This episode, in the first lines of which the poet tells his reader, "It is a tale full of the waters of the eye,"[106] is perhaps one of the greatest efforts of Firdousee's genius; and he rises even above himself in the relation of the death of Soohrâb and the insanity of his distracted mother.
The effect produced on the unhappy princess by the account of her son's death is instantaneous. She sets fire to her palace, desiring, when he who constituted her sole object in life was gone, to perish amid that splendour, which she salued on his account alone. Torn from the flames by her attendants, she commanded them to bring the body of her son, his horse, his arms, and his clothes.
"She kissed the horse's forehead, she bathed its hoofs with her tears; she clothed herself in the blood-stained garments of her son, she drew his bow, she wielded his lance, his sword, and his mace; and these fond and frantic actions were continued till nature was overpowered, and the distracted mother departed to join her beloved Soohrâb."
No translation in verse can convey to the mere English reader any just impression of the whole poem of the Shâh-nâmeh. The idiom in which it is written, and the allusions and metaphors with which it abounds, are too foreign to our language and taste to admit of success in such an undertaking; but a prose translation of this great work is a desideratum, and select passages might bear a poetical form. He, however, who attempts such a task, will not be successful unless possessed of a genius that raises him above the mechanical effort of a versifier. If ever such a translator devote himself to the beauties of this poem, he will find much to gratify himself and others.
I have before given a specimen of Firdousee's power in describing a battle; but though this is a species of composition in which the Persians consider him to excel, I have been more pleased with him when he strikes a softer and more harmonious note. His tales of love are often delightful, and nothing can exceed some of his descriptions of scenery.
I had long entertained this opinion, but was confirmed in it by a passage which Khan Sâhib recited to me, after concluding the story of Soohrâb. It was an account of the events which took place when Siyâvesh was nominated by Afrâsiâb to govern the empire of Cheen. The young prince, anxious to enjoy with his beautiful bride Feeringheesh every luxury which this world could afford, sent persons in every direction over his extensive territories, to select the most agreeable and salubrious spot, that he might there fix his residence. The choice fell upon the city of Kung, which is represented to be a perfect terrestrial paradise. One line in the description of this favoured spot struck me as an instance of the power of a poet to seize the finest shades of distinction that belong to language, and to convey by such terms the most correct idea to the mind. Speaking of the climate of Kung, Firdousee says,
"Its warmth was not heat, and its coolness was not cold."[107]
I expressed to Khan Sâhib my admiration of this line, adding my regret that a poet who could write with such simplicity and beauty should indulge so often in forced metaphor, and hyperbolical phrases.
"Why," said my little friend, "I really think your quarrelling with Firdousee, because he wrote according to the taste of the nation to which he belonged, is something like finding fault with the Persians because they do not wear cocked hats and tight pantaloons, instead of lamb's-wool caps and loose trowsers. They delight, and ever have done, in those conceits and images which offend you." "But yet," said I, "Sâdee is a great favourite, and he is almost always simple and clear in his style."