[In the following essay, Schroeder discusses translations of the works of Hafiz, focusing on the importance of rhythm, repetition, and extensive annotation, and criticizing the rendering of Hafiz's poems by A. J. Arberry.]

Amodest book generally arouses gratitude and respect, and these are among the feelings with which one lays down Professor Arberry's selection from the works of Hafiz and his fifteen English translators. His explicit purposes—to provide a textbook for those beginning to read Persian poetry and to exhibit the variety of Hafiz' work and the variety of its translation by different hands—are accomplished. His Introduction contains a summary of the facts of Hafiz' life and times, a brief discussion of the Divan text, its variants, and the causes of corruption, two Persian appreciations, an outline of the history of the ghazal, and a most interesting provisional analysis of Hafiz' development as a poet. The texts of fifty poems are given cleared of interpolation; and the verse translations include nine eighteenth-century versions, others in similar style by Bicknell and Palmer, more modern versions by Bell, Le Gallienne, Leaf, and others, and sixteen new poetical translations by Professor Arberry himself. The notes give variants and some guidance to the symbolism and reference of the texts.

Possibly the circumstances of Hafiz' life might have been illuminated by some description of the working of Mongol feudalism, some images of the intercourse between the alien military caste in their exotic dress and arms and the Persian subjects who furnished not only a peasantry but a bureaucracy and urban luxury, arts, and culture. And some more pictorial vision of the poet's town, its streams and gardens and mountain crown, and the wine-growing villages about it, might have been more informative than so intricate a history of the town's political vicissitudes, to which Hafiz was deliberately indifferent. Such changes probably affected him less, for instance, than the architectural transformation inaugurated in his lifetime, the development of brilliantly colored kashi ornament. Of the two eminent Persian critics whom Professor Arberry's modesty puts forward as spokesmen for that native appreciation to which foreigners must remain foreign, the second occupies rather more space than he enlivens. One has to summarize in order to grasp any substance; and, although the selections may be inserted with some art and some little irony as specimens of the oriental preface, they do not perhaps suggest any very fruitful approach to the poet on the part of the Western novice. This reviewer personally would have preferred larger type for the Persian text. And he would have liked a literal prose translation of at least one poem to have been incorporated in the notes. On this subject there is more to be said, but even in the volume as it stands some such translation would have made more of the literary artifices employed by the poet perceptible to the reader who knows no Persian.

The selection does justice to Hafiz' greatness, inclining to a large inclusion of his more philosophic poetry and a diminished proportion of poems to which his verbal felicity is essential. Apart from the new translations, it is the fifth section of the Introduction (pp. 28-33)—in which Professor Arberry sums up the poet's philosophy and characterizes, by content and technique, three periods in his work—that makes this the most valuable introduction to the poet which has hitherto appeared in English. It is the product of a deep study. To me personally it has been an "opener of doors." When I add that, of all the translators represented, Professor Arberry comes nearest to combining fidelity with poetic quality, I hope it will be clear that I regard his achievement as no mean one. And if we are still dissatisfied with the relationship between Hafiz and his Western reader, there can be no doubt that Professor Arberry feels something of the same dissatisfaction.

There is no discontent with the manner in which he has fulfilled his stated aims. The dissatisfaction which I wish to examine is rather with the modesty of his program. What remains in question after reading this Hafiz is really the appropriateness of modesty to the performance of the task which introducing Hafiz implies.

An adequate introduction should persuade the reader of the poet's greatness. It is a translation to which there are two parties: the introducer and the reader. In the case of some readers it may be hopeless. To persuade one whose poetic taste calls for Milton or Dryden, for Wordsworth or Kipling—one for whom meaning must be explicitly stated—that a poet whose more serious meaning is abstruse from its visible symbols is a great poet cannot be easy. For Hafiz' beautiful verbal surface is too complex to retain the felicity of poetry when fully rendered into English. The acoustic structure of English equivalents, it is superfluous to say, could never echo the flawless music of the Persian words. Occasionally, as in Nos. 34, 44, and 47, the translator (in these cases Professor Arberry himself) rises to something of the unembarrassed force of real poetry while remaining largely faithful to his text; this is an effective, though not ultimately the most truthful, means toward the persuasion of Hafiz' greatness. Readers of this volume will generally be persons who know a little Persian and others who know none. Even the former class will for the most part be comparative novices in the world of Persian art and thought and prone to accept the standard of interpretation here set. And, although it is to them that the book is ostensibly addressed, Professor Arberry at once suggests that Hafiz "can still teach useful lessons to all who are interested in the evolution of poetic expression" and that "Hafiz' technique can by modified imitation inspire new developments in Western poetry." Heartily indorsing these views, I now propose to consider the volume not as a beginner's textbook but as a representation to those who care for poetry of Persia's greatest poet.

