Part 2

Although Jalálu'd-Dín Rúmí lived for fifty years in a Turkish city he scarcely ever used any Turkish words; but nevertheless his influence on Turkish poetry was very considerable. The Turkish poets of that day poured forth innumerable "spiritual couplets" of a mystical nature. Indeed nearly all the Ottoman poets were either Súfís or men who wrote after the manner of the Persian Súfís. Jalál's son, Sultan Valad, wrote in Turkish the following concerning his father:

Wot ye well Mevláná is of saints the Pole; Whatsoever thing he sayeth, do in whole. All his words are mercies from the Heavenly King; Such that blind folks' eyes were opened, did they sing.

The Súfí influence on Turkish poetry, many years after Jalál's death, gradually weakened as time went on, and their poetry became less mystical. The French were probably responsible for this change to a certain extent.

Then, again, Súfíism influenced the poetry of India; but in this case there was influence on both sides, and the Súfís probably borrowed some of the Buddhistic ideas, especially in regard to their later conception of Divine absorption. The following remark of Abú Bahu al-Shiblí certainly points to the belief that the Súfís inculcated certain ideas from the Vedanta Philosophy:--"_Tasawwuf_ is control of the faculties and _observance of the breaths._"

Súfí poetry has greatly influenced Western thought. Many of the German mystics wrote as the Súfí poets had written before them. Particularly might be mentioned Eckhart, Tauler and Suso. Concerning the last mentioned I may quote the following passage to demonstrate my meaning: "Earthly friends must needs endure to be distinct and separate from those whom they love; but Thou, O fathomless sweetness of all true love, meltest into the heart of Thy beloved, and pourest Thyself fully into the essence of his soul, that nothing of Thee remains outside, but Thou art joined and united most lovingly with Thy beloved." There was rapturous language both with the Persian and German mystics. The great difference between them was that the German mystics, for the most part, were ascetics, the Persians were not. Then again in the nineteenth century Hegel was loud in his praise of Jalálu'd-Dín Rúmí, calling him a great thinker as well as a great poet, but somehow he seems to put Jalál's Pantheism first, his Mysticism second. Surely this was putting the cart before the horse?

To trace the scope of the influence of Súfí thought in England would be extremely interesting, but the limits of this little book will not admit of our doing so. The influence was at first among the few; but optimistic lovers of the East believe that Oriental thought is daily becoming of more interest to Western minds. The student knows that Edward FitzGerald's rendering of Omar Khayyám, was anything but a faithful translation; that FitzGerald shook up Omar's words like so many dice and set them to the music of wine, roses, and pessimism. The Omar Khayyám Club read FitzGerald, but not Omar Khayyám, and in consequence they have fallen into the error of associating Omar with Bacchus. But, nevertheless, we must be grateful to FitzGerald. He has given us a great poem, and stirred, let us hope, many of his countless readers to a more faithful study of Persian poetry. The indefatigable Dr. Johnson has written the following on the Persian poet, who is the subject of our present volume: "He makes plain to the Pilgrim the secrets of the Way of Unity, and unveils the Mysteries of the Path of Eternal Truth." Concerning our modern poets I have quoted elsewhere a few lines of Mr. Arthur Symons on a dancing dervish. Many of the late Thomas Lake Harris's poems are of a Súfí nature. In Mr. Stephen Phillip's beautiful poem "Marpessa," the following lines are full of Sidi mysticism:

For they, Seeking that perfect face beyond the world, Approach in vision earthly semblances, And touch, and at the shadows flee away.

It is interesting to note that at least one celebrated Englishman adopted the Súfí teaching. I refer to Sir Richard Burton.[7] The Súfís believed heart and soul in the beautiful lines of Cameons, the poet for whom Burton had so great an affection:

Do what thy manhood bids thee do, from none but self expect applause. He noblest lives and noblest dies who makes and keeps his self-made laws. All other life is living death, a world where none but phantoms dwell; A breath, a wind, a sound, a voice, a tinkling of the camel-bell.

V. ANALYSIS OF THE RELIGION OF LOVE

Put away the tale of love that travellers tell; Do thou serve God with all thy might. JALÁLU'D-DÍN RÚMÍ.

