Rumi: A Life in Pictures (Edinburgh Studies in Islamic Art) [1 ed.] 9781474475006, 9781474475037, 9781474475020, 1474475000

Table of contents :
RUMI A LIFE IN PICTURES
Copyright
Contents
Figures
Abbreviations to Notes and Bibliography
Series Editor’s Foreword
Preface
PART ONE HISTORY AND CONTEXT
ONE Rumi, Sufism and Sultans in the Medieval ‘Lands of Rum’
TWO Islamic Hagiography: Literary and Visualised
THREE Comparative Visualised Hagiography: Manuscript and Method
PART TWO TEXT AND IMAGE
FOUR The Virtuous Community
FIVE In a Muslim Society
SIX Under Divine Providence
SEVEN Conclusion: Little Images in the Big Picture
EPILOGUE
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

EDINBURGH STUDIES IN ISLAMIC ART SERIES EDITOR:ROBERT HILLENBRAND

Rumi

A Life in Pictures

John Renard

RUMI

Edinburgh Studies in Islamic Art Series Editor: Professor Robert Hillenbrand Advisory Editors: Bernard O’Kane and Scott Redford Series titles include: Isfahan and its Palaces:Statecraft, Shi`ism and the Architecture of Conviviality in Early Modern Iran Sussan Babaie The Making of the Artist in Late Timurid Painting Lamia Balafrej Text and Image in Medieval Persian Art Sheila S. Blair The Minaret Jonathan M. Bloom Reframing the Alhambra: Architecture, Poetry, Textiles and Court Ceremonial Olga Bush The Seljuqs and their Successors: Art, Culture and History Edited by Sheila R. Canby, Deniz Beyazit and Martina Rugiadi The Wonders of Creation and the Singularities of Painting: A Study of the Ilkhanid London QazvÈnÈ Stefano Carboni The Making of Islamic Art: Studies in Honour of Sheila Blair and Jonathan Bloom Edited by Robert Hillenbrand Islamic Manuscripts of Late Medieval Rum, 1270–1370: Production, Patronage and the Arts of the Book Cailah Jackson Islamic Chinoiserie: The Art of Mongol Iran Yuka Kadoi Rum Seljuq Architecture, 1170–1220: The Patronage of Sultans Richard P. McClary Medieval Monuments of Central Asia: Qarakhanid Architecture of the 11th and 12th Centuries Richard P. McClary The Dome of the Rock and its Mosaic Inscriptions Marcus Milwright The Shrines of the ‘Alids in Medieval Syria: Sunnis, Shi`is and the Architecture of Coexistence Stephennie Mulder Rumi­– ­A Life in Pictures John Renard China’s Early Mosques Nancy Shatzman Steinhardt edinburghuniversitypress.com/series/esii

RUMI A LIFE IN PICTURES John Renard

With Gratitude to Mary Pat A Gift Beyond Reckoning

Edinburgh University Press is one of the leading university presses in the UK. We publish academic books and journals in our selected subject areas across the humanities and social sciences, combining cutting-edge scholarship with high editorial and production values to produce academic works of lasting importance. For more information visit our website: edinburghuniversitypress.com © John Renard, 2021 Cover image: dignitaries of Kaysari receive visiting Rumi, O Nova 94 fol. 37b, Uppsala University Library Cover design: Stuart Dalziel Edinburgh University Press Ltd The Tun­– ­Holyrood Road 12 (2f) Jackson’s Entry Edinburgh EH8 8PJ Typeset in Trump Medieval by Servis Filmsetting Ltd, Stockport, Cheshire and printed and bound in Great Britain A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 978 1 4744 7500 6 (hardback) ISBN 978 1 4744 7503 7 (webready PDF) ISBN 978 1 4744 7502 0 (epub) The right of John Renard to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 and the Copyright and Related Rights Regulations 2003 (SI No. 2498). Published with the support of the University of Edinburgh Scholarly Publishing Initiatives Fund.

Contents

List of Figures vi Abbreviations in Notes ix Series Editor’s Foreword x Preface xi PART ONE  HISTORY AND CONTEXT INTRODUCTION 3 CHAPTER 1 Rumi, Sufism and Sultans in the Medieval ‘Lands of Rum’

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CHAPTER 2 Islamic Hagiography: Literary and Visual

26

CHAPTER 3 Visualised Hagiography: Manuscript and Method

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PART TWO  TEXT AND IMAGE INTRODUCTION 73 CHAPTER 4 The Virtuous Community

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CHAPTER 5 In a Muslim Society

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CHAPTER 6 Under Divine Providence

177

CHAPTER 7 Conclusion: Little Images in the Big Picture

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EPILOGUE Meanwhile, over in Agra . . .

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Bibliography 246 Index 262

Figures

4.1 4.2 4.3 4.4 4.5 4.6 4.7 4.8 4.9 4.10 4.11 4.12 4.13 4.14 4.15 4.16 4.17 4.18 4.19 4.20 4.21 4.22 4.23 4.24 4.25 4.26

Moses and the giant Og, Morgan interpretation 79 Moses and Og reinterpreted 80 The story of Seth and his brothers 81 The story of Caliph Umar and Satan 83 The execution of Hallaj 85 Hallaj’s execution, second interpretation 87 The story of the stingy vizier and the potter 89 A physician bleeds a king 91 Burhan ad-Din and a female disciple 93 Rumi whirls at Salah ad-Din’s goldsmith shop 95 Rumi’s ‘Sun’ (Shams) gazes on the sun’s reflection in a pool 96 Rumi meets Shams 99 Husam and Rumi at the Parwana’s reception, Morgan interpretation 101 Husam and Rumi at the Parwana’s reception, O Nova 94 interpretation 103 Rumi and disciples in a hammam 105 Scene in a hammam with dervish clothes in the changing room 107 Rumi reprimands Sultan Walad’s unconcern over minor faults 109 Rumi reprimands observers at sama` 110 Another Mawlawi ritual sama` set in a learning context 112 Rumi whirls outside with disciples 114 Sama` with Rumi at centre 116 Arif Chalabi sits in the newly returned marble basin 117 Assassins arrive to take Shams 119 Rumi’s last meeting, final spiritual counsel 121 Rumi’s obsequies 123 Chalabi Amir Abid (or Zahid?) death scene 125

figures

5.1 5.2 5.3 5.4 5.5 5.6 5.7 5.8 5.9 5.10 5.11 5.12 5.13 5.14 5.15 5.16 5.17 5.18 6.1 6.2 6.3 6.4 6.5 6.6 6.7 6.8 6.9 6.10 6.11 6.12 6.13 6.14 6.15 6.16 6.17 6.18

