of Bagdad--where the nomad pitches his black tent, and with wife and child cowers round the fire that scares away the beasts of the wilderness--where caravans of camels and dromedaries wend their way, laden with the treasures of the Orient, and guided by watchful leaders in wide many-colored apparel--where the Tartar, eager for spoil, houses in hidden rocks, or in half-subterranean, rudely excavated huts; follow me into the fruitful valleys, where the sons of Haïghk, like the children of Israel, far from the corruption of cities, still live in primeval simplicity, plough their fields and tend their flocks, and practice hospitality in Biblical pureness; follow me to Ararat, which still bears the diluvian Ark upon his king-like, hoary head--follow me into the highlands of Armenia!

In Paradise we will be happy, and refresh our eyes with a glance at the fair daughters of the land; and at the grave of Noah we will sit down, the drinking-horn in our hand, a song on our lips, and joyous confidence in our hearts; for the God who once when the whole world deserved hanging favored mankind with a watery grave, and suffered only Noah to live because he cultivated the vine and rejoiced in love and drinking, will also to us, who cherish like desires, be as favorable as to the father of post-diluvian men.

MIRZA-JUSSUF

See Mirza-Jussuf now, How critical a wight 'tis! The day displeases him, Because for him too bright 'tis.

He doesn't like the rose,-- Her thorn a sad affront is; And doesn't like mankind, Because its nose in front is.

On ev'rything he spies His bitter bane he passes; For naught escapes his eyes, Except that he an ass is.

Thus, evermore at strife With Art and Nature too, By day and night he wanders Through wastes of misty blue,

Mirza-Schaffy bemocks him With sly and roguish eye, And makes of all his bitterness The sweetest melody.

WISDOM AND KNOWLEDGE

Friend, wouldst know why as a rule Bookish learning marks the fool? 'Tis because, though once befriended, Learning's pact with wisdom's ended. No philosophy e'er throve In a nightcap by the stove. Who the world would understand In the world must bear a hand. If you're not to wisdom wed, Like the camel you're bested, Which has treasures rich, to bear Through the desert everywhere, But the use must ever lack Of the goods upon his back.

JOHANN JAKOB BODMER

(1698-1783)

In the beginning of the eighteenth century, the political and intellectual life of Germany showed no signs of its imminent awakening. French supremacy was undisputed. French was spoken by polite society, and only the middle and lower classes consented to use their mother tongue. French literature was alone fashionable, and the few scientific works that appeared were published in Latin. Life was hard and sordid. Thought and imagination languished. Such writings as existed were empty, pompous, and pedantic. Yet from this dreary waste-land was to spring that rich harvest of literature which, in a brief half-century, made the German nation famous.

Klopstock, Wieland, Lessing, Herder, Goethe, and Schiller--those were the great names that were soon to shine like stars in the literary firmament. But the lesser men who broke the ground and opened paths for their brilliant followers are almost forgotten.

Toward the middle of the century, there lived in Zürich a modest professor of history, Johann Jakob Bodmer by name (born July 19th, 1698), who spoke the first word for a national literature, and who was the first writer to attempt a scientific criticism of contemporary authors. His efforts were rude beginnings of a style that culminated in the polished essays of Lessing. It was Bodmer whose independence of thought and feeling first revolted from the slavish imitation of French culture that enchained the German mind. In his youth he had been sent to Italy to study commerce. This visit aroused his poetic and artistic nature. He forgot his business in listening to street singers, in imitation of whom he wrote Italian lyrics. He read French works on art, and wrote artificial French verses according to French models. With equal versatility he composed German poetry, copying Opitz, whom he esteemed a great poet. Nor did he hesitate to try his skill at Latin hexameters.