It is plain that the author shares Richard Le Gallienne's opinion that "the only service of translation is to make the foreign poet a poet of one's own country." English-speaking Orientalists are peculiarly exposed to this conviction by the success, which they alone can appreciate, of FitzGerald's Omar Khayyám. The service to which they aspire, however, requires that they shall be true English poets. And, further, if FitzGerald's Omar be compared, for instance, with Dryden's Horace, it is soon clear that even a fine English poem which conveys the meaning of a foreign poem is not always wholly satisfactory as a translation. For FitzGerald's versions have much the same poetic impact as their originals, and Dryden's versions have not. The simplest way of putting the case is to say, for the moment vaguely, that FitzGerald seems to have been in some way a Persian poet as well as an English one. This explains the unique popular success of the Rubáiyát: FitzGerald provided the English with what is essentially Persian poetry. His exploit is hardly intelligible without-reference to the man himself. Free alike from the competitive ambition, the moral vehemence, the conventionality, or the materialism of his various fellow-Englishmen, choosing the unhurried practice of his art, the unambitious cares of a garden, and the complete idleness which can be had in the Western world only on a yacht, he exemplified Persian rather than Western culture.

But such a phenomenon as FitzGerald is so rare that few translators can hope that their own achievement may resemble his. Scott-Moncrieff's Beowulf is a comparable even if less astonishing success; and it is the only one which comes readily to mind. Both writers are true translators and true poets; but, beside these gifts, they both possess another no less important to their task—a taste for and a mastery of certain technical devices characteristic of their originals. FitzGerald uses with apparent ease, first, the rhymed quatrain (in wisely chosen iambics, to an English ear both definitely poetical and poetically neutral); second, the recurrent symbolic convention which he happily proclaims by capitalization; and, third, a very Persian economy of poetical phraseology which enables him to reproduce the cool and occasionally colloquial tone of Omar. Scott-Moncrieff "attempted to make the sort of lines that an Englishman of the Heptarchy would recognize as metrical," and mastery let him (in his noble dedicatory poem) express in such lines his own thought and passion. He had become an Old English poet. An Englishman may make himself perhaps more easily an Old Englishman than a Persian; Scott-Moncrieff was exploiting certain acoustic preferences which have been constants in the English ear. But the capacity to embody certain emotionally or intellectually necessary elements of an alien technique as well as alien meaning is as vital to satisfactory verse translation as it is rare.

If the translator commands it, the force of his translation is increased many fold. But how if he have it not? In that case, abandoning the attempt to produce poetry, either he may furnish the meaning and the imagery in a literal prose translation or, fitting the translated meaning and imagery to his personal poetic technique, he may produce a new poem. It may be "a very pretty poem—but you must not call it Homer." The style is the man; and technique is a thing of the soul. Moreover, liking and disliking are so absolute in poetry that the verse translator risks the precious meaning and imagery in a frail vessel. If the flavor, the vocabulary and rhythm, of the poetical translation are not to our taste, they rouse actual disgust. At best, the additional words, laden with association, which are constantly necessary in adjusting the translated matter to its new verse form, will alter emphasis. At worst, they will poison the poem.

All these objections Professor Arberry has undoubtedly weighed. His valuable article on the particular problem of Hafiz' case² shows what concessions he thinks necessary, though he sometimes prefers the opinions of others. Expansion of Hafiz' length is inevitable: "It seems beyond hope to achieve the same pregnant brevity." And the repetitive monorhyme of the ghazal is abandoned under cover of J. H. Hindley's dictum: "The constant recurrence of the same rhyme is not suited to a language which, as has been often observed by critics, will not bear reiterated monotonies." In a word, for Professor Arberry, as for most of his predecessors, "Hafiz cannot be translated"; and "to make the foreign poet a poet of one's own country" is all that remains.

It may be as well to say, even here and prematurely, that Hafiz' pregnant brevity will keep in English well enough, so long as the translator is not afraid of seeming uncouth, and to point out that in the first half of the seventeenth century, when its use was understood at least as well as in Hindley's time or ours, the English language supported reiterated monotonies with powerful effect.

But for the moment let us follow Professor Arberry and see where we are led. The question is: What kind of an English poet shall we make of Hafiz? A sentimental one? Sir William Jones's versions in his own time were popular and influential; but few readers of this book will think his or Nott's worth repeated reading. Hafiz in them is no longer Hafiz but simply Akenside, or Beattie, or Shenstone—some hedonistic eighteenth-century Englishman of taste. His voice is the unmistakable voice of a polite rational materialist; and, as spokesman for the poetic and philosophic personality of Hafiz, it is absolutely false.

What worse horrors can befall the attempt to make an English poet of Hafiz the unlucky Le Gallienne has himself most ignominiously shown. His version of the famous "Shirazi Turk" ghazal (reprinted and criticized in Professor Arberry's article) contains such lines as:

You little robber-woman, you!

and

O love, that was not very kind!

