The
Secret History of the Mongols
and Other Pieces
This edition first published in 2002
Copyright: John Robinson; House of Stratus 2002-2010
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The right of Arthur Waley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
Electronic edition published in 2010 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
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A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
| EAN | ISBN | Edition | ||||
| 0755116046 | 9780755116041 | |||||
| 0755122771 | 9780755122776 | |||||
| 0755119428 | 9780755119424 | Mobi | ||||
| 0755122763 | 9780755122769 | Epub |
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Regretfully, some reading devices will not show some extended Latin characters correctly, and may substitute a ‘?’, or another character, in their place. There are very few such characters in this text and the few substitutions are extremely unlikely to detract from its enjoyment.
Arthur Waley was born Arthur Edward Schloss at Tunbridge Wells, England in 1889, the second son of progressive middle class parents who were forced some twenty five years later to change the family name because of anti-German sentiment at the time of the 1st World War. The name adopted was that of his maternal grandfather, who had been a prominent Jewish academic and founder member of the Anglo-Jewish Association. Other members of the family had previously distinguished themselves in various ways, including Waley’s elder brother who rose to be second-secretary at the Treasury.
At an early age, Arthur showed both interest and promise in the arts. He attended Rugby School before going up to Kings College, Cambridge on an open scholarship to read classics. However, problems with his eyesight forced him to abandon what might have been a flourishing academic career at Cambridge before he had completed his tripos. Whilst at Cambridge lifelong held political views were honed; he attended a Fabian Society summer school hosted by Beatrice Webb and met many future Bloomsbury Group figures including Virginia Woolf, Roger Fry, and Lytton Strachey. Later, he was to become an active member of the Group and also wrote a number of well regarded articles for the New Statesman.
After Cambridge, he travelled for a year, learning Spanish along the way with much the same ease as he had French and German a couple of years before. Through an acquaintanceship with Oswald Sickert at the Encyclopaedia Britannica he obtained an introduction to Lawrence Binyon at the British Museum, where there was a vacancy in the Print Room. Waley passed the necessary exam and was employed for a spell assisting Binyon before the nature of his job changed and he ended up indexing the museum’s vast collection of Japanese and Chinese paintings. This entailed him learning Japanese and Chinese – which was achieved without formal instruction of any kind.
He started to translate Chinese poetry and introduced them to his wide circle of friends, including T.S. Eliot. Publication was a different matter, however, as there was perceived to be no market. Eventually, following a review of Tang poetry he provided to the journal of the School for Oriental Studies, a hesitant publisher was persuaded to market Waley’s first book in 1918; A Hundred and Seventy Chinese Poems. It remained in print for forty years and was read by many people who would not otherwise have thought themselves capable of appreciating poetry of any kind. More Chinese poetry followed, along with his first Japanese translations.
After the war, there was a burgeoning literary movement in England, particularly amongst those surrounding the Bloomsbury set. E Bruce Brooks writes of Waley’s role:
‘The postwar twenties quickly developed into the age of Joyce, Eliot, and Pound; of T E Lawrence, Wyndham Lewis, and Lytton Strachey; of the Bloomsbury group. It was equally the age of Arnold Bennett and Somerset Maugham. At all its levels, the British literary scene thus included a substantial element of reaching toward the exotic, of going beyond the classical West to the classical East. Waley was already acquainted with many of the English literary figures, and in this milieu, he himself became a literary personality: the man who, without leaving home, had nevertheless penetrated to the mysteries of the East, and could bring back with him something exotic, and yet intelligible to the interested and literate Englander. Literarily and socially, he expanded into this role.’
Upon leaving the British Museum in 1929, Waley once again travelled on the continent before turning to writing full time. Perhaps his most famous translation, the novel Monkey, was published in 1942, but only after many other popular and sought after works. At the beginning of the Second World War, ii was realised that Waley was one of the few people in England who could read Japanese, and so he was conscripted to work as a censor for the Ministry of Information. There, he acquired a reputation for criticising the grammar and writing of the authors whose pieces he was translating and decoding.
Undoubtedly, he had by this time built a considerable scholastic reputation and eventually Cambridge recognised this, and their loss, when he was made an honorary fellow of his old College in 1945. Honorary Doctorates from both Aberdeen and Oxford followed, along with national awards culminating in him being made a Companion of Honour in 1956. He was elected to the British Academy in 1945.
Until her death in 1962, his constant companion had been Beryl de Zoete. Thereafter he moved to Highgate to be looked after by Alison Robinson, a widow and old friend, whom he married shortly before his death in 1966.
One of the most remarkable facts about Waley, given his widely acknowledged and admired expertise, was that despite many invitations he never visited the far east. His interest was centred on the past and he was not particularly concerned with contemporary Chinese and Japanese societies.
Writing in the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Basil Gray states that:
“For Waley the work of a translator was ‘made to the measure of his own tastes and sensibilities’ (I. Morris, ed., Madly Singing in the Mountains, 1970, 158). He sought to make his translations works of art, aiming at literature rather than philology. In this he was successful.”
