Isfendiyār called the beautiful tempter to him, and she came beaming with smiles, and dropping words of sweetest flattery from her crimson lips. Then he threw his noose around her, and writhing in the bonds she could not break, the enchantress became first a cat, then a wolf, and at last appeared in her true character of a black demon, with flames issuing from her mouth, whereupon she was slain by Isfendiyār.
On the fifth day he had the misfortune to offend a Sīmūrgh, who attacked him intending to bear him away to her mountain nest, but he succeeded in slaying the angry bird with his trenchant sword.
The sixth labor consisted in bringing his troops safely through a furious storm of wind and snow, when all the earth was covered with whiteness, while “keenly blew the blast and pinching was the cold.” But the seventh trial of his fortitude was found in the passage of a desert waste, of which it was said
But a rain had fallen and partially cooled the scorched earth, so that this danger was safely passed.
THE BRAZEN FORTRESS.
When the darkness of night had fallen upon the landscape, Isfendiyār and a few chosen men advanced rapidly and carefully up the long, precipitous path, and examined the bulwarks of the brazen fortress that crowned the summit of the cliff. They found its iron bulwarks and brazen gates impregnable on every side, and returned to the command discouraged and dismayed. It had been a difficult undertaking, and they came into camp just as the tints of morning were lighting up the eastern sky.
It was indeed useless to attempt to storm this metallic fort, where neither sword nor spear nor battle-ax could be wielded to advantage, therefore Isfendiyār collected a hundred camels, and loaded a few of them with embroidered cloths, and others with pearls and precious jewels, while upon each of the others two chests were placed, and one warrior was hidden in each chest.[259] Other warriors were disguised as camel drivers and servants, so that altogether this caravan, which carried apparently only merchandise, was quite a warlike host.
Then Isfendiyār arranged with his brother to lead the rest of the troops to the attack as soon as he saw signal fires upon the summit, and set out with his caravan of merchandise for the fortress. He was received as a Persian merchant bringing valuable goods, and the avaricious demons exulted in the thought that a rich caravan had unsuspiciously fallen into their very hands. Isfendiyār carried rich presents to the king, and besought permission to sell Persian goods to his subjects. The liberality of the newcomer won the heart of the king, and the rich Persian wines that he brought proved especially attractive. Soon the king and his court, and also his leading warriors, were helpless under its influence. Then the signal fires were lighted, and the warriors were released from the chests, while the brazen gates were opened to admit the invaders. Soon the Persian banner floated from the walls, for the demon king and his leading warriors were slain, and the sisters of Isfendiyār were rejoicing in the arms of their brother. The conqueror issued a proclamation offering pardon to all who would swear allegiance to the Persian king, then with his camels laden with the richest treasures of Arjasp he returned in triumph to his native city. The royal banners were flung to the breeze when the prince returned with his recovered sisters and heavy spoils. A great banquet was given, and the wine flowed freely. Isfendiyār was placed in a golden chair to receive the adulations of the multitude, while he gave them the thrilling story of his great Heft-khān and the capture of the demon fortress.
THE CONFLICT WITH RUSTEM.
Partially crazed by prosperity, and also instigated by jealousy against his own son, Gushtāsp demanded of Isfendiyār that he should lead a campaign against the provinces over which Rustem reigned, and either slay that chieftain or bring him in irons to the Persian king. In vain the son pleaded the loyalty and nobility of the warrior, the father answered that by the foolishness of his predecessor nearly half of Persia had been given into Rustem’s hands, and he demanded a restitution of the territory, and the captivity of their ruler. “Take with thee,” said the king, “my whole army and all my treasure. What wouldst thou have more? He who has conquered the terrific obstacles of the Heft-khān, and has slain Arjasp, and subdued his kingdom, can have no cause to fear any other chief.” Isfendiyār replied that he was not prompted to decline the campaign from cowardice, but that Rustem had been the monitor and friend of their ancestors, enriched their minds and taught them to be brave, and he was ever faithful to their cause. “Besides,” said he, “thou wert the honored guest of Rustem two long years; and at Sistan enjoyed his hospitality and friendship—his festive social board; and canst thou now, forgetting that delightful intercourse, become his bitterest foe?”