"It is altogether too girlish for Hafiz," says Professor Arberry, "and there are some terrible arch touches." So terrible, indeed, that we wonder whether making an Edwardian poet of Hafiz did him any service at all. To make a modern poet out of him, in the style of the Arab poets recently translated by Howarth and Shukrullah in Images from the Arab World, might insure him some enthusiasm, if not a just appreciation, for a few years. But when that mode too has gone by, how shall we feel about modern mannerisms?

We know well enough: We shall feel embarrassed by them. Poetical mannerism brings out the snob in all of us. Clothes which can establish a man in one company will ruin him in another. Words and phrases which have once acted as incantations will startle another and a later reader away. Such a phrase, for example, as "Love's passionate red wine" might proclaim a line as poetry forty years ago; today it marks it as verse of a certain age. To call verse which so affects us "uninspired" or "tame" may be correct, for the creative excitement necessary to powerful rhyme is irrational, sudden, rich, and deep-seated. As poets know, writing a poem is the release in comparatively few selected words of a whole inner world of meaningful images, of reminiscent and musical notions, so entangled in the words selected that the very soul seems to issue in them. Only after the forgetting of a poem one has written does a rereading show how much of that inner composition was actualized. Now, translation, the arrangement of already selected matter, rouses far less energy. There is less "head" to the flow. A. E. Housman illustrates how relaxed or enfeebled, both critically and creatively, is a poet translating when compared with himself composing. The Muse is not in presence.

The fact might be explained by supposing that the amount of energy still available in translated matter is in direct ratio to the translator's power of self-negation. The discipline is rare in minor poets, who generally develop power by self-specialization. When we come to ask why a feebleness or an error in taste is fatal to the effect of poetry, why our snobbery is unashamed and ruthless, we must risk a ponderous answer which would be inappropriate to the review of a modest book had not that book covered, with the authority of high and original scholarship and the company of some quite beautiful and fairly faithful renderings, a number of what, seriously considered, are misrepresentations of a very great poet. Such a version as No. 41, for instance, is little better than a travesty.

Two of the foremost Western minds needed little persuasion of the value of the poet. Emerson was one, and the other Goethe. The latter is of particular interest, not only because of the characteristically prophetic or universal quality of his understanding, but because of the clarity of his introspection. "I had to protect myself against Hafiz by composing," he wrote; "otherwise I should not have held my ground against the mighty presence." As with FitzGerald, a Persian genius possessed him, at least for a while; and though little of Goethe's West-Eastern Divan is actual translation, there are to be found in that display of lyric skill manipulations of some of the more intractable technical peculiarities of Hafiz—colloquialism and the monorhyme. Goethe, like FitzGerald, fearlessly wedded his own soul to strangeness; and he, too, had his reward. Such courage in embracing the conventionally uncouth is like the kissing of the "Loathly Bride":

 Her breath was strang, her hair was lang
 And twisted thrice about the tree;
 And with a swing she came about:
"Come to the craig and kiss with me!"

The kisser must be a hero, a "kingis son"; but when such a one "steppit in, gave her a kiss,"

Her breath was sweet, her hair grew short
And twisted nane about the tree;
And smilingly she came about,
As fair a woman as fair could be.

The myth contains something very material to the problem of translation—the fact that fear is an evil counselor. The apprehension that English readers may not like, for example, so much repetition as Hafiz liked is fear that they may not like Hafiz. A more perfect love for the poet would cast out that fear; and a fearlegs translator would give all that could be given in the translator's tongue. Persian music may be untranslatable into English music; but for a reader who wants the Persian poet no amount of English music will compensate the loss or clouding or adulteration of the Persian meaning.

On this point Goethe has something to say which should be heard in the recollection that it is a great poet who speaks: "I revere the rhythm as well as the rhyme, by which poetry first becomes poetry; but that which is really, deeply, and fundamentally effective—what is really permanent and furthering—is what remains of the poet when he is translated into prose. Then remains the pure perfect substance, of which a brilliant surface often has the effect of exhibiting the false semblance when the real thing is not there, and which, when it is there, such a surface often has the effect of concealing. I therefore consider prose translations more advantageous than poetical ones.… Those critical translations which vie with the original seem really to be only for the private delectation of the learned."

Of this statement I would emphasize the phrase "permanent and furthering" as an indication of what matters in poetry. Poetry, considered not in vacuo but in its relation to life, has a well-defined level of operation. Its theater is the soul, that feeling, feminine person of our triunity which may be damned or blest by ignorance or by knowledge of her proper Bridegroom. The soul is never quite free from a sense of its ultimate or proper destiny. Though all loveliness (I use this term as distinguished from "beauty" by Dr. Coomaraswamy) may be seductive to the immature, and though great loveliness is always seductive, the soul is increasingly aware of a station beyond the lovely, for which it is bound; and this sense of destination is what makes us so merciless to loveliness not great enough to be seductive. Poetry in any case does not as a rule exert so strong a compulsion on our appetites as do physical things. It is easier for the intellectual will (of scholastic psychology) to determine our reaction. And so it is easy for us, as we begin to ripen, to reject infantile or fleshly poetry. This easy rejection is the snobbery of poetical taste. The normal Poet's Progress (both in the poet and in his reader) is from "The Rose" to "The Winding Stair," from "The Prelude" to "The Excursion," from Romeo to The Tempest. It is a progress from the beauty of the world to the beauty of the underlying, and often an ascent from verbal beauty to intellectual beauty precipitated in words, with some loss of verbal loveliness, as if understanding held the lovely and the loathly in a harmony of its own. Poetry which rouses the snob in us is embarrassing because it appeals to feeling at a level of this psychic ascent which we wish to be past.