This book consists in the main of articles, broadcasts and so on, later than 1952, when my last miscellany The Real Tripitaka was published, together with some earlier pieces going back as far as 1921, but not previously reprinted. I have also included one or two pieces which have never been published before, of which by far the longest is The Secret History of the Mongols, which gives its name to the book.
Of the Secret History, I have translated only the parts founded on story-tellers’ tales. These are some of the most vivid primitive literature that exists anywhere in the world. I have used the Chinese version, but with constant reference to the Mongol text. The Secret History (so called merely because it was meant for the Mongols and not for the Chinese, who might have got from it the impression that the Mongols were barbarians) has been chiefly studied from a learned point of view, by scholars addressing themselves only to other scholars, and its quality as literature and hence its value to ordinary readers have been to a great extent overlooked. I hope that my extracts will introduce it for the first time to many who do not have access to learned publications. It is a work which it would be possible to furnish with endless annotation. I have preferred to dispense with footnotes and give only a few indispensable explanations in brackets. A full translation by Professor Cleaves of Harvard, intended for scholars, with abundant annotation, exists and will, one hopes, soon be published.
I have not explained place names because hardly any of them can be identified with certainty, with the exception of the principal river names, such as the Onan, the Selenge, the Orkhon, which still exist almost unchanged and will easily be found on modern maps. That the Erdis is the Irtysch of modern maps is perhaps not so obvious. Almost the only mountain name that can be identified is that of the Altai range. Contrary to some scholars I regard the historical value of the Secret History as almost nil and it is as legendary story-telling not as history that I offer it here. The parts I have selected may date from about the middle of the thirteenth century. There is one passage, not translated here, which I have shown to be considerably later than 1258.
Despite the fact that in this book I translate from Chinese, Japanese, Ainu, Mongol and Syriac, I do not want to give the impression that I am a master of many languages. Chinese and Japanese I do know fairly well; but though I know a good deal of Ainu I have often helped myself out by use of the Japanese versions of the texts. Mongol I have been studying for some thirty years, but I am far from being a Mongolist. To translate the Hymn of the Soul I learnt a certain amount of Syriac (already knowing some Hebrew, which was a help), but I leaned heavily on existing translations, such as that of W Wright in The Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles, 1871. But none of these translations, least of all that of Montague James (1924), which is the best known, give or even try to give the reader the feeling that he is reading poetry, which is what I hope I have succeeded in doing. Several people have said to me that till they read my version they had not realized that the Hymn is poetry and poetry of a high order.
At the end of my book will be found a few original stories and poems, and a review. Like most elderly men of letters I have in the course of my career written enough book-reviews to fill a whole volume and it seems that in a retrospective collection of this kind so considerable a writing activity ought to be represented. But most of these reviews were of specialized books and would not interest the general reader, for whom the present collection is chiefly intended. I have therefore included only one short review which seemed to me on re-reading it to be both amusing and suitably non-technical.
For permission to reprint I am grateful to History Today, The Listener, Oriental Art, The Atlantic Monthly, The News Statesman, Encounter and The Cornhill. Also to Folklore, the Royal Asiatic Society and the School of Oriental and African Studies.
When it had barely run half its course the eighteenth century grew tired of itself. Turning away from its classical and Biblical heritage it fled in its dreams to the Druids, the Middle Ages, Egypt, India, China. It looked for new mythologies, new arts and above all for new legislators, such being the term it applied to the supposed founders of ancient civilizations. Among the legislators of antiquity none held a higher reputation than Zoroaster. Eudoxus, a pupil of Plato, regarded his teachings as the ‘most enlightened and useful’ form of philosophy, and the library of Alexandria treasured his complete works, in two million verses! Of this immense literary output not a line was available in the eighteenth century. True, Dr Hyde (1636–1703) had collected what Moslem writers asserted about Zoroaster and his teachings. But such sources were late and for obvious reasons unreliable. It was known that there were still small bodies of Zoroastrians in Persia, but Persia was at that date difficult of access. The best hope seemed to lie in India where Zoroastrians (commonly known as Parsees) had fled from Arab persecution. In 1723 the Bodleian at Oxford had acquired a text in an unknown script. It was said to be a book by Zoroaster; but not even the great Dr Hunt could make out a word of it. Some years later a merchant called Fraser made an attempt to learn ancient Persian from the Parsee priests at Surat, on the north-west coast of India; but they proved unwilling to help him.