Súfíism, then, is the religion of Love. Lafcadio Hearn tells us, in his inimitable way, that earthly love is brought about by the memories of innumerable loves in the past, a host of the phantoms of you seeking in your momentary ego the joy of Love over again. Schopenhauer, with much pride, quotes Rochefoucauld as having said that "love may be compared to a ghost since it is something we talk about but have never seen." Precisely; but this is no antagonistic statement, as Schopenhauer supposed. Rather than belittling the beauty of Love, it is an unconscious defence of a very great truth. Love can only be compared with Love. There is nothing else to compare it with. No one has seen Love, because no one has seen God. A little child plays at funerals and tenderly buries a dead butterfly, not because it understands the mystery of Death, but because Love prompted the action. And so we love without knowing the why and the wherefore. Scientists have already proved that first love is not controlled by either of the individuals loving; that it is but the expression of thousands of tendencies in past lives. That Love can be ever personal, ever limited to the individual, is unthinkable. We must recognise some day that those countless tendencies, those strivings after men and women seeming to hold our souls' affinities, were but the momentary finding of God in His creatures. We do not love a woman merely because she is pretty, possesses a pleasing mannerism. We love her because, in an indescribable way, she sings a song we alone can fully understand, a voice that lifts up our soul and makes it strong. We follow that Invisible Figure from land to land, from heart to heart, from Death into Life, on and on. When Love loves Love for its own sake, when the self is dead, we shall meet Him. We shall find the Beloved to be the Perfection, the realisation of that strong desire that made us lose ourselves in others. The more we lose ourselves in God the more we find Him. Men and women love and die. But Love is a Divine Essence working through and through innumerable lives for its own eternal glory. Personality is limited only to the finite world--perhaps a phase or two beyond the grave. Even that is the sum-total of countless so-called personalities in the past. We love instinctively. If it was wholly physical then it dies with the death of the object. If it was infinitely more than that, if it was the love of Goodness and Purity and the Beautiful it lives on for ever. But these things live not eternally in humanity. They are parts of that all-pervading Essence--the Love Divine. Love God's light in men and women, and not the lanterns through which It shines, for human bodies must turn to dust; human memories, human desires, fade away. But the love of the All-Good, All-Beautiful remains, and when such is found in earthly love it is God finding Himself in you, and you in Him. That is the supreme teaching of Súfíism, the religion of Love.

[Footnote 1: _A Literary History of Persia_, vol. i.]

[Footnote 2: "Among the Adepts and Mystics of Hindostam." _The Occult Review_, December, 1905.]

[Footnote 3: For further extracts from Súfí writers see _A Historical Enquiry concerning the Origin and Development of Súfíism_, By R. A. Nicholson. _The Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society_, March, 1906.]

[Footnote 4: See _History of Ottoman Poetry_, by E. G. W. Gibb, vol. i.]

[Footnote 5: Translation by Professor E. G. Browne.]

[Footnote 6: Compare the Alexandrian doctrine of Emanations. Also Jámí's _Lawā'ih_. Translated by E. H. Whinfield and Mūrzā Muhammad Kazvīnī.]

[Footnote 7: _Life of Sir Richard Burton_. 2 vols. By Thomas Wright.]

THE LIFE AND WORK OF JALÁLU'D-DÍN RÚMÍ

I. LIFE

Jalálu'd-Dín Rúmí was born at Balkh on September 30th, 1207, A.D., or according to Mohammedan reckoning, in 604 A.H. His father, Bahaū-'d-Dín, was a man of much learning, but gave offence to the reigning king by an attack on that monarch's innovations. Another account disputes this in the place of jealousy on the part of the king. Whatever the cause, however, Bahaū-'d-Dín left Balkh, together with his family, and settled at Nishapur. It was here that the celebrated Súfí, Farídu'd-Dín 'Attár, presented young Jalálu'd-Dín Rúmí with his _Asrarnama_,[1] and informed his father that the child would some day become famous throughout the world. After the destruction of Balkh the family went to Qonia,[2] an old Roman province, where the poet acquired his name Rúmí, or "the Roman." Young Jalál must have been a child prodigy if we are to believe the many wonderful stories of his early days. At six years of age he is said to have seen visions, taught his playmates philosophy, and performed many marvellous feats, such as flying into the celestial regions. On the death of his father Jalál took the professorial chair. He also founded an order of Dervishes known as Maulavis, where he authorised music and religious dance. When asked why he introduced singing and dance at a funeral, such practice being contrary to custom, Jalál replied: "When the human spirit, after years of imprisonment in the cage and dungeon of the body, is at length set free, and wings its flight to the Source whence it came, is not this an occasion for rejoicings, thanks, and dancing?" Jalál was an indomitable optimist. In his sayings, and still more in his poetry, we find an almost untrammelled ecstasy. The religious dances, known as Rizā Kulī, may in some way account for Jalál's occasional lack of care displayed in his poetry, and also for the outbursts not far removed from insanity. We are informed by Daulat Sháh that "There was a pillar in the Maulavi's house, and when he was drowned in the ocean of Love he used to take hold of that pillar and set himself turning round it." It was while turning round the pillar that he not infrequently dictated much of his poetry. As Mr. Arthur Symons has sung:

I turn until my sense, Dizzied with waves of air, Spins to a point intense, And spires and centres there.[3]

We can well imagine Jalál writing the following under the conditions just mentioned:

"Come! Come! Thou art the Soul, the Soul so dear, revolving! Come! Come! Thou art the Cedar, the Cedar's Spear, revolving! Oh, come! The well of Light up-bubbling springs; And Morning Stars exult, in Gladness sheer, revolving!"[4]

In 1226 A.D. Jalál was married at Lerenda to Gevher (Pearl). She bore two sons and died early in life. Jalál married again and his second wife survived him.

II. SHAMSI TABRIZ

A word must now be said about Shamsi Tabrīz, an intimate friend of Jalál. We have sufficient evidence to prove that Shamsi Tabrīz, Jalál's _nom de guerre_, was an actual person, and not a mythical creation on the part of the poet. This mysterious being, who flitted across Jalál's life so tragically, seems to have had great personal influence over the poet, who went with him into solitary places and there discussed profound mysteries. The scholars of Jalál looked upon the whole affair as an unworthy infatuation on the part of their Master, and on the part of Shams a shameful seduction. Their protests brought about the flight of Shams, who fled to Tabrīz. But it was only a momentary separation. Jalál followed this strange figure and brought him back again. Most of his lighter poetry was composed during this separation. Another disturbance, however, caused the departure of Shams to Damascus. We then have no clear record of him. Various legends exist in regard to the death of this mysterious person. It may be safely stated, however, that Shams met with a violent death, the exact nature of which it is impossible to say definitely.

This strange union is by no means unique in the history of the world's literature. The union, however, in this particular case, is extremely difficult to rightly fathom. We may reasonably infer that Jalál's intense poetic temperament became fascinated by the dogmatic and powerful Shams. The very treatment of this friendship, both in the Lyrical Poems, and in the _Masnavi_, is Súfí The two following quotations, from many that might be cited, will prove sufficient to illustrate this point:

The face of Shamsi Dín, Tabrīz's glory, is the sun In whose track the cloud-like hearts are moving.

O Shamsi Tabrīz, beauty and glory of the horizons, What king but is a beggar of thee with heart and soul?

III. THE STORIES OF AL-AFLĀKÍ AND THE DEATH OF JALÁLU'D-DÍN RÚMÍ.[5]

The historian al-Aflākí, in his collection of anecdotes called Menaqibu 'L 'Arifin,[6] gives a number of stories relating to the miracles and wise sayings of Jalál. Many of these miraculous performances were followed by the conversion of those who witnessed them. A marvel or a wise saying of Jalál was generally accompanied by music and dance, which reminds us of the jubilations of the Indian gods after Rama's victories over his enemies. These stories, interesting enough in themselves, can scarcely be credited to such a learned man as Jalál undoubtedly was. According to tradition he spoke to frogs and fishes, raised the dead to life, and at the same time very ignominiously lost his temper when a disciple who said, after having received Jalál's instructions: "God willing." After all, the significance of Jalál lies not in these rather lamentable fairy tales, but in the fruit of his work. Jalál, like the Lord Buddha, suffered considerably from the addition of fabulous tales and fancies of no real moment to his teachings.

Al-Aflākí tells a pretty story concerning the tenderness of Jalál for little children. As the poet passed by some children, they left their play and ran to him and bowed. Jalál bowed in response. One little boy, some distance off, seeing the honour bestowed upon his playmates, cried to Jalál: "Wait for me until I come!" And Jalál waited and bowed to the little child. This story is worth far more than juggler's tricks.