In poetry the progress may be marked by certain changes in poetic technique, in vocabulary and phrasing, imagery and rhythm. As English poets ascend, the vocabulary relies less on gorgeous or precious association, more on the distillate of everyday and wide experience. The phrasing is bolder, does not shrink from hard effects, has less fear of the banal. The imagery is less crowded and less highly colored. The rhythm, less songlike, takes on a more unmistakable beat, insistent, though in English iambic verse often highly irregular. There is in general a growing fearlessness and at the same time a growing thrift. For the sake of having simple labels (too simple to be just), we might say that feeling, the censor of poetry, is at first "soft" and later "hard." One or two very great English poets, the myriad-minded ones—Shakespeare and Joyce—retain even at a "late" stage the power of writing in an "early" style, much as Beethoven could vary the Alpine sublimity of his last quartets and sonatas with movements of warm romantic feeling. In Joyce's Pomes Penyeach, for example, "Alone" and "Tutto e Sciolto" are "soft" poems, uttered through a romantic or adolescent persona, while "Tilly" and "A Memory of the Players" are in every way "mature" or "hard."

Hafiz' verse, like all Persian verse, is more intoned than English. But, making allowance for this difference, a comparison of it with various types of English verse will show that most of the ghazals belong, in vocabulary and imagery, to the "late" or "hard" level of poetry. Consequently, if it is proposed to turn Hafiz into English verse, the verse should be pitched right; the translator should model himself on English poetry of like timbre.

The translations assembled by Professor Arberry vary in technique and in quality; and some of the later versions are considerably more like Hafiz than the eighteenth-century lyrics of which I have spoken above. The influence of FitzGerald can be seen in practically all subsequent translators, and in lines where it is strongest, as in Gertrude Bell's

Last night I dreamed that angels stood
 without
The tavern-door, and knocked in vain,

the result is pleasing. FitzGeraldese is a very good English equivalent for Persian, so far as it goes, no doubt; but it will not stretch far enough. Omar is a much simpler poet than Hafiz, and FitzGerald affords no guidance in preserving the compact mystery of such a ghazal, for example, as Dil-i Shayda. Professor Arberry was wise to give his own versions of the wonderful later odes, for he is most free from FitzGerald, and an eclectic of wide poetical reading. But even he is comparatively "soft" in poetical technique when set beside his original, "hard" though he seems when set beside Richardson or Leaf or Bell.

As an epitome of "softness" I choose Leaf's rendering of Hafiz' khuy kardeh, "sweating," by "cheek beflushed." Whose voice says, "Only animals sweat: gentlemen perspire, and young ladies are all in a glow"? It is not the voice of Hafiz, certainly—not even the voice of my grandmother, but the voice of my grandmother's governess. Professor Arberry himself can turn kujai, "Where are you?" into "Whither fled?" But I will waste none of my rotten eggs on him; I want them for the others. Many passages of Hafiz are turned by him with an elegance I can only admire; but his associates lapse into the worst sentimentalities of the "fleshly school" of the latter nineteenth century. "I say prayer, and praise I send thee" becomes "What whispered prayers and what full meed of praise I send to thee."

Hafiz is not so soft or precious; and his rhetoric depends less on the raised or the plaintive tone than on a kind of intellectual involvement. His apostrophes and questions are those of common Persian speech; "O ask not whom!" and so on (in No. 26) is quite wrong for his "Don't ask!"

It may be questioned whether any English poet of any period has enough in common with Hafiz to serve as guide in these technical difficulties. Perhaps Donne comes closest. In his poetry, as in the Divan of Hafiz, there is a changing relation and a constant connection between the erotic and the metaphysical: even in youth his erotic is not sentimental but charged with physical reality and an incipient metaphysical penetration which allows of a strange and wide-flung rhetoric in which the bodily and the cosmic lie together entangled. When he writes:

The hair a Forest is of Ambushes
Of springes, snares, fetters, and manacles.…

or

The nose (like to the first Meridian) runs
Not 'twixt an East and West, but 'twixt
 two suns …

or

Let every Jewel be a glorious Starre
Yet starres are not so pure as their
 spheares are …

we seem to hear the celebration of the Saqi's lovelock, eyes, or girdle. The closely folded assonances of both sound (glor-, Starre, pure, spheares) and concealed meaning (hair, forest, ambush) are devices loved by the Persian. Donne, too like Hafiz, can make us see the Cosmic Face, or God as Face:

Though thou with clouds of anger do disguise
Thy face; yet through that mask I know
 those eyes,
Which, though they turn away sometimes,
They never will despise.