In 1754 a young man of 23, who held an appointment in the Bibliothèque du Roi at Paris, was shown as a curiosity a copy of the opening passage of the mysterious Oxford manuscript. He at once determined to go to India and learn how to read it. This young man was Abraham-Hyacinthe Anquetil-Duperron. He was the son of a Paris tradesman – a grocer whose shop was in the rue de la Verrerie. He had studied theology at the Sorbonne and (in 1751–52) at Old Catholic (Jansenist) seminaries near Utrecht. The Dutch Jansenists at this period specialized in Oriental studies, both for missionary purposes and for those of Biblical exegesis. Anquetil (as I shall henceforth call him) does not seem to have been influenced by Jansenist ideas. But he did not forget these early schismatic associations nor expect others to forget them. Many years later (in 1791) he sent a rather crazy letter to the Pope, subscribing to the sanctity of the monarchic principle and declaring his own ‘inviolable attachment to the Holy See’. When no reply came he attributed the Pope’s silence to disapproval of his early association with schismatics.
He was the fourth of seven children. His father had very modest means and could not possibly afford to pay for a passage to India. Anquetil accordingly enlisted in a regiment that was going to Pondicherry, the French settlement south of Madras. This was a brilliant move. His friends, admiring his determination, took steps on his behalf; the King granted him an allowance, he was discharged from his regiment and given a free passage, with the right to dine at the Captain’s table. Of his journey and his doings in India I shall give only a brief account. They have been admirably dealt with by M. Raymond Schwab in his Anquetil-Duperron, sa Vie (1934). My chief concern will be with his eventful stay in England on his way home in 1762. Eighteenth-century sea voyages are all much alike – a long sequence of tempests, pestilences and semi-starvation. Suffice it to say that he arrived at Pondicherry in the summer of 1754 and there set to work to learn modern Persian, then a general lingua franca in India. After some excursions in the interior he set sail for Chandernagore, a French settlement north of Calcutta. Here he hoped to find Zoroastrian texts; but they were not forthcoming. His interest, however, was not confined to Zoroaster. The Brahmins had, in romantic European circles, an almost equal reputation for wisdom, and he determined to make for Benares, where they were believed to be in very strong force. Later he would strike westward again and crossing the whole breadth of India arrive at Surat, where recent information assured him that the Parsee priests were prepared to oblige him in every way they could. But the French and English were at war. Early in 1757 Chandernagore fell to the English and Anquetil, who had not yet started for Benares, was obliged to quit Chandernagore precipitately and put himself under the protection of the French army at Cossimbazar. The commander was the famous Law of Lauriston, great-nephew of an Edinburgh banker who had thrown in his lot with the French. It was a characteristic of Anquetil that he always knew how to do everything better than anybody else, and being a very obliging man he invariably told people of their own or their subordinates’ mistakes. The French army was apparently wandering about without a map. Anquetil had a map and became indispensable. In his Mémoires Law of Lauriston notes, ‘We had with us at this time a certain M. Anquetil, a clever young man, very observant, but over-critical. My Staff happened accidentally to become aware of some criticisms of them that he had made and complained to me about him; whereupon he decided to leave us.’ It appears from Anquetil’s own account that the officers got hold of a notebook in which he had listed their defects, intending no doubt to assist Law by acquainting him with the shortcomings of those who served him.
English armies blocked the way to Benares. He determined to make for Pondicherry, where the French were strongest. To go by sea would have been to court capture; he set out by land, on foot. After innumerable hardships, sicknesses and narrow escapes he reached Pondicherry and as these waters were less frequented by the English navy he was able to take ship to Mahé, a French possession on the south-western coast. Not far away lay Cochin and Malabar, with their mysterious Indian Jews and Indian Christians. Anquetil, laying aside for the moment his Zoroastrian project, turned south, interviewed Rabbis, obtained copies of the charters accorded to them at various dates and of other documents bearing on their history, and disentangled the Black Jews from the White.
The Christians of St Thomas proved to be a much more difficult problem. They claimed to be descended from converts made by the Apostle St Thomas, whose mission in India is described in that enchanting and too little-known book, the apocryphal Acts of St Thomas. Their church is now generally believed to have been founded by Nestorian missionaries from Syria in about the fifth century. This theory was known to Anquetil and he searched for evidences of heresy among them, for example the use of the apocryphal Infancy of Jesus. He found none, and this was natural enough, for the Portuguese had forced orthodoxy upon them a hundred years before. Apart from the Thomas Christians there were many other Christian sects, whose beliefs he disentangled with the aid of a Polish bishop. His most picturesque find was a peculiar sect of low-caste Catholic fishermen.
Turning north again he spent some time at Goa and then set out (in March 1758) on his second formidable tramp, over the Ghats and parallel with the west coast of India, to Surat. He passed through Ellora and made a complete iconographic survey of the rock-carvings there. For the arts as such he cared nothing, and Ellora interested him simply as a repository of Hindu mythology.