The story of Muhammad revealing secrets of the Mi`raj to Ali 132 Khidr listens to Rumi preach 135 Husam’s dream of Muhammad reading Mathnawi before Ali’s sons 137 Baha Walad preaching­– ­O Nova interpretation 140 Baha Walad preaching­– ­Revan interpretation 142 Baha Walad preaching­– ­Morgan interpretation 143 Baha Walad’s last sermon in Balkh 145 Sufi leader Junayd preaching in Baghdad 146 Sultan Walad preaching in Kaysari 148 Rumi leaves Aleppo madrasa at midnight 150 Dispute with a judge concerning the use of music in ritual 152 Rumi and the madrasa waqf of Atabek Arslan Toghmosh 155 A courtier disrupts Rumi’s visit to the mausoleum of his father 158 Rumi and the murder of Sultan Rukn ad-Din Kilich Arslan IV 160 Rumi keeps the visiting minister Parwana waiting 161 Notables of Kaysari vie for the honour of hosting Rumi 164 Sultan Walad and the Akhis of Konya 166 Saqi gives a drink to ‘madman’ who toasts the deaths of the sultan and Sana`i 168 Abdal come for the Mawlawi water carrier 180 Abdal come to take Rumi’s sons away 182 Sultan Walad searches for the missing Shams, finding a hidden qutb 183 Rumi and the river monster, Morgan interpretation 186 Rumi and the river monster, Revan interpretation 188 Rumi frees the supplicant ox, Morgan interpretation 189 Rumi frees the supplicant ox, Revan interpretation 191 Rumi and the marketplace dogs 193 Arif Chalabi and the royal falcon 195 Rumi saves a ship from foundering 197 Husam prays for rain for Konya and breaks a drought 199 Rumi multiplies sweetmeats 200 Rumi’s small candle outlasts candles of the guests of Parwana 202 Arif discerns the distant death of Ghazan Khan 203 Rumi and the pilgrim reunited with his caravan after being lost 205 Rumi gives his belt to a blind beggar in Aksaray 207 Rumi miraculously heals a tumour on baby Arif’s neck 209 Rumi’s intercessory healing of a Frankish king at a distance 210

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6.19 Rumi raises flutist Hamza temporarily 212 6.20 Arif Chalabi heals Akhi Muhammad ‘the Madman’ in Sivas 213 6.21 Rumi meets a visiting priest from Constantinople 216 6.22 Rumi (still living) wards off a Mongol siege of Konya 220 6.23 Rumi (posthumously) assists Salim II at the Ottoman Battle of Konya 222

Abbreviations in Notes

M MA

Morgan M466 (New York: Pierpont Morgan Library) NYC John O’Kane trans., The Feats of the Knowers of God (Manaqib al-`Arifin) (Leiden: Brill, 2002) MDA Rachel Milstein, ‘Religious Painting of the Wailing Dervishes: Tardjome-i-Thewaqib, Pierpont Morgan Library, Ms. M466’, Dissertation Abstract (Jerusalem: Hebrew University, 1979) MPOB Rachel Milstein, Miniature Painting in Ottoman Baghdad (Costa Mesa: Mazda, 1990) O O Nova 94 (Uppsala: University of Uppsala) R Revan 1479 (Istanbul: Topkapı Palace Library) RPP Franklin Lewis, Rumi: Past Present and Future (Oxford: Oneworld, 2000) SMC Barbara Schmitz, Morgan Catalogue: Islamic and Indian Manuscripts and Paintings in the Pierpont Morgan Library, with contributions by Pratapaditya Pal, Wheeler Thackston and William Voelkle (New York: Pierpont Morgan Library, 1997) SSOS Sufism and Sufis in the Ottoman Society, edited by Ahmet Ya∞ar Ocak (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 2006)

Series Editor’s Foreword

‘Edinburgh Studies in Islamic Art’ is a venture that offers readers easy access to the most up-to-date research across the whole range of Islamic art. Building on the long and distinguished tradition of Edinburgh University Press in publishing books on the Islamic world, it is a forum for studies that, while closely focused, also opens wide horizons. Books in the series, for example, concentrate in an accessible way and in accessible, clear, plain English, on the art of a single century, dynasty or geographical area; on the meaning of works of art; on a given medium in a restricted time frame; or on analysis of key works in their wider contexts. A balance is maintained as far as possible between successive titles so that various parts of the Islamic world and various media and approaches are represented. Books in the series are academic monographs of intellectual distinction that mark a significant advance in the field. While they are naturally aimed at an advanced and graduate academic audience, a complementary target readership is the worldwide community of specialists in Islamic art­– p ­ rofessionals who work in universities, research institutes, auction houses and museums­– ­as well as that elusive character, the interested general reader. Professor Robert Hillenbrand

Preface

Three tributaries of long-standing academic interest have recently come together in this exploration of a unique subject in the methodological context of comparative Islamic visualised hagiography. More than forty-five years ago, at the outset of doctoral studies, Annemarie Schimmel introduced me to one of the most colourful and influential figures in the history of Islamic spirituality in general and Sufism in particular: Jalal ad-Din Rumi (d. 1274). That tributary culminated in a dissertation, ‘Flight of the Royal Falcons: Rumi on Prophets and Revelation’ (Harvard, 1978), and its muchdelayed publication as All the King’s Falcons: Rumi on Prophets and Revelation (SUNY, 1994). Also during graduate studies a succession of courses in various topics of Islamic art and architecture taught by Oleg Grabar gave definition to a prior interest in religious arts generally and provided a toolbox of methodological principles that have facilitated the incorporation of a visual dimension into more than four decades of teaching and writing. Additional coursework in medieval Persian literature, particularly illustrated versions of the Persian Book of Kings, led to a fascination with heroic exemplars across many cultural contexts. That in turn resulted in Islam and the Heroic Image: Themes in Literature and the Visual Arts (South Carolina, 1993). Fifteen years on, a growing interest in the hagiographic side of explicitly religious exemplarity led to the publication of a matched set of monograph – ­ Friends of God: Islamic Images of Piety, Commitment, and Servanthood (California, 2008) and its companion anthology of primary sources, Tales of God’s Friends: Islamic Hagiography in Translation (California, 2009). A comparative study of Abrahamic exemplars­– ­sages, saints and Friends of God­– ­appeared eventually as Crossing Confessional Boundaries: Exemplary Lives in Jewish, Christian, and Islamic Traditions (California, 2020). Rumi­– ­ A Life in Pictures has resulted naturally from the

