Samarkand pdfdrive com

Rubaiyaat
, which was a very great, or,

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I would even say, an extreme overstatement, but I had to stop contradicting it
since my protests were taken as a sign of humility, which as everyone knows, is
the mark of a true intellectual.
The evening began at sunset, but my host had insisted that I arrive earlier; he
wanted to show me the splendours of his garden. Even if he possessed a palace,
as was the case with Fazel’s father, a Persian rarely showed people around it. He
would neglect it in favour of his garden, his only subject of pride.
As they arrived, the guests picked up a goblet and went off to find a place
near the streams, both natural and made-made, which wound among the poplars.
According to whether they preferred to sit on a carpet or a cushion, the servants
would rush to place one in the chosen spot, but some perched on a rock or sat on
the bare ground; the gardens of Persia do not have lawns, which in American
eyes gives them a slightly barren aspect.
That night we drank within reason. The more pious stuck to tea, and to that
end a gigantic samovar was carried about by three servants, two to hold it and a
third to serve the tea. Many people preferred araq, vodka or wine, but I did not
observe any misbehaviour, the tipsiest being happy to hum along with the
musicians who had been engaged by the master of the house – a 
tar
player, a
virtuoso on the 
zarb
, and a flautist. Later there were dancers, who were mostly
young boys. No woman was to be seen during the reception.
Dinner was served toward midnight. The whole evening we had been plied
with pistachios, almonds, salted seeds and sweetmeats, the dinner being the only
the final point of the ceremony. The host had the duty to delay it as long as
possible, for when the main dish arrived – that evening it was a 
javaher pilau
, a
‘jewelled rice’, the guests ate it all up in ten minutes, washed their hands and
went off. Coachmen and lamp-bearers clustered around the door as we left, to
collect their respective masters.
At dawn the next day, Fazel accompanied me in a coach to the gate of the
sanctuary of Shah Abdul-Azim. He went in alone, to return with a man who had
a disturbing appearance: he was tall but terribly thin, with a shaggy beard and his
hands trembled incessantly. He was clothed in a long narrow white robe with
patches on it and he was carrying a colourless and shapeless bag which
contained everything he possessed in the world. In his eyes could be read all the
distress of the Orient.
When he learnt that I came from Jamaladin, he fell to his knees and clutched
my hand, covering it with kisses. Fazel, ill at ease, stuttered an excuse and went

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off.
I held out the letter from the Master to Mirza Reza. He almost snatched it
from my hands, and although it comprised several pages, he read it all the way
through without hurrying, forgetting completely that I was there.
I waited for him to finish before speaking to him about what interested me.
But he spoke to me in a mixture of Persian and French that I had some difficulty
in understanding.
‘The book is with a soldier who comes from Kirman, which is also my town.
He promised to come and see me here the day after tomorrow – on Friday. I will
have to give him some money. Not to buy the book back but to thank the man
for returning it. Unfortunately I do not have a single coin.’
Without hesitating I took out of my pocket the gold which Jamaladin had sent
for him and I added an equal sum of my own. He seemed to be satisfied by that.
‘Come back on Saturday. If God wishes, I will have the manuscript and I will
hand it over to you to give to the Master in Constantinople.’

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