He arrived at Surat on May 1, 1758. Here his brother Anquetil-Briancourt was sous-chef of the Surat branch of ‘Campagnie des Indes’, the French equivalent to our East India Company. The temperaments and aims of the two brothers could not have been more different. Briancourt was a cautious, conciliatory public servant, bent upon keeping the French upon tolerable terms with the various interests (English, Dutch and Moslem) which prevailed in Surat. Anquetil, on the other hand, was bent on getting hold of the Parsee scriptures and soon found that he could only do so by exploiting the quasi-political factions that divided the Parsee Church. There was a pro-French party and a pro-Dutch party. Both were determined, in return for teaching Anquetil ancient Persian and letting him copy their books, to get out of him every penny they could. The existence of these two factions enabled him, by siding first with one and then with the other, to demonstrate to them that neither had a monopoly. When after months of intrigue he had learnt old Persian and procured the texts he wanted to copy, he was obliged to guard them with fire-arms – the famous deux pistolets that always lay ready loaded on his work-table. In March 1759 Surat was captured by the English. The French Company existed on sufferance and the utmost tact was needed to safeguard even a remnant of French commercial interests. Anquetil, intent upon his texts, was conscious of political events only in so far as they helped or interfered with his studies. The brothers got upon one another’s nerves and towards the end of Anquetil’s stay in Surat, Briancourt wrote to a friend: ‘I would a thousand times rather be married to an ugly, ill-tempered wife than have a person of this kind permanently on my hands. But he is my brother, and I make a virtue of necessity.’
In September 1759 Anquetil was attacked in the street by the irate husband of a young lady to whom he had been giving French lessons. In defending himself he received severe wounds but was unfortunate enough to kill his assailant. As soon as he was able to move he left his brother’s house and put himself under the protection of the British flag. He believed (whether rightly I do not know) that under French law his position was perilous and preferred to be tried by a Moslem court under British supervision. He was acquitted; but it was not till a year later that he ventured to return to the French Settlement.
We know extremely little about his relations with women. At Goa it seems that he commissioned a friend to transmit a statuette of Cupid to a lady. Apart from this and the ill-starred French lessons we know only of unsuccessful advances made by admiring ladies – the tall tender-eyed ‘Fakiresse’ who offered to cook for him near Puri and the Moslem ladies at Surat who sent their duenna to him with the message ‘Come tonight!’ He never married and seems in later life to have had no female friends.
But I am concerned here rather with the actual circumstances of his Zoroastrian discovery than with his personal relations or the politics of British-occupied Surat. His medium of communication with his Parsee teachers was modern Persian which, as I have said, was a common lingua franca in eighteenth-century India. The native language of the Parsees in Surat was Gujarati. How fluently they spoke Persian it is quite impossible to discover, but we may at least suppose that they were better at Gujarati. How well Anquetil spoke Persian is also quite unknown. Travellers (and he is no exception) are apt to be cagey about the exact extent of their linguistic acquirements. About ten days after their arrival in a strange country comes the stereotyped announcement, ‘I was now able to converse freely with the natives’. One wonders sometimes whether there is not in this an element of Epic convention, similar to the poetic device that enables Greeks to chatter to Trojans. It is clear that he knew some Bengali, some Malayalam, some Hindustani. How far his Persian went and how far he had found opportunity during his travels to practise it we simply do not know. One thing however is clear. If he had from the start gone for Gujarati and learnt it thoroughly he would have given himself a much better chance of benefiting from his Zoroastrian lessons.
He left Surat in March 1761, with the copies he had made of Zoroastrian scriptures and a mass of other Indian manuscripts. During the latter part of his stay at Surat he was in close relations with the English, and he now obtained the permission of the English authorities (though France was still at war with England) to leave in an English ship. On November 17th he landed at Portsmouth, and at this point the reader of his memoirs experiences considerable relief, for he was one of those travellers who while in exotic surroundings interlard their accounts with native words which convey nothing to the mind of the average reader. For example: ‘Je fus arrêté à une demi cosse de Nerengar par un Tchoki qui voulut voir la Tchape de mon Dastok.’
His first impressions of England were not favourable. Just outside the harbour a number of HM seamen put off secretly in a jolly-boat in order to land somewhere up the coast and so escape the press-gang which though they had been away for ten years would have promptly carried them off to a man-of-war. When the passengers came ashore they were surrounded by hordes of Portsmouth prostitutes. ‘It was amusing,’ says Anquetil, ‘to see on the one hand the Customs officers with their pirate faces rummaging through our clothes and turning out the contents of our pockets, and on the other, a crowd of pretty girls, trying out their few words of broken French, particularly such phrases as belonged to their profession, clutching at us, kissing our little native servants, swearing they would not charge a penny to poor prisoners such as we, who had come from so far away. The Fusileers had to drive them back; but they followed us to the inn to which we were taken and early next morning they were still at the door, and nothing would content them but that they should come with us to the Customs Office.’ No instructions about Anquetil had reached the authorities at the port. He had arrived along with a number of French military prisoners, and he now found himself despatched with them to the neighbouring village of Wickham, where he was held on parole. Here he was soon visited by the local squire, a cultivated country gentleman called George Garnier, who henceforth took him under his protection. He was of French origin, had travelled widely, was a good classical scholar and possessed an excellent library. He loved France, but ‘so passionate was his adoration of the English Parliament that he felt bitterly towards our Government’. Some years later he became Sheriff of Hampshire.