And Donne, too, though occasionally and late (as in certain of the "Holy Sonnets" or in the "Hymne to God the Father"), uses—like Hafiz—a repetitive or "percussive" technique, a spondaic music of meaning and of sound, which moves at a Persian pace, though heavily.

The resemblance, however, is far indeed from complete. Donne's breath is autumnal and stormy, Hafiz' of a more flowery season. Hafiz' art is on the whole a gay art, however serious his purpose. And that makes it no easier, for there has been no great gay poet in English since Spenser.

All this sounds like perfectionism, for a translator who shall be both Donne and Spenser, and a chastened scholar to boot, is a tall order. But there is an appropriate level for the verse translation of any poet, below which even the comparatively good is not good enough, and in the case of Hafiz that level is, so far as I can see, a very high one. And I have faith that no scholar will in the full consciousness of what he is doing degrade so great a poet into verse too minor. The responsibility of making new verse out of a poet like Hafiz is a perfectly grave one. To reprint Jones's or Le Gallienne's versions implies (although Professor Arberry does not say so) that they are in a sense held up as possible models. And with this implication my quarrel is mortal. To deviate from a modest fidelity (of which every scholar is capable, and which makes Professor Nicholson's Rumi a treasure beyond price) into literary self-indulgence is a sin which I shall be rude enough to call by its true name.

And now, to confess the suspicion which has been strong enough to give these remarks a tone mounting, I am afraid, to indignation, I believe that although Professor Arberry's own interest in Hafiz' meaning is evidently profound, this volume exhibits and condones indifference to it. And I believe Hafiz' thought to be so rich as to be worth the having in a stammering ungraceful speech if no smoother is to be had.

As to the prime significance of the poet, I would agree that Hafiz was probably passionate and voluptuous, that he drank and sang the wine of the grape and hungered and thirsted after the flesh. But I am also sure that he was increasingly possessed by the need of an absolute relationship with God, and that sexual desire, insatiable as it is, and drunkenness, in which bliss a sense of insight does actually expel the impious cares of reason, were perhaps always and without doubt increasingly types of religious experience, for him as for other Sufis. The one contemporary reference to him. cited by Browne indicates a man too occupied with the metaphysics of the Koran and with the philosophy of rhetoric to collect his own poems. His Divan is permeated with Sufism; and the meaning of his life and work is primarily religious or metaphysical. Even an aesthetic critique of his verse which fails to show the intricacy of his metaphysical reference is aesthetically shallow, since much of his art itself is precisely the calculated weaving of multiple meaning.

The meaning of any particular ghazal, that notion of which the orderly development holds the words and images together, that piece of Hafiz' thought, is both temporally and psychologically prior to the words. The words even of a long monorhyme are not suggested by a rhyming dictionary only, in the case of a great poet. They receive sanction from a nonverbal scheme. That is what makes real translation possible. "When we read a book in a foreign language, we suppose that an English version of it would be a transfusion of it into our own consciousness. But take Coleridge or Bacon, or many an English book besides, and you immediately feel that the English is a language also, and that a book writ in that tongue is yet very far from you—from being transfused into your own consciousness. There is every degree of remoteness from the line of things in the line of words. By and by comes a word true and closely embracing the thing. That is not Latin, nor English, nor any language but thought. The aim of the author is not to tell truth—that he cannot do, but to suggest it. He has only approximated it himself and hence his cumbrous, embarrassed speech; he uses many words, hoping that one, if not another, will bring you as near to the fact as he is. For language itself is young and unformed. In heaven, it will be one with things. Now, there are many things that refuse to be recorded—perhaps the larger half. The unsaid part is the best of every discourse."³

A good translation of a ghazal will not pull the "line of words" further from the "line of things" than is inevitable. The translator, it follows, must make out the "line of things" as clearly as he can. In Hafiz' work the things that matter are approximated as a rule by symbols, limited in number, but mostly very rich in reference, with a good deal of which his audience was already familiar.

By way of example, we may take the lovely ode printed as No. 44, "Rose and Nightingale," Professor Arberry's version of which has considerable beauty. It is one of the very best renderings in the book. The poet, coming to the garden to pluck a rose, suddenly hears a nightingale, whose love song for the rose assails his ear, then his mind, then his heart, and the last unbearably. The ode might profitably be expounded word by word; but our present purpose can only be to find its central thought, the "line of things," as a preliminary to showing how the requirements of poetic form have pulled the "line of words" away from it even in this fine rendering. Hafiz' audience, it need hardly be said, understood the Nightingale as a reference to the poet as turner into music of his unsatisfied longing for self-sufficient beauty (the Rose), and also as a reference to God as Lover (Lover of Souls, a Catholic might say). In the poem the Nightingale is actualized in the following terms: the voice or solo of his song; needy; and entangled or involved; the gurgling sound of his song, as of wine being poured; wedded or equivalent to Love (as contrasted in the same line with the Rose, which is the companion or sweet-heart merely of Beauty); no change in it. There is a curious precision in these words—a precision of almost theological cast. Unless it is accidental, we must see the pre-verbal thought closely pressing the words.…