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c­onfluence of these streams, beginning with a short paper for a Manuscripta Conference at Saint Louis University in October 2017. It explores the story of a premier mystic, poet and religious leader as seen through the lens of a rich tradition of textual illustration produced by studios of painters under the patronage of major latemedieval Ottoman sultans. The result of their efforts is a kind of ‘visual hagiography’ uniquely capable of suggesting distinctive and often surprising twists on the textual narratives now enhanced by page-sized images of striking beauty and extraordinary detail. Structure and thematic development: history and manuscripts Part One: History and Context consists of three chapters that set the scene for a detailed exploration of the sixty-two images in the three manuscripts. Chapter One, Rumi, Sufism and Sultans in the Medieval ‘Lands of Rum’, begins by setting a broad religio-cultural context focusing on ‘two epochs’­– ­ Late Saljuk/early Mongol Anatolia and the mid- to late sixteenth-century Ottoman Dynasty. Chapter Two, Islamic Hagiography: Literary and Visual, narrows the focus with an overview of medieval Islamic exemplar-centred literature. The story begins with the earliest ‘biographies’ of the Prophet continues through to early Sufi hagiographical anthologies and to early medieval mono-hagiographies dedicated entirely to the story of a single major Sufi shaykh. In that context, I will introduce key ­hagiographic data concerning Rumi, his family and the early development of the Sufi Order associated with them. From literary works in general, the focus narrows further to works of illustrated hagiography. Chapter Three, Visualised Hagiography, then delves into the intricacies of the three Ottoman illustrated manuscripts of Aflaki (1296–1360) entitled Wondrous Feats of the Knowers of God, with their largely unique cache of scenes depicted, and various art historical considerations essential to interpreting their sophisticated mode of communication. Part Two: Text and Image focuses on discerning the larger purposes of this record of Ottoman visualised hagiography. I will lay out the main elements of what I believe constitute the overarching intent of Aflaki, hagiographer extraordinaire of the Family Rumi and the Sufi order that it fostered. Divining the underlying ‘message’ of our three manuscripts begins with identifying the strikingly persistent themes of Aflaki’s extensive account. Scarcely a page goes by without pointed reference to three large clusters of symbolism. First, the virtually irresistible magnetism of Rumi, his descendants and members of the evolving mystical confraternity known as the Mawlawiyya results in dramatic ‘conversion’ of ordinary citizens into disciples of a succession of shaykhs (spiritual guides). Second, Aflaki consistently comments on relationships among leading religious figures and the multiple religious, social and political constituencies that are

preface

the larger context of Mawlawi life. Third, hundreds of accounts of miraculous occurrences, the prerogatives of their practitioners and their effects on beneficiaries (or, in some cases, those from whom the actions exact some comeuppance) suggest the still larger ambience of life in a sign- and mystery-suffused cosmos. Part Two’s three chapters accordingly reflect on the multiple dimensions of these thematic clusters. Chapter Four, The Virtuous Community, foregrounds the teaching mission of the Family Rumi, focusing on the ubiquitous symbol of the Mawlawi paraliturgical ceremony, ‘audition’ (sama`), as an essential setting in which bystanders become followers of the virtuous exemplars. Chapter Five, In a Muslim Society, explores how the community establishes its religious/epistemic and spiritual/charismatic authority in light of Aflaki’s adage, ‘Kings rule the people, and religious scholars rule the kings’. Here the key symbol is the madrasa (‘place of study’) as the multi-valent Muslim religious institution that anchors community life. As the pre-eminent setting of sama`, it represents arguably the most significant example of the community’s dependence on rulers and the well-heeled of society for material support (waqf, religious endowment) in establishing its institutional presence. Chapter Six, Under Divine Providence, develops the mediatorial role of the community’s leaders in bringing together the ‘Seen and Unseen’ worlds and addressing critical human challenges through the marvels of God’s Friends­– t­he theme that Aflaki signals unmistakably in his book’s title, Wondrous Feats of the Knowers of God (Manaqib al`Arifin). These three large thematic/symbolic categories pervade Aflaki’s work and I propose them here as overlapping organisational devices that are in no way exclusive. For example, virtually every narrative episode that inspired these paintings includes elements of the miraculous, whether explicitly or by implication. Rachel Milstein has been particularly influential in drawing attention to one of the three key manuscripts (Morgan 466) explored in this volume. But she has in addition shed considerable light on their relationships to the wider world of Islamic illustrated hagiographical works as well as the still broader ambience of stylistic influence and patronage. Her studies have encompassed not only contemporaneous Ottoman sources but earlier works and schools of Iraq, Persia and Central Asia. Milstein’s Hebrew University dissertation was the first detailed study of the Morgan M466 manuscript of the Turkish Translation of the Shining Stars of the Wondrous Feats. In the Abstract of that dissertation, Milstein offers a helpful contextual reflection on the ‘big picture’ of Rumi’s own view of artistic endeavour. Rumi, the hero of this illustrated biography, rejects the idea of art for art’s sake in his didactic poetry. In his view, a painting ought to reveal another, inner, form, which in its turn, reveals another

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hidden form and so forth, each form serving a certain purpose. Furthermore, a painting is a mere symbol to enable one to penetrate into the innermost content. [Rumi’s] own didactic poetry is a perfect example of such art in which symbols and metaphors from the world of nature, history and medieval folklore, act as vehicles for spiritual truths.1 Her later work was also instrumental in defining the scope and product of a ‘Baghdad School’ of Ottoman artistic patronage. I thank her and the scores of other historians of Islamicate cultures and scholars of Islamic Arts of the Book on whose work the present project seeks to build. Additional acknowledgements Special thanks to colleague and friend Professor Hayrettin Yucesoy of Washington University, St Louis, for his intermediacy in obtaining images and permission to publish them from the Topkapı Palace Library, Istanbul, and for moral support throughout the project. For contributions to defray publication expenses, I express my thanks to: the Ilex Foundation of Boston, for the cost of enlisting the services of a specialist in Ottoman Turkish in translating text on the images in M466 and Revan 1479.; Saint Louis University’s College of Arts and Sciences and Department of Theological Studies for the cost of digital images and permission to publish paintings from M466, owned by the Morgan Library. For supplying images and permission to publish them I am grateful to the Morgan Library (for M466); the Topkapı Palace Library (for Revan 1479 and Hazine 1230: 112a and 121a); the University of Uppsala (for O Nova 94); the Boston Museum of Fine Arts (for BMFA 07.692); the Israel Museum (for Mayer 58–96); and the Chester Beatty Library (for T474: 42a, 79a and 248b). I am grateful to Ethan Laster of Saint Louis University for his able editorial assistance through the course of the project. I thank Himmet Ta∞kömür of Harvard University, NELC, for his invaluable assistance in translating Ottoman text on the paintings of M466 and Revan 1479 and for his willingness to consult on various questions after that. My special thanks to Robert Hillenbrand whose encouragement led to a proposal, followed by a contract, and eventually this book; and to Nicola Ramsey, Eddie Clark and the entire EUP editorial and design staff, as well as copy-editor Zoe Ross and indexer Samantha Clark, for stellar work all around. And without John O’Kane’s superb translation of the whole of Aflaki’s masterwork, including a wonderfully helpful index, I would never have even fantasised attempting this project. And, as always, my undying gratitude to my spouse, Mary Pat, for her companionship, wisdom and good humour as this project unfolded.

preface

A note on transliteration With contributing sources in Persian, Turkish and Arabic, the choice of how to rationalise a consistent mode of transliteration has been complicated. Asking the reader’s indulgence in my opting for the equivalent of a compromise, I have chosen a simplified version that generally privileges Arabic ‘originals’ (for example Mawlawi rather than Molavi or Mevlevi) but includes only internal ayns and hamzas, with no macrons or sub-linear dots. Note 1. MDA 2.