Meanwhile Anquetil’s luggage with his books and manuscripts, was still at the Portsmouth Customs in a water-logged store-room. Through Mr Garnier’s good offices he got permission to go for two days to Portsmouth. Though it had rained every day throughout December, the flood had not yet reached his luggage. He was not allowed to remove the trunk, but only a few mss. at which he was actually working. Orders now came that the French prisoners at Wickham were to be repatriated. It seemed as though Anquetil would inevitably be forced to go with them, but he was determined not to leave England till he had been to Oxford and seen for himself whether there were (as had often been stated) Zoroastrian mss. there in ancient Persian. In the nick of time a letter from the French King’s librarian, appealing for Anquetil’s release and the restoration of his effects, reached Mr Stanley at the Admiralty. What civilized days those were! It was in the middle of a war; but Anquetil was at once released, told he could go to Oxford if he pleased and could have his luggage restored to him. Mr Garnier furnished him with introductions to the Oxford dons and ‘malgré les turn-pikes (barrières qui vous arrêtent presqu’à chaque double mille)’ he arrived at Oxford on January 17, 1762, and at once presented himself to Dr John Swinton to whom he had a letter of introduction. Swinton (1703–71), famous for his knowledge of abstruse subjects, such as Etruscan inscriptions and Parthian coins, and also for his bizarre absent-mindedness, concerning which Dr Johnson heard an anecdote[1] when he visited Oxford in 1754, gave him a reception which ‘it would be an exaggeration to describe as assez gracieuse’. Grace was not in Dr Swinton’s line. ‘He is,’ writes Anquetil, ‘a little shrivelled fellow. His eyes which look like holes bored with a drill are framed with red and half-hidden under thick, grey-white eyebrows.’ Elsewhere he describes him ironically as the Apollo among the ‘opulent Doctors’ of the University. In the Bodleian he was at once shown the Vendidad, Oxford’s great Oriental treasure, so precious indeed that it was kept on a chain ‘dans un endroit particulier’. This was the Zoroastrian ms., an extract from which had fired his imagination in 1754 and started him off on his eight years’ pilgrimage. The Bodleian was unheated and the weather bitterly cold. Anquetil calmly proposed carrying off the Vendidad to his inn. To his surprise and indignation Dr Browne, Vice-Chancellor of the University and Keeper of the Bodleian, rejected his request. Next day, in intense cold, he spent an hour at the Bodleian examining the ms. Helpful as ever, he pointed out to the librarians that they had labelled their treasure wrongly, displaying indeed such ignorance that Vendidad, the name of the book,[2] was given as though it were the name of the author. He was invited to dine (i.e. take his midday meal) at the house of the Rev. Philip Barton, dd, Canon of Christchurch Cathedral, Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries from 1752 till his death in 1765. Anquetil was pained to observe the obsequious manner in which Dr Swinton behaved towards Dr Barton. He could find no cause for this except the fact that though Dr Swinton was rich, Dr Barton, owing to the many benefices which he enjoyed, was richer still. He seems indeed to have been irritated, as many other outsiders have been, by the cosy opulence of donnish life. At three o’clock they set out for the house of Dr Thomas Hunt (1696–1774), also a Canon of Christchurch, Laudian Professor of Arabic and, later, Regius Professor of Hebrew. Here he was to be shown further Zoroastrian mss. that Hunt was putting in order for the Radcliffe Library. ‘As we crossed the court of Christchurch,’ Anquetil writes, ‘I could not help laughing to myself at the figure cut by my two guides. Dr Swinton, all huddled-up in his gown, his head poked forward and crowned with a filthy old three-cornered cap, looked the complete Academic stooge. Dr Barton, tall and well-built, walked several paces ahead of him, solemnly fluttering a noble gown with satin-lined facings which were well matched by a velvet cap, the front peak worn well down over his forehead, an arrangement which seemed to enhance his air of pride. Add to that a continual turning of the head, now this way, now that as though better to admire his own stately progress, and you have the faithful portrait of an opulent English Canon.’
Helpful once again, he informed Dr Hunt that what the Doctor imagined to be ancient Persian was in fact simply modern Persian written in ancient characters. Anquetil had brought with him some of his own manuscripts and, to show that he was duly impressed, Dr Hunt embarked upon a rather heavy pleasantry. ‘I am a Justice of the Peace,’ he said, ‘and I have a good mind to arrest you for this affair of yours that made you put yourself under the protection of the British flag, and confiscate your manuscripts.’ Anquetil (how dangerous it is to make jokes to foreigners!) took this playful threat quite seriously and replied heatedly that Hunt would in that case find himself answerable both to ‘le Ministre anglais, M. Pitt et au Roi de France’, both of whom had been informed of Anquetil’s discoveries. He had, we must remember, all the over-sensitivity of a newly released internee; moreover, this was his first experience of that very singular product, British Academic humour. Afterwards he realized that he had taken Hunt ‘trop à la lettre’.