Gushtāsp replied: “’Tis true he may have served my ancestors, but what is that to me? His spirit is proud, and he refused to yield me needful aid when danger pressed; that is enough, and thou canst not divert me from my settled purpose.” Kitabūn, the mother of Isfendiyār, begged him to disobey the king rather than to undertake so dangerous and dishonorable a campaign. She claimed that curses must fall upon the throne, and ruin seize the country which returned evil for good and spurned its benefactor, and pleaded with him to restrain his steps, and engage not in a war which could do him no honor.
But Isfendiyār replied that his word was pledged to his royal father, and taking a tender leave of his mother and bidding the king a formal farewell, he placed himself at the head of the Persian host, and set out upon the campaign in which he had so little heart. When he arrived in Rustem’s province, that chieftain rode out to welcome him, and cordially invited him to accept their hospitality. Isfendiyār was obliged to refuse the kindly offer and explain the unpleasant nature of his mission, whereupon Rustem promptly declined to be bound and carried in fetters to the Persian king. In order to save unnecessary bloodshed, it was decided to settle the matter by single combat, and the next morning Rustem rode out to meet his unwilling foe, and both were clad in shining mail.
Rustem sat uponupon Rakush, while Isfendiyār rode a night-black charger, swift as the driving cloud, and in his stride he scattered the desert stones as if a hail-storm reveled around his master’s head. The chieftains closed in the long and useless fight, while many javelins whizzed upon the air, and helm and mail were bruised. Spear fractured spear, and then with gleaming swords the strife went on until they too snapped short. The battle-ax was next wielded in furious wrath; each bending forward struck the bewildering blows—each tried in vain to hurl the other from his fiery horse. Wearied at length, they stood apart to breathe, their chargers covered with foam and blood, and the strong armor of steed and rider both were rent. So severely was Rakush wounded that Rustem dismounted and impelled his arrows from the ground, while the gallant horse pursued his way painfully homeward.
When Zūara saw the noble animal riderless crossing the plain he gasped for breath, and in an agony of grief he hastened to the fatal spot, where he found his gallant brother fighting still, even while the blood was flowing copiously from every wound. Isfendiyār had escaped with fewer wounds, and Zūara placed Rustem upon his own steed and offered himself as a substitute; but Rustem refused, saying that to-morrow he would continue the fight.
Isfendiyār retired sadly to his tent and wrote a letter to his father, saying: “Thy commands must be obeyed, and Heaven only knows what may befall to-morrow.” When Rustem arrived at his court Zāl discovered that he, as well as his gallant steed, was terribly wounded. The old chieftain carefully dressed the wounds of his son, and Rustem said to his father: “I never met with any foe, be he warrior or demon, with such amazing strength and bravery as this. He seems to have a brazen body, for my arrows, which I can drive through an anvil, cannot penetrate his chest. If I had applied the strength which I have exerted to a mountain it would have been moved from its base, but he sat firmly in his saddle and scorned my efforts.”
“Let us not despair,” replied the father. “Did not the Sīmūrgh promise her assistance in the time of greatest need.” So saying, Zāl took the precious feather, which had been only slightly burned before, and going out upon the cliff he burned it in a censer. The darkness grew deeper for a moment, and then there was the rush of mighty wings, as the mountain bird circled slowly down out of the darkness and stood in her rich and massive beauty beside her foster child, now an old and retired warrior. Zāl’s eye lighted up with hope and love as he gently laid his hand upon her golden plumage and told her of his sad affliction.
The faithful Rakush stood near by with drooping head and bleeding form, and he first caught the eye of the loving mother-bird. Going to him she pulled out the cruel arrows with her beak, and gently passed the feathers of her wing over the wounds; they quickly healed, and the old war horse raised his gallant head and stamped his feet impatiently as if he longed again to hear the trumpet call to battle. The Sīmūrgh then went to Rustem and soothed him with the gentle caresses of her head and beak, and drawing forth the hidden darts from his body she sucked the poisoned blood from out the gaping wounds, and then they closed and healed; so the champion was soon restored to life and strength. Being thus invigorated under her magic care, he sought her aid in the battle of the coming day. But the bird replied: “There never appeared a more brave and perfect hero than Isfendiyār, for in his Heft-khān he succeeded in killing a Sīmūrgh, and the further thou art removed from his invincible arrow the greater will be thy safety.”