Jalálu'd-Dín Rúmí died at Qonia in 1273 A.D., praising God and leaving to the world a vast store of spiritual knowledge and many wise instructions to his son, Bahaū-'d-Dín Valad. It is very gratifying to note that at the death of Jalál his mourners were of all creeds. A Christian was asked why he wept over a Muslim grave, and he replied: "We esteem him as the Moses, the David, the Jesus of our time; and we are his disciples, his adherents." This was indeed a splendid and worthy tribute to the memory of so great a man.

I hope I have already demonstrated that the very nature of Súfí poetry is entirely lacking in creed or dogma, and certainly the great singer of the _Masnavi_ has left in his songs a wealth of the wonder of Divine Love.

IV. THE NATURE AND SIGNIFICANCE OF JALÁLU'D-DÍN RÚMÍ'S POETRY

_The Lyrical_.--We have already noted the acceptance of the _Asrarnama_. Among the other literary influences, according to Mr. Nicholson, we may note the poems of Sana'ī, Sa'di, and Nīzamī. The fact that Jalál's poetry sometimes faintly resembles Omar Khayyám's is too slight to be of any value. Mr. Nicholson very ably sums up the nature of the _Masnavi_ and _Divan_ respectively: "The one is a majestic river, calm and deep, meandering through many a rich and varied landscape to the immeasurable ocean; the other a foaming torrent that leaps and plunges in the ethereal solitude of the hills." The poetry of Jalál is not of equal merit. His work seldom if ever has the technical polish of Jámí. There is too much of it; too much produced in the belief that all his poetry was inspired. He is fond of harping on certain words, and as far as the translations are concerned he has little sense of humour.[7] There was certainly room for a touch of humour in the poet's description of Iblis receiving from God a gift of beautiful women whereby to tempt mankind; but Jalál entirely ignores it. These weaknesses are almost lost in the strength and purity and lyrical grandeur of many of Jalál's poems. He carries us along on a torrent of heavenly music. The rhythmic, swing of his wonderful dance is soul-stirring. We seem to move exultantly, ecstatically, to the sound of the poet's singing, far behind the silver stars into the Presence of the Beloved. With what reverence, with what a glow of simile and subtle suggestion he describes the Beauty of the Beloved! With what exquisite passion he foretells the Eternal Union! Then there is a lull in this fierce spiritual song, and Jalál sings, ever so gently and with an infinite tenderness, about human tears being turned into "rain-clouds." He sings about the meeting of two friends in Paradise, with the oft-repeated refrain, "Thou and I." There seems in this poem an indescribable and almost pathetic play on the idea of human friendship and the Divine Friendship, a yearning tenderness for that human shadow, passing shadow though it be. Jalál appears to have the power of producing almost orchestral effects in his music of the Spheres. There is that terrific touch of Wagner about his poetry, and in those suggestive Wagner-pauses there is a tenderness of expression more touching, more truly great than the loud triumphant notes. Jalál has truly said: "Our journey is to the Rose-Garden of Union." He sang about, the Divine Rose-Garden; but he did not forget to sing about the roses that fade and the human hearts that ache. We seem to see Jalál ever bowing to the little child in all his wonderful singing.

_The Masnavi_.--Jalál is said to have been forty-three years engaged in writing the _Masnavi_. Often whole nights were spent in its composition, Jalál reciting and his friend Hasam copying it down and sometimes singing portions of the verse in his beautiful voice. At the completion of the first book Hasam's wife died, and two years elapsed before the work was continued. The _Masnavi_ is full of profound mysteries, and is a most important book in the study of Súfíism-- mysteries which must, for the most part, be left to the discernment of the reader. Jalál himself has said that great Love is silent. It is in Silence that we shall come to understand the supreme Mystery of Love that has no comparison. The key-note to the _Masnavi_ may be found in the Prologue to the first book. The poet here sings of the soul's longing to be united with the Beloved. The fact that he, and all other Súfí poets, use as an analogy the love between man and woman renders the spiritual meaning extremely vague. We have, however, already considered this point in the introduction, and it needs no further explanation. The _Masnavi_ has all the pantheistic beauty of the Psalms, the music of the hills, the colour and scent of roses, the swaying of forests; but it has considerably more than that. These things of scent and form and colour are the Mirror of the Beloved; these earthy loves the journey down the valley into the Rose-Garden where the roses never fade, and where Love is.