At Dr Swinton’s that night a grave contretemps occurred. The Doctor produced a Persian royal medallion with a very effaced inscription which Anquetil was expected to read. ‘In vain I declared to him that the characters, where not wholly effaced, were different from Zend: in his eyes my failure to decipher the inscription ranked as a defeat.’ He was back at Wickham on January 21st. On his journey he found the country people he met friendly to a Frenchman and heartily sick of the war. Prices were soaring; at Winchester a cup of coffee cost him three shillings (3 livres). It was in the heyday of the beef-steak. Wherever he alighted he was told that he could have anything he fancied; but what was eventually served was invariably beef-steak. He had to go to Portsmouth to clear his luggage at the Customs and arrange for it to be sent to London. At Portsmouth Church he heard the congregation, though ‘sustained’ by an organ and professional choir, sing horribly out of tune.
He arrived in London on January 31st. The inn which had been recommended to him by his landlord at Portsmouth turned out to be little better than a tavern. Here he was treated with hostility; whereas if he had been at one of the ‘bagnos where people of quality put up’ he would (he was certain) have been received with open arms. His general remarks about London are of a familiar kind. He was struck above all, like so many other visitors, by the deplorable state of the streets. Only in a small area round Pall Mall were they paved; elsewhere they were mere oceans of mud. His remarks on the position of learning and letters in England are more interesting, and to some extent still hold good. In France, he says, learning is concentrated in Paris. But Paris is a cosmopolitan centre and this fact saves French scholars from the awkwardness and heaviness that result from studies too long pursued in the arid and sombre atmosphere of the library. In England, on the contrary, learning is confined to Oxford and Cambridge, places quite cut off from continental comings and goings, but so impregnated with study that the air for a mile round stinks of Greek, Latin and Hebrew. Outside the two university towns learning, unless directly useful to commerce, has no prestige at all.
He found that the British Museum was ‘one up’ on the Bodleian: ‘En hiver il y a du feu.’ Apparently visitors had to make an appointment beforehand, and only twelve were admitted at a time. He found the exhibits, both in the Antiquities and the Natural History sections, ‘very ordinary’. In the latter he saw ‘common stones and quite ordinary insects’ classified as rarities. Mr Morton, one of the curators, imagined that he possessed the Zend alphabet, i.e. that in which the early Zoroastrian mss. are written. ‘Je le tirai de cette erreur,’ remarks Anquetil characteristically.
He tells us that at the theatre of the great Mr Garrick he saw ‘“Le Couronnement”, pièce de Shakespeare’. It was followed by a turn in which a pack of fifty sailors bawled out imprecations against the enemies of England. A young gentleman sitting next to him (so Anquetil tells us) deplored the fact that Garrick, to propitiate the mob, found it necessary to stage such puerilities. Garrick, it will be remembered, was of French descent; moreover, in 1755 when he brought over Noverre and his ballet company a patriotic crowd smashed the theatre and even attacked Garrick’s London house.
But I think what the young gentleman actually told him was that even Garrick found it necessary at his theatre to placate the mob by sometimes staging vulgar turns. For there is not the slightest doubt that Anquetil, making a mistake that is still sometimes made, went to Covent Garden thinking that it was Drury Lane. On February 10th, for one night only, ‘King Henry IV, with the Coronation’ (that is to say, a potted version of Parts I and II) was played at Covent Garden. Nothing of the kind was given at Drury Lane during Anquetil’s stay in London. Hoping to see the great Garrick (whom he might have seen at Drury Lane on February 8th in Cymbeline) he went to the wrong theatre and saw, as Henry IV, an obscure actor called Gibson. The world is not composed of Anquetils, and no one took the trouble to ‘le tirer de son erreur’. The episode was indeed another demonstration that Fate did not intend him to see us at our best. He arrived on a Sunday. He was in England from November to February, certainly not the pleasantest season. He was here when we were at war with France and war-fever was at its height. He was interned; he was subjected to donnish humour; he saw a scrappy, unsuccessful show by an inferior company, when he might have seen Garrick at his best. He confesses that in a fortnight one cannot get very far in one’s study of a vast nation. If he had been longer in London he would, he says, have liked to study further the various classes and categories of Englishman; for example, the clergy whose daughters, upon the death of their father, often ‘remplissent les lieux publics de Londres’, a rather odd statement, if it means (as it appears to) that clergymen’s daughters frequently become prostitutes. The only class for which he reserves unstinted praise are the serious, demure English girls, quite as pretty as ‘nos petites maîtresses’, but wholly lacking in the ‘folies et le papillotage’ that make French girls so intolerable.