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PART ONE HISTORY AND CONTEXT

INTRODUCTION

Part One’s three chapters fit together like Russian nesting dolls. Using another metaphor, they begin with the broadest possible angle of view and gradually focus into increasingly narrower fields of vision and finer detail. Historical context within which to situate our three target manuscripts is a tale of two epochs. First, the age of Rumi, his family and successors in leadership of the Mawlawi Sufi order begins in central Anatolia as the Saljuk Sultanate of Rum entered into its twilight years and was steadily replaced by the descendants of Genghis Khan. By the time Aflaki penned his hagiographic masterwork, the patronage required for such projects had shifted significantly. Some two centuries later, the period that witnessed the production of our three visualised manuscripts was the heyday of a rapidly expanding Ottoman Empire whose most powerful sultans had cultivated important relationships with Rumi’s descendants in an increasingly influential Sufi organisation. A central theme here is the phenomenon of royal support, or patronage, of virtually every aspect of Mawlawi life, initially located chiefly in the central Anatolian city of Konya and gradually expanding with the growth of Rumi’s organisation throughout Anatolia and elsewhere in the Middle East. And at the heart of Mawlawi institutional growth lies the ongoing posthumous influence of Rumi himself, as mystic, poet and spiritual guide, whose charisma lived on in his descendants. Aflaki did not formulate and produce his story of the Family Rumi in a cultural or literary vacuum. He contributed to an already substantial tradition of Islamic hagiography, both literary and visualised. Chapter Two thus situates Aflaki’s text amid the rich environment of Islamic ‘prosopography’, characterising a wide range of exemplary figures, from the pre-Islamic prophets through to Muhammad, to descendants of the Prophet known as Imams in Shi`i tradition, to generations of Friends of God­– ­figures comparable to Jewish sages and Christian saints. Among the many genres of hagiography are

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works dedicated to major Sufi figures. Chapter Two then addresses the expansion of hagiographic texts into visualised interpretations thereof. With Chapter Three the focus narrows to specific royal patronage of visual hagiography in the second epoch, with Aflaki-derived works taking centre stage. Specific art-historical details of our three manuscripts, both individually and collectively as well as in comparative context, will provide a basis for more detailed discussion of how text and image combine to offer rich and imaginative interpretation of how the grand narrative of the Family Rumi made its mark on Ottoman society and culture.

CHAPTER ONE

Rumi, Sufism and Sultans in the Medieval ‘Lands of Rum’

Two historical epochs in medieval eastern Mediterranean history provide essential background and frames of reference for the present exploration: the twilight and total eclipse of the Saljuks of Rum and the rise and apogee of the Ottoman Empire. This study’s two main components entail focus on both a major figure from the mid- to late thirteenth century whose story was memorialised in a fourteenth-century Persian hagiography and on how that work was, in turn, edited/abridged, translated and illustrated more than two centuries later. For the first epoch, I begin with an overview of historical context as to how the Family Rumi and its spiritual/ religious descendants found a home in what is now known as Turkey. Four large dynamics contribute to an appreciation of the scene: Turkification; Islamisation; the evolving presence of various types of Sufism and related organisations in Anatolia; and the role of Konya as a political and cultural centre in which royal patronage contributed directly to the ascendancy of the Mawlawi Sufi order. As for the second epoch: to appreciate the rationale, sources and impact of the three illustrated Ottoman manuscripts at the heart of this study I suggest the broad outlines of the nascent Ottoman dynasty’s early fourteenth-century rise to power across Anatolia and the late sixteenth-century setting for the imperial patronage that made our three manuscripts possible. The first epoch: from Christian Anatolia to the Islamic ‘Lands of Rum’ Prior to the late eleventh century Anatolia was still the heartland of the Byzantine Empire. There was virtually no Muslim presence on the peninsula and scarcely a Turk in a land that would eventually become so closely identified with Turkic ethnicity. That situation began to change around 1037 as Oghuz Turkish forces plundered

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eastern areas of the peninsula but without long-term designs on full conquest. More dramatic changes commenced in 1071 with the Battle of Manzikert. A major westward migration from the a­ ncestral homeland of Turkic tribes in Central Asia had commenced earlier in the eleventh century. After successfully occupying most of Persia, the Saljuk Turks took control of the Arab Abbasid capital of Baghdad in 1055. Although the conquerors allowed the caliph to remain on the throne as a symbolic religious icon they vested actual power and authority in a new parallel institution called the sultanate. Continuing their conquering exploratory path through the north of Iraq and westward into Anatolia, Saljuk troops encountered a Byzantine expeditionary force at Manzikert and handily dispatched them. Over the next century the Saljuks established at Konya (formerly Iconium in the province of Lycaonia) in central Anatolia the capital of the Sultanate of Rum­– ­Eastern Rome as the Byzantine Empire was known. From there they administered the eastern twothirds of the peninsula for just over two centuries (1081–1307), hanging on to administrator status for a while after a westwardbound juggernaut of Genghis Khan’s descendants conquered Baghdad (1258) and the Mongol Il-Khans wrested power from the Saljuks.1 A second important dynamic to be considered is the phenomenon of ‘Islamisation’ in the Anatolian Peninsula. A. C. S. Peacock notes that the spread of Islamic culture and faith was extremely slow in Anatolia, probably being restricted to a handful of major cities till the early thirteenth century, its pace only really gathering speed with the advent of Mongol rule in the second half of the thirteenth century. He connects the process with the arrival of ‘itinerant scholars from the Hanafi East’, one of whom was Rumi’s father, Baha Walad (d. 1231). By the early fourteenth century (when Aflaki was writing his hagiography) Turkish had become a literary language that contributed to Islamisation by virtue of its cultural prestige as a link to Turkic ethnicity’s glorious Central Asian heroic past. But at the same time, Sufi lore and tales of spiritual exemplars became an Anatolian ‘export’ back to the homeland of the Turks.2 Before exploring further how the Mawlawi order­– ­a ‘new’ Sufi organisation­– ­ took root and flourished, one needs to appreciate the role of an already prevalent climate of popular piety, the cult of Friends of God (saintly figures) and Sufi movements that had migrated into Anatolia during the first century of Saljuk rule in eastern Anatolia. Ahmet Karamustafa offers essential considerations of the multiple ingredients in the complex evolution of Turks into Muslims and Sufism’s emergence as a pervasive cultural force in the region. He outlines the presence and influence of individual