There is a wavering in this English version of a "line of words" which in the Persian ran straight and close to the "line of things." Hafiz' choice was delicately adjusted to the divine symbolism; and it is the mounting force of what is symbolically present which changes the eager poet of the first couplet to the philosopher of the last. For the poem ends in an austere couplet where the close beauty of the garden landscape is exchanged for something wide and cold, the Wheel of Heaven: this circumferential World is as ruthless as the Rose … The poem's development is only acceptable under the presidency of its meaning: if all the fuss is about a garden nightingale, it is sentimental, and its development improbable.

Now these central notions—of the concomitance of beauty and pain and of world pain as the pouring-out of God's longing for souls, which, once felt, transmutes the lust for individual possession of individual beauty—are surely of sufficient importance to call for the most respectful preservation in any English rendering. Without them, Hafiz' poem is merely charming; embodying them, it sinks deep in the mind. Had Professor Arberry contented himself with a prose rendering, his scholarship and his taste would have insured the safe-conduct of Hafiz' intention. But in verse, to which his literary gift has given a charm of its own, that intention is obscured.

It would be ungrateful, when Professor Arberry has given us so interesting an Introduction, and such good verse as his translations of Nos. 15, 30, 34, 44, 46, 47, Leaf's No. 28, and the pleasant songs in English classical style, to criticize these versions so relentlessly as representatives of Hafiz without saying what kind of a translation I think due.

It will be appropriate here to quote Arthur Waley's introductory note on his method of translation from the Chinese. He writes:

I have aimed at literal translation, not paraphrase.… Above all, considering imagery to be the soul of poetry, I have avoided either adding images of my own or suppressing those of the original.… Translating literally, without thinking about the metre of the version, one finds that about two lines out of three have a very definite swing similar to that of the Chinese lines. The remaining lines are just too short or too long, a circumstance very irritating to the reader, whose ear expects the rhythm to continue. I have therefore tried to produce regular rhythmic effects similar to those of the original. Each character (word) in the Chinese is represented by a stress in the English, but between the stresses unstressed syllables are of course interposed.⁴

This method, in Waley's hands, produced versions which have persuaded innumerable readers of the quality of their Chinese originals. And the question springs to mind: May this method, or an adaptation of it, be applied to the translation of Hafiz?

By way of experiment, I chose more or less at random a ghazal (No. 24 in this collection) of which the translation given (Gertrude Bell's) displeased me and tried to make a literal translation, preserving the monorhyme at the end of each couplet at the cost of natural word order. It then appeared that comparatively little manipulation was necessary to produce a version which could be read in the rhythm of the original. It certainly lacked the music of the original, and the meter not being an English one, the result is not really English verse at all. However, although I failed to translate the ambiguity of the third couplet, it proved possible to preserve, in awkward words, much of the system of verbal echoes and permutations which were so remarkable in the Persian.

Gertrude Bell's version of the lines, cleared of interpolation by Professor Arberry, runs as follows:

I cease not from desire till my desire
Is satisfied; or let my mouth attain

My love's red mouth, or let my soul expire,
Sighed from those lips that sought her lips
  in vain.
When I am dead, open my grave and see
The cloud of smoke that rises round thy
 feet;
In my dead heart the fire still bums for
  thee;
Yea, the smoke rises from my winding
 sheet!
Reveal thy face! that the whole world
 may be
Bewildered by thy radiant loveliness;
The cry of man and woman comes to thee,
Open thy lips and comfort their distress.
My soul is on my lips ready to fly,
But grief beats in my heart and will not
 cease,
Because not once, not once before I die,
Will her sweet lips give all my longing
 peace.
My breath is narrowed down to one long
 sigh
For a red mouth that bums my thoughts
 like fire:
When will that mouth draw near and
 make reply
To one whose life is straitened with desire?
Yet when sad lovers meet and tell their
 sighs,
Not without praise shall Hafiz' name be
 said,
Not without tears, in those pale companies
Where joy has been forgot and hope has
 fled.

The literal version runs as follows:

This Hand from Begging I'll not hold till
 my Seeking be come;
Or Body come to Soul's-love, or Soul from
 Body let come.
Open my Burial-place after my death,
 and you'll see
From Fire of What's within-me sighing
  Smoke from the Shroud come.
Unveil the Face! that a Creation go crazed
 and wildered;
Open the Lips! that the Cry from Man
 and Woman may come.
Soul at the Lips; in the Heart—pining,
 that forth from those Lips,
Nothing of all its Seeking clasped, Soul
 from Body must come.
By pining after His Mouth my Soul is
  come to the Pinch—
Self-seeking of the Pinched Hand: when
  from that Mouth should it come?
Speak they his Good in the Troop of the
 Gamblers-for-Love
Where'er the name of Hafiz into the Company come.