He embarked at Gravesend on February 14th and travelling via Ostend arrived at Paris on March 14th. Here he continued to work at his Zend-Avesta, which appeared in three enormous volumes in 1771. The first of these contained, in 500 crowded quarto pages, a complete account of his journey, including the derogatory remarks about Oxford dons which I have quoted above. A few months later a London printer put out an anonymous French pamphlet of some fifty pages, in which the author declares the mss. which Anquetil had translated to be modern forgeries, and trounces him for his remarks about England in general and the Oxford Orientalists in particular. It did indeed soon become known that the author of the pamphlet was called Jones. But from anonymity to ‘Jones’ is no great step in advance. ‘You, Sir,’ writes Jones, ‘put yourself under the protection of the English, they duly protected you against your own nation. You returned to Europe in an English ship, you landed in England in time of war, the most distinguished men in that country hastened to your assistance; you went to Oxford and were there received with equal courtesy. How came it then that you looked with so jaundiced an eye upon a nation that the whole of Europe respects and will continue to respect?’ Another aspect of the book to which Jones takes strong exception is Anquetil’s repeated references, both direct and indirect, to his own good looks – his ‘teint de rose et lys’. The passages in question do indeed figure oddly in the preface to a learned work. But they have at least the merit of telling us all we know about his personal appearance; for so far as I can discover no portrait of him exists.
Jones, it turned out, was a young Orientalist who had arrived at Oxford two years after Anquetil’s visit. He was to become Sir William Jones, author of the famous Persian Grammar, translator of Indian drama, authority upon Indian law, founder of the Royal Asiatic Society of Bengal and indisputably the foremost European pioneer of Asiatic studies. Undoubtedly his main object in writing the pamphlet was to come chivalrously to the rescue of the Dons whom Anquetil had derided. It does not seem, however, that they saw it before it was printed; for Dr Hunt, in a letter written soon after its appearance, begs Jones, if he prints an English version (which he never did) to delete the rash statement that the whole of early Persian literature had irretrievably perished. But there were other motives. To publish a pamphlet or open letter deriding some new play or book was at this period a recognized way for a young writer to bring himself before the public. To excite curiosity such pamphlets were usually anonymous; but steps were soon taken to let the authorship be known. Boswell and Erskine’s Critical Strictures (1763) was a work of this kind. Jones’ pamphlet, it is fair to surmise, was written with the object of displaying his own powers of invective and mastery of the French language rather than of damaging Anquetil’s reputation. He expressly denies that he is accusing him of deliberately deceiving the public. It is Anquetil himself whom the Parsees have deceived. However, on the next page Jones declares that Anquetil does not really know old Persian and has only translated what the Parsees dictated to him in modern Persian. As Anquetil tells his readers that he did know old Persian, Jones is in fact accusing him of bad faith. As proof that Anquetil did not know old Persian he points to a glossary appended by Anquetil to his book, in which occur a number of words that Jones declares to be Arabic and consequently post-Mohammedan. Here he was being too clever. The kind of Persian under discussion does contain words (such as ‘Malke’, king) which look like Arabic; but they belong in fact to another Semitic language, Aramaic. And they really do occur as loan-words in ancient Persian. Here he had at least raised a serious and debatable point. His main and more general argument is that Zoroaster, hailed by antiquity as the most enlightened of philosophers, could not possibly have written such dreary stuff as was contained in Anquetil’s book. This was an objection that Anquetil had himself anticipated. ‘I am afraid,’ he writes in his Discours Préliminaire, ‘that the works that I have here translated may not correspond to preconceived ideas about this Legislator (i.e. Zoroaster). But should this fear prevent me from submitting my translation to the learned world? On the contrary, I think it will be felt that a few hours of boredom are a small price to pay for the satisfaction of knowing the truth about this matter.’ Anquetil was in fact, at any rate at this period of his life, a scientist in attitude. No one thinks the less of a botanist’s discovery because his new flower is not particularly beautiful or has not much scent. The fact that it was unknown and has now been made known is enough. And that was Anquetil’s attitude towards the texts he had discovered. It is perfectly true that early Zoroastrian writings, interesting though they are to the historian of religion, the anthropologist or the linguist and inspiring though they may be to living Zoroastrians, are not calculated to make a universal appeal. The Vendidad, for example, which occupies so large a space in Anquetil’s first volume, consists chiefly of minute directions about ceremonies of ritual purification and the art of combating demonic influences. Much of it is wearisome even in the more fluent modern translations, and in Anquetil’s crabbed version it is almost unreadable.
Jones, on the other hand, was an artist. It was not his aim simply to fill gaps in knowledge. He loved to communicate not to scholars only but to the world in general whatever he found particularly beautiful or interesting in his Oriental reading. It was perhaps this temperamental antagonism, as much as any other motive, that was responsible for the savageness of his attack. In any case, in light-heartedly and irresponsibly accusing a fellow-scholar of fraud and condemning his productions as worthless he committed a very grave fault, of a kind particularly surprising when we consider that the beauty of his moral character is a theme that reverberates through the memoirs and correspondences of the late eighteenth century. Modest, ‘harmonious’, sincere, generous, affectionate – the epithets pile up. But ‘Les défauts des gens parfaits sont terribles’, as Anquetil himself wrote in an unpublished note-book quoted by M. Schwab. Was he thinking, one wonders, of what he had suffered at the hands of that paragon of all the virtues, Sir William Jones?