rumi, sufism and sultans

characters and their organisations as they migrated from as far east as Central Asia (not unlike Rumi’s own family). These included Ahmad Yasawi (d. 1166), Najm ad-Din Kubra (d. 1221), Qutb ad-Din Haydar (d. 1220), and Hajji Baktash (d. 1270), all eponyms of important Sufi organisations of diverse structure and practice. The latter two may indeed have been disciples of Yasawi, but Baktash may have been affiliated later in life with the Wafa’i order whose eponym was an Iraqi Kurd. As for more fluid groups such as the Malamatis (‘those who seek to incur blame’) and Qalandars, visual allusions to whom appear in many of our images, Karamustafa regards them as ‘modes of religiosity’ that did not directly shape or formally influence Anatolian Sufi institutions.3 Among ‘deviant dervish groups’ that included Haydaris, Abdals of Rum and eventually even followers of Rumi’s friend Shams of Tabriz, the curiously colourful qalandars had begun to spread across Anatolia around the time Rumi’s family arrived there (early 1200s). One well-known qalandar of Konya was even honoured by the family with a gift commemorating Rumi’s death in 1273. Even so, as Bruno De Nicola notes, the Family Rumi’s Saljuk patrons were not so accepting of such diversity and counted qalandars among their sworn enemies.4 As we will see later, dynamics analogous to the infiltration of Sufi influences from outside Anatolia were partially responsible for cross-cultural impact on visual/artistic themes and styles. Osman Türer and Resul Ay widen our field of vision with an overview of the nearly twenty Sufi orders whose origins in Anatolia had predated the beginnings of the Ottoman dynasty. Türer identifies major Mawlawi centres that were established across the whole of Anatolia. It is particularly relevant to the present exploration that by the end of the sixteenth century Mawlawi presence had become especially prominent in urban areas. The order’s main communities ‘became centers of literature, music, calligraphy and the fine arts, with the result that a number of high state dignitaries felt a keen interest’ in the order and were motivated to fund construction and maintenance of a number of major Mawlawi community foundations and to patronise the arts produced by community members.5 Ay supplies additional details on how the leaders of confraternities established their authority in various major Anatolian cities in often contentious interaction among their respective organisations.6 The fourth ingredient in the evolving religio-political-cultural context of our Ottoman hagiographical manuscripts is the importance of the city of Konya. Shortly after the dawn of the thirteenth century, when the Sultanate of Rum still had a century of life left to it, Konya would become the adopted home of Rumi’s family and the centre of the new Mawlawi community. Cailah Jackson offers useful background on Konya as the symbolic home of Rumi’s family and spiritual descendants:

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Even before the social disruption following upon Mongol conquests, Rum in general was populated by people of varying religious and ethnic backgrounds, including Arabic-, Persian- and Turkish-speaking Muslims, Christian Greeks and Armenians, Mongols, and European merchants. The intellectual openness and relative religious tolerance that this diverse atmosphere engendered, alongside possible employment opportunities, only served to further strengthen Rum’s attractiveness to craftsmen, scholars and Sufis. By Aflaki’s time, as Sivas, Kaysari, Tokat and other eastern Anatolian towns rose in prominence, Konya experienced a relative loss of political and economic influence. But Konya did not lose its importance as a centre of political administration and artistic activity. Sufism, and Mawlawis in particular, would continue to play an essential role in changing patterns of patronage, especially with respect to illuminated (as distinct from illustrated) texts.7 As for the broader picture of religious currents in Konya, A. C. S. Peacock suggests that Rumi’s personal magnetism may have made Sufi community life attractive to non-Muslims, as did futuwwa (chivalric guild-like confraternities), membership of which required conversion to Islam.8 As Zeynep Yürekli notes, the Mawlawi mausoleum at the heart of Konya’s spiritual importance ‘prospered under the Karamanid dynasty that ruled in central Anatolia circa 1250–1475 and was fairly established by the time Konya came under Ottoman rule in 1467, when Mehmed II conquered Konya from the Karamanids.’9 The Karamanid Emirate was one of several independent entities allowed to rule portions of Anatolia by arrangement with a Saljuk sultan. The Family Rumi and Mawlawi Sufism Rumi’s father, Baha Walad (d. 1231), hailed from Balkh (presentday Afghanistan). According to traditional accounts, after years as a renowned professor of theology, law and philosophy there he migrated westward prior to the advance of Genghis Khan’s Mongols from Central Asia across the Middle East. The family initially made their way to Baghdad, arguably about 1217, when Rumi was about ten years old. Around that time they travelled to Mecca for the major pilgrimage (hajj) before heading north through Damascus, settling finally in Konya.10 There Baha Walad soon attracted the patronage of Saljuk Sultan Ala ad-Din Kaykubad (r. 1220–37), whose realm by then covered roughly the eastern half of Anatolia. Notwithstanding the glowing hagiographical accounts of his consistently high repute and lofty honours after leaving Balkh, the patriarch had experienced a number of setbacks in his quest for a stable position as the family travelled though Iraq and Syria. His ability to build a solid career in

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service of the royal Saljuk madrasa system of institutions of higher learning was a most welcome turn of events that set the stage for Rumi’s own rise to prominence. Several years after Baha Walad’s death Rumi inherited his father’s academic position. Baha Walad’s progeny would become the backbone of the emerging Mawlawi Sufi order, so named after Rumi’s honorific title ‘Mawlana’, Arabic for ‘Our Master’. As later chapters will describe in detail, Baha Walad’s mausoleum in Konya, often called the ‘Sepulchral Shrine’, would figure prominently as a symbolic setting for many events across the first four generations of Mawlawi leaders: those of Rumi, his elder son Sultan Walad, his grandson Arif Chalabi and his great-grandsons, Amir Abid and Amir Wajid. All but a few of the five dozen images in our three chief manuscripts feature prominently the deeds and teaching of this cluster of personalities. Chapter Two will provide background on hagiographic texts and related illustrated manuscripts featuring major Sufis and other religious exemplars. Institutional origins and context of Mawlawi Sufism Contrary to popular belief, though Rumi was indeed a focal figure in the Mawlawi order he himself was not the ‘founder’ in the more technical, institutional sense. Recognition of that role goes to Rumi’s eldest son. In order to appreciate more fully the ways in which our illustrated manuscripts have functioned both as ‘historical’ documentation and an intra-communal messaging system some sense of how Rumi’s community evolved from a ‘family business’ into a formalised socio-religious force is essential. Scholars have often identified Sultan Walad (1226–1312) as the de facto founder of the Mawlawi Tariqa (‘order’) but the details of his actual contribution have been more often assumed than investigated in detail. Named after his grandfather, Baha Walad, this son of Rumi lived through both the heyday of the Saljuk Sultanate of Rum and its eclipse under Mongol domination. This period also saw the continued rise of many major Sufi orders across the Middle East, Persia and Central Asia. Though he was a productive author in his own right, Sultan Walad’s works have received relatively little serious study. As for the specifics of his organisational role, Hülya Küçük provides welcome clarification with respect to three key developments: 1) an evolving hierarchy of early leadership; 2) the formulation of ‘Chalabism’ (from Chalabi, ‘gentleman, noble’, with extended meaning of ‘successor’ in one branch of the Mawlawis) as a key structural element and necessary precondition for an ‘order’; and 3) deciding on a signature ritual structure and practice. Once these elements were in place, the order was able to ramify into spin-off communities beyond Konya and, from those satellite foundations, continued to spread ‘Mawlawism’ to far-flung regions.11