But Zāl interposed, saying: “If Rustem retires from the contest his family will be enslaved—we shall be in bondage and affliction.” Then she told Rustem to mount Rakush and follow her. He obeyed, and she led him far away across a broad river, and on the other side she came to a low marsh filled with reeds, where the moonlight flashed on the white wings of the pelicans and the night bird sang his lowest notes to the pale and drooping lilies. Then from the stems that bloom on the banks of Īrān’s rivers she chose the Kazū[260] tree, and directed Rustem to take from it a straight shaft and form it into an arrow and shoot it into the eye of his enemy. “The arrow,” said she, “will make him blind, and I would that it were only so, for he who spills the blood of Isfendiyār will never again in life be free from calamity.” Then she escorted Rustem, who carried the charmed arrow, back to his tent, and caressing his face with her beak and soft feathers she spread her golden pinions and soared away into darkness.
THE FALL OF THE WARRIORS.
Isfendiyār was amazed to see Rustem bearing gallantly down upon him, clad in full armor, and riding the self-same steed that seemed wounded to the death the day before. “How is this?” he cried.
Rustem replied, “If a thousand arrows were shot at me they would fail to kill, and in the end thou wilt fall at my hands. Therefore come at once and be my guest, and I swear by the Zend-Avesta that I will go with thee, but unfettered, to thy father.”
“That is not enough,” returned Isfendiyār. “Thou must be fettered, I will not disobey the commands of the king,” and he seized his bow to commence the combat. Rustem did the same, and as he placed the Sīmūrgh’s arrow in the bowstring, he exclaimed, “I have wished for a reconciliation, and I would now give all my treasures and wealth to go with you to Īrān and avoid this conflict, but my offers are disdained, for you are determined to consign me to bondage and disgrace.”
An arrow from Isfendiyār came quickly against his armor, but by turning himself he eluded its point, and in return he quickly lodged the Sīmūrgh’s arrow in the eyes of his antagonist.
Bāhman, the son of Isfendiyār, seeing his father fall, uttered loud lamentations, and all the Persian troops drew near in sorrow and mourning. The stricken man was carried to his tent, and the next day both Zāl and Rustem came to offer their sympathy and condolence.
The wounded prince replied, “I do not ascribe my misfortunes to thee; fate would have it so, and thus it is. But I consign my son Bāhman to thy care and guardianship; instruct him in the science of government, the custom of kings, and the rules of the warrior, for thou art perfect in all things.” Rustem readily promised, saying that it should be his duty to see that the young prince was firmly seated upon the throne of his fathers.
Then Isfendiyār sent a message to his father, and with a few tender, loving words for his mother, he lay back and died. Then Rustem returned home, carrying with him as a sacred trust the son of the slain prince, who was carefully instructed in all the arts of war and the accomplishments of peace, and finally placed upon the throne that should have been his father’s.
But the blood of the gallant Isfendiyār carried with it a curse, as the Sīmūrgh had said, and Rustem himself fell a victim to the treachery of his half-brother. He and his gallant horse fell together in a pit which had been prepared for them while on a hunting excursion, and although Rakush bounded gallantly out of the first, it was only to fall into another, and they struggled on, until mounting up the edge of the seventh pit, and covered with deep wounds, both horse and rider lay exhausted. With one supreme effort, Rustem sent an arrow through the man who had betrayed him, and then Persia’s gallant son was dead, and not a kingly follower remained. Zūara and other followers had fallen and perished in other pits dug by the traitor king and traitor brother. All were lost save one, who escaped and carried the sad tidings to Sistan, where Zāl in agony tore his white hair and cried, “Why did I not die for him, why was I not present fighting by his side?” And never again did the land of Īrān bear a chieftain like the gallant Rustem slain.
CHAPTER XIV.
SECOND PERIOD.
ANWĀRI—NIZĀMĪ—LAILĪ AND MAJNŪN—A FRIEND—THE WEDDING—DELIVERANCE—THE MEETING IN THE DESERT—DEATH OF THE LOVERS—THE VISION OF ZYD.