[Footnote 1: Book of Mysteries.]

[Footnote 2: Iconium.]

[Footnote 3: _The Fool of the World_.]

[Footnote 4: _The Festival of Spring_. Translated by the Rev. Prof. William Hastie.]

[Footnote 5: See _The Masnavi_. Translated by Sir James W. Rodhouse.]

[Footnote 6: "The Acts of the Adepts."]

[Footnote 7: Prof. C. E. Wilson informs me that Jalál certainly had a very fair sense of humour, and that in the original there is often a clever and witty play on words.]

SELECTIONS FROM THE "DĪVĀNI SHAMSI TABRĪZ"

"I AM SILENT"

I am silent. Speak Thou, O Soul of Soul of Soul, From desire of whose Face every atom grew articulate.

A CRY TO THE BELOVED

Yestereve I delivered to a star tidings for thee: "Present," I said, "my service to that moon-like form." I bowed, I said: "Bear that service to the sun Who maketh hard rocks gold by his burning." I bared my breast, I showed it the wounds: "Give news of me," I said, "to the Beloved whose drink is blood." I rocked to and fro that the child, my heart, might become still; A child sleeps when one sways the cradle. Give my heart-babe milk, relieve us from its weeping, O Thou that helpest every moment a hundred helpless like me. The heart's home, first to last, is Thy City of Union: How long wilt Thou keep in exile this heart forlorn?

REMEMBER GOD AND FORGET SELF

O spirit, make thy head in search and seeking like the water of a stream, And O reason, to gain Eternal Life tread ever-lastingly the way of Death. Keep God in remembrance till self is forgotten, That thou may be lost in the Called, without distraction of caller and call.

"THE PRINCE OF THE FAIR"

A garden--may its rose be in flower to Resurrection! An idol--may the two worlds be scattered o'er his beauty! The Prince of the Fair goes proudly forth to the chase at morning; May our hearts fall a prey to the arrow of His glance From His eye what messages are passing continually to mine! May my eyes be gladdened and filled with intoxication by His Message!

"MY BODY IS LIKE THE MOON"

My body is like the moon which is melting for Love, My heart like Zuhra's[1] lute--may its strings be broken! Look not on the moon's waning nor on Zuhra's broken state: Behold the sweetness of his affection--may it wax a thousandfold!

MORTALITY AND IMMORTALITY

What a Bride is in the soul! By the reflection of Her face May the world be freshened and coloured like the hands of the newly married![2] Look not on the fleshy cheek which corrupts and decays, Look on the spiritual cheek--may it be sweet and agreeable! The dark body resembles a raven, and the body's world winter; O in spite of these two unpleasants may there be Eternal Spring!

THE BELOVED THE DIVINE CONSOLER

Thou who art my soul's comfort in the season of sorrow, Thou who art my spirit's treasure in the bitterness of dearth! That which the imagination has not conceived, that which the understanding has not seen, Visited my soul from Thee; hence in worship I turn toward Thee. By Thy grace I keep fixed on Eternity my amorous gaze, Except, O King, the pomps that perish lead me astray. The favour of that one, who brings glad tidings of Thee, Even without Thy summons, is sweeter in mine ear than songs. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * If a never-ceasing bounty should offer kingdoms, If a hidden treasure should set before me all that is, I would bend down my soul, I would lay my face in the dust, I would say, "Of all these the love of such an One for me!"

"THOU ART THE SOUL OF THE WORLD"

Eternal Life, methinks, is the time of Union, Because Time, for me, hath no place There. Life is the vessels, Union the clear draught in them; Without Thee what does the pain of the vessels avail me? I had twenty thousand desires ere this; In passion for Him not even (care of) my safety remained. By the help of His grace I am become safe, because The unseen King saith to me, "Thou art the soul of the world."

"THE VOICE OF LOVE"

Every moment the voice of Love is coming from left and right. We are bound for heaven: who has a mind to sight-seeing? We have been in heaven, we have been friends of the angels; Thither, Sire, let us return, for that is our country.

THE SEA OF LOVE