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In addition, Küçük supplies essential background on Sultan Walad’s considerable contribution to the gradual emergence of the Mawlawiyya as a formal organisation. Sultan Walad’s unique role as a family member and source of Mawlawi history and literature involved several important features. First, he was pre-eminent less as a transmitter of Rumi’s own writings than as a font of knowledge about Rumi’s successors and as a source for Aflaki’s accounts about them. Second, he produced extensive comment on Rumi’s writings, much of that in the form of poetry very reminiscent of his father’s style and thematic preferences. Although earlier scholarship has often downplayed Sultan Walad’s poetic efforts as merely his attempt to emulate his father’s celebrated work more recent studies have begun to appreciate his poetry as meritorious in its own right. In addition, Walad functioned as a scribe in recording Rumi’s Mathnawi, adding his own marginal couplets by way of commentary. He parted company with his father in that he was much more guarded than Rumi with respect to teaching publicly what Aflaki often calls ‘higher meanings’. Though the father liberally dispensed even arcane messages to a broad spectrum of followers, the son refrained from passing along subtle insights to audiences he considered uninitiated and unequipped to process spiritual subtleties. Sultan Walad publicly acknowledged his elitist tendency in limiting his tutelage to those already embarked on a demanding spiritual quest. Though Sultan Walad remained close to Rumi until the father’s death, Rumi appointed Husam ad-Din as his khalifa (successor) in leadership of the nascent community. Only after Husam’s death did Sultan Walad take on the role of shaykh of a community that had still not assumed its fully institutionalised dimensions.12 Sultan Walad’s Book of the Beginning (Ibtida-nama), a major source for the hagiographical masterwork of Aflaki at the heart of the present investigation, situated Walad as the first authority on Mawlawi history. As strategist of an evolving structure Sultan Walad promoted the­­ principle of lineal, dynastic succession of the Family Rumi. The unpleasant reality that Rumi had designated Husam ad-Din to succeed him presented a challenge to Sultan Walad as he sought to establish himself in the lineage, initially acquiescing to Rumi’s choice. After Husam’s death, Sultan Walad found a way to reconfigure the record of succession. Sultan Walad exhibited clear aptitude for organisation. During a period in which Sufi confraternities were developing institutionally from Anatolia to points further east, he made it his business to identify the Mawlawi community with a signature paraliturgical ritual known as sama` (literally ‘audition’), which included music, rhythmic dancing and recitation of prayers. Today one might call such an effort ‘branding’, an option that represented a considerable departure from Rumi’s aversion to prescriptive administration and

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preference for a more organic process of growth and organisational independence. During Rumi’s life, Walad had cajoled his father into accepting the gift of a house from a wealthy patron to be used as a dervish residence (tekke), a small but important move in the direction of institutionalisation. Rumi nevertheless remained uncomfortable with the implications of such developments. Sultan Walad later approved of the construction of a mausoleum for Rumi, though he knew his father would not have countenanced such grandiosity. Among other developments toward an institutional identity, Sultan Walad also formalised a number of ‘regular’ ritual and administrative practices initiated by Husam ad-Din, including an internal division of labour (singers, Mathnawi-reciters, ranked sub-administrators, etc.) and particulars of external relations, such as management of pious endowments (waqfs, to be discussed further below). Oya Pancaro©lu puts the matter of early Mawlawi ritual in a broader context. She cites the observation of famed fourteenth-century North African traveller Ibn Battuta that brotherhoods generally across Anatolia (including the Akhi organisations’ facilities where he stayed, groups to be discussed further below) engaged in some variation on the practice of sama`. This included a mix of profane and sacred hymns, possibly to instrumental accompaniment, and sometimes encouraging ecstatic behaviour. Among the variants were the more orderly Mawlawi rites codified by Sul†an Walad . . . , in which music and movement were harmonized into an integrated and controlled performance. Because Ibn Battuta makes no reference to any ecstatic and rapturous displays, it may be assumed that these were mostly measured affairs, in keeping with the moderate behavior prescribed in manuals of futuwwa and designed for entertainment but also for mystical reflection.13 However, the rules for Mawlawi sama` were not officially ‘canonized’ (as alluded to in the expression qanun-i sama) until the midfifteenth century, by which time branches of Mawlawi communities had begun to spring up not only across Anatolia but to points further south and east as well. Even Aflaki, writing in the early fourteenth century, makes no reference to any universally established use of ritual formulae to be used in daily rituals of ‘recollection’ (dhikr). Shams ad-Din of Tabriz (one of Rumi’s most important friends and mentors) was a formative support and spiritual guide to Sultan Walad, in large part because Rumi pointedly recommended his son to Shams’ tutelage. Eventually Sultan Walad himself became a revered guide to many disciples, both male and female, and, by sending followers abroad across Anatolia, he fostered the spread of the Order as his emissaries established new branches. His son Arif Chalabi (d. 1320) would play the most important role as an administrator whose efforts were