The second period of Persian poetry reaches from the beginning to the end of the twelfth century, and it may be termed the panegyric age, from the fact that the poets of this period, nearly all of them, devoted their talents indiscriminately to the laudation of the princes of their times. But we find also in this age, the beginning of the mystic school which was so fully developed in the thirteenth century. It was during this period that Amig of Bukhara composed the Egyptian story of Yūsuf and Zulaikhā, which was the original of many poetic versions. A few good satires also belong to the twelfth century, but the greatest panegyric poet of this period was
ANWĀRI.
There is but little known of this Poet Laureate of Persia; he appears to have been born, however, in the twelfth century at Bedeneh, a village in Khorasān. He was a poor student in the town of Tus, and near the college grounds one day, he happened to see the grand equipage of the Sultan, and observing that one member of his suite was mounted upon a more magnificent horse, and was more gorgeously equipped than the others, he inquired who he was. On being told that he was the court poet, the ambitious student aspired to the same position, and that very night he prepared a poem in praise of the Sultan, which was presented at court the next day. The royal vanity was so greatly pleased by this offering, that the young poet was offered a position at court, which he promptly accepted. He attended the Sultan in all of his warlike expeditions until his death.[261] He wrote a few long poems, and also some simple lyrics that were worthy of preservation, but perhaps the best of these productions was “The Tears of Khorasān.” Khorasān was overrun by a barbarous tribe of Turkomans, who committed every species of cruelty, and this poem was a plea to the Prince of Samarcānd for relief. The following extract, which is the opening stanza of his petition, will give a sufficient idea of his style:
NIZĀMĪ.
The greatest poet of this period, however, was Nizāmī,[262] whose pathetic love songs are the best productions of the kind in the Persian tongue. He lived the greater part of his life at Ganja, and is therefore known as Nizāmī of Ganja. His first important work was called “The Storehouse of Mysteries.” This was followed by the beautiful poem of “Koshrū and Shirīn,” the theme of which was taken from ancient Persian history. In the latter part of the twelfth century he wrote his Diwan, a collection which was said to contain twenty thousand verses, but few of these, however, have come down to our own times. Soon afterward the great poet wrote his famous love story entitled “Lailī and Majnūn,” which was followed by his Book of Alexander, an epic which was devoted to the glory of the Greek conqueror. His last work was the “Seven Fair Faces,” and this was presented in the form of romantic fiction, and consisted merely of seven stories which were told to amuse the king by the seven wives of Bāhram Gor. These five works are known as the “Five Treasures of Nizāmī.” His eulogies were sung by the greatest Persian poets who lived after him.
It was of him that Sa’di wrote: “Gone is Nizāmī, our exquisite pearl, which Heaven in its kindness, formed of the purest dew, as the gem of the world.”
His most popular work, and one of the best of the Persian classics, is the poem of Lailī and Majnūn, which, for tenderness, purity and pathos, has been seldom equaled. We give here a short prose version of the legend:
LAILĪ AND MAJNŪN.
Every nation has its favorite romance of love and chivalry. France and Italy have their Abelard and Eloisa, their Petrarch and Laura, while Arabia and Persia have their Lailī and Majnūn, the record of whose sorrows is constantly referred to throughout the East as an example of the most devoted affection. This story, which has been versified by several Persian authors, is of Arabian origin, and hence it bears the impress of Arabic thought.
The poem contains the mystic lights and shadows of Bedawīn life—the fervid loves and passionate yearnings, the hopeless grief and stoical endurance, which belong to the sons of the desert.
Majnūn was the son of a haughty chief, while Lailī belonged to an humble Arab tribe, but her father carried in his veins the pride of his desert race, and the bitter hatreds of the Moslems. Lailī is described as being very beautiful, with the crimson of her cheek flashing through the dark olive shades of her face, and her heavy ringlets, “black as night,” hanging in graceful profusion around her shapely neck.
But the wandering tribe to which the girl belonged folded their tents and slipped away to the solitudes of the mountains. They had left no trace of their going—no hint of where they might be found, and the luckless maid found herself far from her lover with no possible means of communicating with him, while the frantic boy was wandering through the wilds in the almost hopeless search for his love.