It will be noticed that the commonplace metaphor "smoke/sigh," to which Professor Arberry draws attention in his note, is incorporated in the phrase "sighing Smoke." …

The two versions, unsigned, were submitted in typescript to a number of good-natured persons, taken at random and without narrower selection than was implied in my supposing that they occasionally read poetry. All were asked which version they found the more interesting. A substantial majority (thirteen to seven) preferred the literal to the poetical translation.

What the experiment seems to indicate is that Hafiz' meaning and imagery are more interesting than minor English verse, even without any annotation or key to the reference. Of the awkwardness of my version no one is more uncomfortably aware than myself. A verbal surface which should be smooth and firm is gnarled and corky. It seems that its superior attraction owes little to literary charm, and everything to the preservation of much of Hafiz' design. That element, design both verbal and ideal, is paramount in the great odes. Here it consists in the disposition of certain verbal motifs … and the various words meaning "mouth" and "lips," along a line of changing or developing feeling. The development reaches its crisis … which solves the intellectual stress of the poet's despair and permits the elegiac or "disembodied" return to earthly company in the final couplet. This contains an important play on words … suggesting "soldier," literally "one who stakes his head"; and the poem thus ends on a note of wit and self-possession very different from the "lovers' litany" atmosphere of Gertrude Bell's translation of it.

In point of design the lyric is such a masterpiece that the translator's most obligatory duty is surely to indicate it. However awkward it may be to use "seeking" … it must be done for the sake of the lead to "self-seeking," in which the poet sees himself, among others, diminished by the vast illumination of the third couplet, in which ("Face") floats like a suddenly unclouded moon (an inevitable suggestion in Persian commonplace), the unclouding hinted by the "Smoke" of the preceding line. We have seen the whole world as landscape permeated with the longing which had in the first couplet been personal and as selfish as a beggar's begging.

This intricacy of design is what gives the little lyric its seedlike power of growth in the mind. Here is what makes Hafiz worth an English poet's study—a music of meaning beyond the music of the words, a richness of which Emerson was aware when he called Hafiz a "fact-book which all geniuses prize as raw material and as antidote to verbiage and false poetry."

In order to render the design perceptible, proper translation must be annotated; and for novices I would have it more fully annotated than the present volume. Certainly I would have any translation of so orderly a poet as neat as may be; the constant interpolation in his very text of didactic interpretation is to me a hardly pardonable fault in the prose translations by Wilberforce Clarke. But the reader has not really read Hafiz until something like the full reach of association and reference has opened out from the words. For example, it seems to me essential to the understanding of the mysterious mathnawi "Wild Deer," No. 47 of this selection, that the Khizr mythology should be given more fully, that the resemblance between the poem's structure and the structure of a qasida be pointed out and the desert background of the qasida sketched, and that the story of Majnun be told. (I cannot believe that there is any lack of learning or failure on Professor Arberry's part to recognize that the figure of the poet calling to the wild deer is the figure of Majnun.) The substance of the poem is a kind of wondering change from seeing the world of bereavement as the desert of Majnun's despair to seeing it as the land of shadows in which Khizr found the water of life, running in counterpoint with a change from the quest of a distant heaven to the recognition of heaven as an eternal aspect of the here and now. Fish and reed are water creatures—but they are creatures of the water of life itself. The reference at the poem's resolution to Koran 68:1, supplied by Professor Arberry, must be extended to verse 2: "By the grace of your Lord you are not mad (majnun)." The poem as a whole appears to be a mystical exposition of Koran 21:31 ("The Heavens and the Earth were closed up; but We have opened them; and We have made of water everything living"). The earthly way ambushed before and behind of the second line, the heavenly way unmarked of line 15, and the varying returns to water as tears and so forth, leading to the growing "seed" of the resolution, seem to make this certain. I would have the novice's attention drawn to this framework, and also to the zoölogical knowledge of Hafiz' time which makes the references to deer, musk, Cathay, so rich in the poem. Am I rash in also supposing an important implication of disease and cure in the poem? In contemporary pharmacology the musk of the deer is hot and dry to the third degree. It is therefore a drug and not a food. It turns the complexion yellow (like worldly love); it is antidote against actual poisons (like worldly love); and it makes visible the breath of the mouth (in sighs and poetry, like love). Its own pernicious effects are removed by camphor (in which to any hafiz would emerge a reference to Koran 76:5, interpreted by the commentators as the extinction of worldly love in those who drink the cup of Love). The "mixing" of line 25 may refer to the koranic phrase. To supply a modern Western reader with these implied meanings must be a cumbrous procedure; but the weaving of them was a vital part of Hafiz' art. And it can be done in English.