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critical to the Order’s early stability and spread. Sultan Murad III (r. 1574–95), patron of two Turkish illustrated abridgements of Aflaki discussed throughout the present study, named a new late sixteenthcentury madrasa in Konya after Sultan Walad. Since Rumi himself, as Aflaki presents him, is our focus here key features of the religiocultural world that he inhabited will provide an essential frame of reference. Islamic institutional contexts of Mawlawi life Rumi’s relationships with representatives of both the Saljuk central government in Konya and authorities among the ranks of various religious constituencies, both Muslim and Christian, are prominent ingredients of Aflaki’s hagiography. Scenes of early Mawlawi life occur predominantly in six different settings: madrasa (theological college), masjid (mosque), hammam (public bath), khanaqah (Sufi residence), assorted gardens and similar outdoor settings, and the chief minister’s residence­– n ­ ot necessarily in that order. Though one might reasonably expect at least some events to be set in explicitly residential Mawlawi contexts, a prominent role of the residential tekke would develop only later. In Anatolian Saljuk religious contexts the madrasa was significantly more important, both symbolically and functionally, than either the masjid or the khanaqah. Madrasas are the site of a remarkable number of scenes both described in Aflaki’s original text as well as the later abridged and translated versions and depicted several times in the manuscripts under consideration here.14 Topping the list of institutions dependent on external funding, both for their foundation and upkeep, are the madrasa and mosque. Well into later Ottoman times the chief vehicle by which the influential and well-heeled gained prestige and spiritual merit was the waqf, or ‘pious endowment’. Through this mechanism wealthy patrons established in perpetuity the construction and maintenance of often elaborate architectural complexes. By the time our three manuscripts were produced Ottoman imperial mosques often anchored institutional clusters that included madrasas (for as many as all four Sunni legal traditions), lower level schools (for Qur’an and hadith education), and even hospitals, medical schools and accommodation for family members visiting sick relatives. Rumi’s Letters and Sultan Walad’s poetry portray the leaders of the community as considerably more dependent on elite patronage than Aflaki admits. A. C. S. Peacock notes that prominent members of the ruling class attributed to some awliya’ (Friends of God) the correlative quality of wilaya, an important synonym for the ‘authority’ that they wield in both seen and unseen worlds. These ruling elites were often keen to benefit from that quality. Though Aflaki avers that Rumi and his descendants were loath to beg from the mighty,

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these letters and poems reveal considerable reliance on, and frank expectation of, princely endowments. In his appeals for material support, both for his own causes and in aid of clients and friends, Rumi described his attentiveness as a form of ‘intercession’ (shafa`a) that could encompass spiritual as well as more mundane benefits. Rumi is on record as asking rulers to treat the dervishes kindly, call off royal enforcers and even give the brethren tax breaks. Sultan Walad’s poetic praise of the Saljuk elite sometimes uses the language of classical Persian epic heroism. Peacock sums up the situation: ‘Amirs, Viziers, and rulers needed the Sufis less to lend their rule legitimacy, but rather through the latter’s prayer and spiritual power to ensure their continued prosperity and success, in this world as much as the next.’15 Aflaki’s text includes many anecdotes of events occurring explicitly in madrasa settings. Rumi’s father, Baha Walad, typically resided in madrasas (rather than caravanserais) in the course of his travels from Balkh, through Iraq and Syria, and even after arriving in Konya.16 The centrality of the madrasa for Rumi and his Mawlawi successors was a natural follow-on to his father’s career as a high-ranking professor under the patronage of the Saljuk Sultan Ala ad-Din Kaykubad. At Baha Walad’s death, Rumi initially succeeded him in propounding the ‘exoteric’ sciences (especially Islamic jurisprudence, fiqh), his considerable acquired, discursive learning anchoring his epistemic authority. But even after his core personal orientation had transitioned increasingly from that of scholar to mystical teacher, Rumi’s hagiographers continued to connect him to the madrasa setting.17 Küçükhüseyin offers further insight into Rumi’s connections with political and intellectual movers and shakers. In spite of Mawlana’s own estimable pedigree, many early Mawlawis came from workingclass backgrounds. He had been a professor at the earliest madrasa in Konya and left a notable collection of letters to the sultan and his chief minister, as well as other dignitaries. He knew where the money was and did not shrink from requesting help for the genuinely needy or securing jobs for them as civil servants.18 For now, an important bit of background on the school of Islamic jurisprudence with which Rumi’s family and religious community was intimately connected will be useful. Of the four Sunni legal schools (or madhhabs­– ‘­ways of proceeding’), the Hanafi school was dominant in Central Asia and parts of the Middle East, including Saljuk Anatolia. In general the Hanafi methodology leaned toward the more flexible end of the juristic spectrum. Named after the eighth-century scholar Abu Hanifa (d. 767) of Kufa (Iraq), the school’s principal rival in the region was the somewhat more ‘conservative’ Shafi`i school.19 Beginning with Baha Walad, Rumi and his family were staunchly Hanafi in law. Aflaki tells a number of stories featuring Rumi’s interaction with famous scholars and magistrates who played an essential role in public life

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and influenced many aspects of the Mawlawi community. They were deeply beholden to the wealthiest among them for the building and upkeep of their central institution, the madrasa, as well as for lower level schools and Sufi residential centres. In his treatment of ‘pious patronage’, Franklin Lewis notes the existence of twenty-one Hanafi madrasas in Aleppo and another thirty-four in Damascus. Finding a suitable patron was a considerable challenge, given Baha Walad’s religious aversion to rulers of loose moral character. Saljuk Sultan Ala ad-Din Kaykubad turned out as noble a patron as he could have hoped for, the sultan’s penchant for campaigns of conquest and expansion notwithstanding. Rumi’s inheriting his father’s academic position brought with it ongoing benefits of royal patronage. Rumi’s frequent and well-documented engagement especially with two prominent jurists of the Shafi`i school­– S ­ iraj ad-Din of Urumiya (d. 1283) and Qutb ad-Din Shirazi (d. 1311)­– i­ s a testimony to Rumi’s flexibility and broadmindedness as a religious scholar in his own right.20 This patronage relationship served the young Mawlawi community well. The most important of the sultan’s ministers, the Parwana Mu`in ad-Din, was also a generous sponsor. Perhaps most famously, his wife Gurji Khatun was a devout disciple of Rumi and went on to donate the funds for his mausoleum in Konya.21 Rumi, mystic, poet and storyteller Jalal ad-Din Rumi is understandably best known as a poet. His 25,000-verse Persian didactic mystical work, The Spiritual Couplets (Mathnawi-yi Ma`nawi), lays out in six ‘books’ his rich and complex worldview and understanding of Islamic core religious values. In addition, his massive Diwan-i Shams, a 35,000-verse collection of ghazals and other short lyric genres dedicated to Rumi’s most famous alter ego, Shams ad-Din, showcases his extraordinary genius for characterising intimate relationships in countless striking metaphors.22 Among Anatolian Persian-writing poets, Rumi has attracted by far the greatest interest across the vast Persianate sphere­– ­from Turkey through Iran, into Central Asia, Pakistan and northwestern India.23 Throughout this region Persian was the lingua franca of literature, culture and diplomacy for more than half a millennium. Even today, Afghans claim Rumi because he was born there, Pakistanis because his poetry has long been treasured there, Iranians because he wrote predominantly in Persian and Turks because he lived most of his life among them. Rumi also penned nearly 150 extant letters and sermons and his disciples gathered and published texts of his teaching sessions, the Discourses, enigmatically titled Fihi Ma Fihi (‘Containing What’s In It’)­– ­that is, a miscellany of topics. Above all, Rumi was a genius at teaching with stories. Themes elaborated in the Discourses will provide important input for interpreting a number of images. Storytelling was Rumi’s stock-in-trade, his favourite pedagogical