Alarmed by the condition of his son, the old chieftain gathered his men for an organized search, and at last they found the mountain stronghold of the tribe they sought.
They were challenged by a stern voice beyond the rocky barriers, which demanded:
This challenge touched the chieftain’s pride, and he haughtily responded that he came in friendship, to propose the marriage of his son to the Arab maiden to whom he had taken a silly fancy.
The haughty tone of the applicant was little calculated to call forth a favorable response, and the proud father replied:
The scorn of the father’s reply had been, if possible, more bitter than the insulting demand, and Syd Omri turned indignantly to his followers and ordered the homeward march. The desert fates were stern, and
The kinsmen of Lailī brought to the encampment the news that a youth, insane and wild, was haunting the desert wastes below the mountain, and the fair Lailī blushed when she heard the tidings, but dared not venture forth to meet her maniac lover. The Arab chief swore vengeance against the hapless youth, and ordered his followers to slay him in the desert. The father of Majnūn heard of the cruel decree and sent his own followers into the wilderness to rescue his son.... Again and again he was carried to his father’s home, and as frequently he made his escape, always wandering, with unerring instinct, near to his beloved.
An oasis with its cooling streams was near the rocky fortress of the Bedawīn encampment, and here the tall palms seemed to lean against the sky, while the doves cooed in the thickets of foliage. Here the gentle Lailī came day after day, hoping that her lover might venture near. She gathered the lilies that bloomed around her feet, as she wandered through the fragrant grove, but her dark eyes were heavy with unshed tears, when she reclined beneath a mournful cypress tree and softly chanted her song of faithfulness:
As she pensively sat one day beneath the cypress tree, a youth of kingly mien passed that way. His eyes rested a moment upon her crimson lips, and the flowing tresses which were dark as the plume of a raven’s wing—he saw too the full form with its shapely curves and the beaming softness of the dark eyes, with their heavy lashes. Ibn Salām was the honored name of this young prince, who with his suite had sought for a moment the cooling shades of the palm-tree grove, and he it was who hastened to her father with a plea for his daughter’s hand. Dazzled by the gold and position of the suitor, the father of Lailī gave a cordial consent to the proposed union.
A FRIEND.
The chief of the domain where Majnūn wandered in his pitiful loneliness, looked with compassion upon him, for one day, while in pursuit of a bounding deer, he saw the wasted frame and wild look of the despairing lover. Dismounting from his splendid steed, Noufal, the Arab chief, came kindly to him and listened to the story so constantly told of love and suffering. With kindly words the chieftain soothed the restless spirit, and gently drawing the tortured mind away from its painful thought he offered nourishment to the sinking body. A change for the better came over him, and he took the proffered cup and drank, although he drank to Lailī’s name. Refreshed by Noufal’s kindly ministry and drawn by gentle urging, Majnūn went with his new friend to his home, and there received the best of care and hopeful cheer.
The generous NoufalNoufal was not content with the change so nearly wrought, but he gathered his bravest men in battle array, and marched at their head to the mountain fortress of the Bedawīn encampment. The troops of Arabian horsemen were halted and sword and helmet glittered in the sun, while Noufal sent his messenger forward with a demand for the hand of the coveted bride. His request was haughtily refused, and when the messenger was again sent forward with a threat of revenge if his wishes were not complied with, his power and vengeance were alike defied. Then the word of command rang along the glittering lines. There was a rattling of helmets and spears, a twanging of the bowstring and a gallant charge was made upon the foe that was so well entrenched in the mountain fastnesses. Amidst the clangor of brazen drums and trumpets, the fearful fight went on and
There was no pause in the sound of the trumpets, no stay in the wild flight of the arrows, as the dreadful work went on, and the dripping swords were bathed with the crimson tide of shame.
The shades of night came down ere the fate of the battle was decided, but the assaulting party had suffered most, and in another hour of conflict the friends of Majnūn had been undone. With the coming of the morning light the assault was renewed, and the desert rang again with the sounds of war; all along the long line glittered the sword and buckler, the helmet and spear; swords clashed and the desert sands were wet again with the blood of the fallen. At last the tribe of Lailī’s sire gave way, and Noufal won the bitter fight, though many of his bravest men lay bleeding on the burning sand.