Meanwhile, the harm was done. It may be said, speaking in a general way, that the pamphlet wrecked Anquetil’s reputation, both here and abroad. Typical is a letter of the great Baron Grimm (January 1, 1772) who quotes ‘un Anglais, M. Jones’, agreeing with him that Anquetil is to be ‘strongly suspected’ of having only the haziest and most superficial knowledge of old Persian. Most continental scholars followed suit. Not till de Sacy, in 1793, successfully used Anquetil’s glossary in the decipherment of the Sassanian royal inscriptions did the tide begin definitely to turn. The nearest that Jones ever got to an apology was a passage in his Sixth Discourse (1789): ‘M. Anquetil had the merit of undertaking a voyage to India in his earliest youth with no other view than to recover the writings of Zeratusht, and would have acquired a brilliant reputation in France, if he had not sullied it by his immoderate vanity and virulence of temper, which alienated the goodwill even of his own countrymen.’ Here there is no longer any suggestion either of ignorance or fraud; but the reparation was of a very negative kind.
Anquetil, on his side, never replied; so far as I know he only refers twice to Jones. In 1787 he praises him for his good work in founding the Asiatic Society of Bengal; later (writing c. 1796) he describes him with justice as ‘eruditus et leviter de omnibus disserens’, learned, but too ready to hold forth on every possible subject. No one now doubts that Anquetil’s translation was an honest attempt to convey the sense of the original or that he had a great knowledge if not of early Persian grammar, at any rate of vocabulary. Above all, he never tried to improve upon his originals by clothing them in the language of Christian piety. The same cannot be said of the translators from Chinese trustfully quoted by Sir William Jones in his Discourse on China, where Confucius is made to talk about ‘the Lord of Heaven who governs the Universe’ and the Sage who ‘conforms to his knowledge of God’.
In the latter part of his life Anquetil did a lot of theological and political pamphleteering, with which I am not here concerned. Much of his energy went into trying to persuade the French Government to recapture India by an overland campaign through Turkey or Russia. His hatred of England and his perfectly orthodox though slightly orientalized Catholic mysticism grew continually more intense. After passing unscathed (though a violent Monarchist) through the revolution, he died at the age of 73 in 1805. Only one of his later works was of any importance – his translation of fifty-one Upanishads. It is instructive to reflect that this work, which had so profound an influence on European thought, ought not, according to the current laws of scholarship, ever to have been undertaken. The Upanishads are Sanskrit philosophical texts; Anquetil retranslated them from a modern Persian translation. Today we frown upon retranslations, and a scholar who presented such work as a thesis at any of our universities would quickly be sent about his business. But it turned out that his Upanishads, despite the indirect way in which he had access to them, were to mark a new epoch in the relation between European and Indian thought. In 1813 they fell into the hands of Schopenhauer and soon permeated his philosophy. Moreover, when in 1897 Paul Deussen published in German a second great collection of Upanishads, he was obliged in some cases to fall back upon Anquetil’s translations; for the Sanskrit originals had still not come to light.
The history of his Upanishad translations is a curious one. The manuscripts reached him in 1775. In a morbid excess of fidelity he translated them into French word for word, in the Persian word-order, which is quite different from that of French. This took him twelve years. He then realized that what he had written was too far removed from idiomatic French to be publishable, and began to make it less ‘pidgin’. But qualms of conscience seized him again, and he set to work to make a translation into Latin, on the ground that this language ‘admet les inversions comme le Persan’. The work was finished in 1796 but not printed till the beginning of the nineteenth century. The commentary (also in Latin) ranges very widely, and even contains a eulogy of the British Sunday School system, a topic which figures oddly in an exposition of the Upanishads.
Thirty years ago when I first became interested in the Jones–Anquetil story, though knowing only the bare outlines of it, my sympathies were entirely on Anquetil’s side. Now, after further study of the whole affair, I feel differently. In the particular case at issue one cannot of course help being on his side. But when one has lived with him, as I have done recently, for some weeks on end, one cannot help agreeing with Sir William that his ‘virulence of temper’ ends by ‘alienating’ one. There was also a touch of sordidness about the asceticism of his later days which I find distasteful. He claims, for example, that he lives (apparently not by necessity but by deliberate choice; for at almost the same period he offers the Government a contribution of fifty louis a year if they will start an all-out war against England) on four sous a day. ‘Nulla corporis lintei lotio, mutatio’; a Tacitean way of saying that his underclothes are never washed or changed. But certainly he had courage, as is shown by his formal declaration, when asked to swear loyalty to Napoleon in 1804: ‘Je ne jure ni jurerai fidélité à l’Empereur, comme on n’a pas droit d’exiger d’un Français, simple particulier, sans places ni fonctions.’
(History Today, January 1952.)
W