For the right literal rendering, the translator must risk, where there is a choice, words and phrases capable of bearing (even if they stagger under) the references and connections which are the tissue of the poem. Of most of the odes the aftereffect is of something which has come and gone swiftly, and of a superficially precise statement which, once past, leaves an enigmatic echo in the mind. This precise textural effect is largely achieved by the system of interrelations, an interlocking of sounds, images, and meanings; at the same time a certain sense of mystery arises from the crowding of varied recurrences upon already established associations, from puns, from the deliberate ambiguity of occasional ambivalent words and parenthetic phrasing, and from the definitely hypnotic effect of monorhyme.

The monorhyme word, where it occurs, and which translation impoverishes itself in avoiding, is of equal importance as a constant element in Hafiz' method of design with the significant commonplace (the Rose, the Cup, the Cypress, the Wind, and the rest). It demands special care. Translations 12, 14, and 26 of this volume preserve it in diluted form. "Recall" in No. 14 is too literary in English flavor and too weak in sound to convey the longing in the Persian spondee: "bring back" would have served better. The version of No. 26 by H.H. gives a series of slight variations ("Ask me not how, 0 ask not whom," etc.) … Apart from the sentimental ring of such phrases in English, the variation of the last word of the phrase qualifies what was in Hafiz absolute. "Don't ask" or "… that you'd better not ask" sound colloquial, but that very quality may correspond usefully with the abruptness of the Persian phrase. Often in translating Hafiz will the dilemma arise: one English phrasing poetizes, another is too prosaic. In general, since a literal translation will inevitably be more prosaic than its original, the translator can count on preserving some consistency in choosing the more accurate correspondence in meaning and flavor, even when he chooses a phrasing more prosaic than he would wish.

Commonplace and monorhyme matter not only because Hafiz loved and chose a form to which they are essential but because both are eloquent paradigms of the Persian philosophy of life and art. Rhythmic repetition has been a constant principle of composition in Persian art because its basis lies deep in the mind. Medieval Persia saw in repetitiveness the principle of order in a time-extended cosmos; and this vision of cosmic manifestation as cumulative repetitive variation broods over her art and literature from the age of Firdawsi onward. At the center in which the coil began and will end is Allah, no doubt; but there is no other escape from the turning wheel which rules worldly affairs. It is no accident, but a proof of historical necessity, that the doctrine of the Wheel appeared in its clear Hurufi form in the Persia of Hafiz' lifetime. The Persian conned these odes as he conned life itself. Repetition informs not only the technique of the ghazal but its poetic substance. The reappearing commonplaces Cup and Wind, "rhyme in the mind"; and the process—one of recognition followed by the revival of old and the discovery of new connotation—is the psychological process of consciousness itself.

To understand any Persian artistic exploit, one must discard the notion that the repetitive is wholly wearisome. Its life in memory, after all, is mother to the Muses, and is the half of beauty; all music and all rhyme derive from it. That the Persians valued it more highly than we have lately done both in philosophy and in art does not necessarily mean that they are shallower than we. The idea of progress is probably exactly as deep and exactly as shallow as the idea that history repeats itself.

The Persians essayed to complete the mental structure inwardly. The self-contained intricacy which is so characteristic of Hafiz' art, as of the visual arts of his and the next age, is fundamentally an exploration of intensive or nonextensive variety. To Persian wisdom, all the wilds of our pilgrimage are within and the heart is the true horizon.

There should be no fear that Hafiz will be uninteresting in a translation which exposes what a Persian draftsman would call the "bones" of his composition. Annotation may be laborious; but it is, so far as I can see, the only substitute for a thorough Persian and Sufi education. And, once the references and internal structure of an ode are understood, its hidden perfections emerge and its far-reaching intellectual vistas open up so startlingly that one can hardly wonder if Hafiz has rivaled the Koran as a popular source of omens and prognostications. When a ghazal can mean so much, the superstitious may be forgiven for supposing that any sentence means everything, future as well as past.

So if we are offered translation from Hafiz, let it be fearless; and let what Persia has loved remain.

Reading over this vehement judgment, I half repent of it. Professor Arberry's book not only occasioned the intensified interest in the poet which caused me to write it but supplied the very framework of my notions of his development. It will be good for me to confess that I was so ignorant of Hafiz as never to have read (because it is printed so late in the long Divan) the "Wild Deer" mathnawi. Now it has become for me perhaps the greatest of all Hafiz' poems, and surely one of the greatest poems in any language. And although Professor Arberry's translation does not satisfy me (any more than, I feel sure, it satisfies him), all the greatness was not lost in it. I owe to him the impulse to make my own translation of the poem and the discovery that that too does not satisfy me. Hence I return even to the poetical paraphrases with a humbler intolerance and to the rest of the book with increase of gratitude and with very real respect.

Notes

¹ A review of Arthur J. Arberry, Fifty Poems of Hafiz (Cambridge: At the University Press; New York: Macmillan Co., 1947).

² "Hafiz and His English Translators," Islamic Culture, XX, Nos. 2 and 3 (April and July, 1946).

³ Emerson, Journals.

⁴ 170 Chinese Poems (New York, 1938), p. 33.