The aged father came forth with dust and ashes upon his hoary head, and admitted that his tribe was fully conquered, and offered the life of his daughter for a peace offering, while still refusing to allow her to wed with a maniac.
The chivalry of the desert disdained to tear the child from her father’s arms, even though that father was a conquered foe. The gallant Noufal, feeling that he was himself defeated, and that in vain the blood of his brave men had stained the desert sands, sadly gave the order that the conquered tribe should be allowed to retire unmolested from the well fought field.
With a heavy heart the gallant chief pursued his homeward way with Majnūn, reckless and desperate, by his side. He tried again to calm the poignant pangs of hopeless love, and to bless, with gentleness and tender care, the wounded and despairing spirit.
In another part of the wild domain a cloud of dust on the horizon of the desert tells of the coming of a troop of horsemen, and soon a wearied and broken column is seen beneath the clouds of sand which obscure the blue of heaven. The women of the conquered tribe, who had been placed in safer quarters, come forth to meet the returning warriors. As the trampling steeds come nearer they hear the leader’s angry word, as he breathes his curses, loud and deep, upon the victor in the fight, for he scarcely cares to survive the blow while burning with the disgrace of defeat. Poor Lailī listens sadly to the story of her fate, but no hope of aid can enter her crushed and broken heart. And still the story of her beauty is borne on every gale, and the neighboring tribes are wondering for whom her father is keeping the beauteous gem.
THE WEDDING.
At last, the lover comes with his magnificent offerings of embroidered robes, and carpets worked with silk and gold; the rarest gems were brought to lay at her feet, and a long line of camels, with their tinkling bells, were laden with costly presents for the bride of Ibn Salām.
Beautiful steeds were proudly stepping to the low music of his march, for a long line of the purest Arabian blood was coursing in their veins. But while the nuptial pomp and nuptial rites engaged the chieftain’s household, and every square was ringing with the rattle of drums and the voice of pipe and cymbal, the stricken bride was sitting sad and lone in her retreat, mourning for her betrothed, and pleading that she might be allowed to die rather than to wed the man that she could never love. The joyous bridegroom came with gorgeous litter and golden throne for the chosen bride to occupy. He came in richest garb, with happy smiles and costly jewels, into the presence of his promised bride, but the Arabian maiden turned with flashing eyes upon the intruder, and informed him that the betrothal had been made by her father without consulting her. She declared she would rather die than become a wife unloving, for in her heart she could find only hatred for the man who was willing to claim her under circumstances so revolting, and then with the air of a queen she ordered him to leave her alone. When Ibn Salām heard her frenzied words, he turned away from the indignant girl and poured his woes into her father’s ear. The pitiful pleadings of the girl were unheeded, and the fearful mockery of marriage went on amidst the glare of trumpets and sounding drum,—went on, with jewels and costly gifts for the unwilling bride, and all the outward show of happiness and joy. But though Lailī’s plighted faith to Majnūn seemed so sorely broken, she still cherished his memory with tenderest thought, and
Amidst all the heartaches of humanity the slow movement of sun and stars still goes on, and the bare horizon of the desert is illumined by the lamps of heaven. Night with her coolness and dews, comes down upon the burning sands with the restful touch of peace. Her primeval fountains of light have gathered for all time around the desert steppes, watching their silent mysteries, and touching with glory the far-away crowns of their palms.
Lailī sat in her prison tower, looking out upon the peaceful beauty of the night, and its soft repose crept into her troubled heart, bringing with it a message of hope. For days and years she had lived within that guarded tower, shut like a gem within its stony bed, surrounded by the dragon watch which her husband still supplied. But hark! there is an unusual sound beneath her casement; there are flickering lamps and wailing cries; confused voices are bearing messages to and fro; there is a death-note in the wild chant which is ringing out upon the night.
Lailī looked up to the face of the moon, and thought of its chilling rays that fell upon the haggard form of her desert love. She gazed upon the flashing star that stood like a guardian above his restless sleep, and then she turned to receive the messengers who brought the formal tale that her jailor now was dead. And must she mourn for the man she loathed? Ah, yes; the Arab law must be obeyed, and she must assume the garments of woe! It was easy for her to weep,