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tool. His Spiritual Couplets is packed cover-to-cover with parable, allegory and fable. He was a master of metaphor, continuously conjuring up arresting tropes suited to specific themes. Though he seemed often to progress via free association or stream of consciousness, he never lost his drift, always managing to circle back to the inaugural inspiration of a yarn. Not surprisingly, the most fundamental reservoir from which Rumi drew is the prophet-narratives of the Qur’an, related exegetical works and the considerable literature of ‘Tales of the Prophets’. In addition, he was not shy about recycling tales learned from the vast resources of Persian and even Arabic literatures reaching back centuries. Among his most important inspirations in Persian mystical literature, Farid ad-Din Attar of northeastern Persia (d. 1221) and Hakim Sana’i of Afghanistan (d. 1131) stand out, and the latter will make a surprise appearance later in this book. Pedagogical narratives in Aflaki (as in other classic hagiographies) typically illustrate the teacher’s responses to questions posed by disciples about the meaning of Qur’anic texts, occasions for sayings of the Prophet (hadith), the origins of proverbial sayings, or even the etymologies of spiritually fecund concepts. Sometimes, as in an anecdote about Caliph Umar and Iblis (Satan) attributed to Shams ad-Din, stories occur in a common hagiographical device that simply gathers, often in no particular order, ‘sayings’ of a famous religious exemplar. So, for example, Aflaki introduces that story with the words, ‘He [Shams] also said . . . ’. Rumi’s Spiritual Couplets belongs to a specifically didactic narrative (and sometimes epic or romantic) genre of poetry and is thus often the source of most of Mawlana’s more famous stories. As relayed by Aflaki, however, these frequently incorporate verses from the poet’s massive collection of lyric poems (Diwan), a form more suited to elaborating on a particular concept than to weaving an extended tale.24 Two important questions provide a methodological focus here. First, what common themes appear in the anecdotes of Rumi that Aflaki has chosen to memorialise in his hagiography? And what common themes emerge from the stories chosen for illustration in our three manuscripts? Arguably key to Rumi’s storytelling is an overarching concern to teach ethical norms and values: in short, his teaching tools seek to foster growth in virtue ethics. As Farooq Hamid explains in detail, Rumi’s ‘method’ is organic and free-flowing in form and tailored to a ‘homiletical’ mode of communicating. He explores how and why Rumi’s stories often seem to morph abruptly into a different theme, returning later just as surprisingly to the original theme­– a­ nd how this ‘frame tale’ structure serves Rumi’s didactic intent, even when a story seems to be left unfinished. Aflaki’s own agglutinative, free-associative mode of recording anecdotes about Rumi and family seems in its own way analogous to Rumi’s method, except that Aflaki often appears to insert stories on the basis of their utility in further highlighting whatever feature of

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his chosen figure he wishes to emphasise. Hamid suggests a parallel between the Prophet’s oral ‘recitation’ (Qur’an) of the revealed scripture and Rumi’s extemporaneous recitation of the Spiritual Couplets then taken down, as if in dictation, by disciples. Above all, it is Rumi’s conviction that he is charged with spiritual guidance that shapes his pedagogical choices: he must be flexible and responsive to his disciples’ varying life experiences and capacities.25 The worldview of Rumi and the Mawlawi: theological themes Several important theological and spiritual themes pervade the story and life of Anatolian Sufism, and of Rumi and his community in particular. Here some background on conceptions of the world, both in ordinary human experience and on a cosmic scale will provide context for interpreting the paintings in our three manuscripts. Life in a world of wonders: marvels in Aflaki and Rumi’s own works Virtually every page in Aflaki’s masterwork includes at least one reference to a miraculous event. Wonders of God’s Friends (karamat, thaumaturgic gifts), like prophetic evidentiary miracles (mu`jizat), come in many shapes and sizes. Here Aflaki was in a sense picking up where Sepahsalar (d. c. 1295), author of an early Mawlawi h ­ agiography, left off. Unlike other sources with a penchant for spectacular saintly wonders, both Sepahsalar and Aflaki considered Rumi’s saintly marvels to include primarily ‘acts of remarkable kindness, demonstrations of power over the natural world and feats of precognition’. Like Sepahsalar, Aflaki is careful to explain the crucial differences between prophetic miracles and saintly marvels. For example, ‘miracles consist in bringing forth something out of nothingness and transmuting essences (a`yan). Thaumaturgic gifts are the attribute of the lights of the interior of Friends of God.’ Whereas the former ‘accompany a claim’ to divine authority, the latter are a response to supplicatory prayer and thus not meant to prove the authority of the one through whom God effects the miracle. Rumi himself emphasises that whereas prophetic miracles are by definition public and obviously associated with a specific divine emissary, authentic Friends of God shrink from advertising their wondrous prerogatives, even to the point of denying them, and never engage in marvels for the purpose of augmenting their own notoriety.26 It is hardly surprising that Sultan Walad generously laid on the wonder-makers in his hagiographic account. He was, after all, Rumi’s number one son. Aflaki occasionally, but with slightly less gusto, indulges in the kind of hyperbolic description that smacks of wondrous one-upmanship. He is clearly an unabashed apologist for the Family Rumi and its spiritual descendants.

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Aware of the need to strive for balance and discipline, however, Aflaki includes specific reference to his authorial concern for reporting marvels as accurately as possible, noting time, place and circumstances. He then quotes grandson Arif’s aversion to showing off, though there are times when a bit of discreet wonderment can evoke in disciples a ‘desire for the invisible world and knowledge of the invisible’.27 In Rumi’s own Discourses, teaching episodes recorded by disciples, Mawlana notes that even witnessing 100,000 marvels would be worthless unless the witness has a personal spiritual connection with the prophet or Friend of God through whom the Creator was pleased to display divine power.28 Rumi often advised against being overly impressed with apparently spectacular events, such as claims that someone could travel from Baghdad to Mecca in the blink of an eye. After all, the wind does that as a matter of course and even Satan can pull off such superficially flashy novelties. The authentic marvel is that a person who yesterday was an unbeliever woke up this morning a believer, and that one might ‘travel’ the enormous distance from ignorance to insight.29 In a similar vein Aflaki also reports the comment of a follower in response to a question from a lady of the royal court as to what was the greatest miracle he had seen Rumi perform: that people from all religious traditions and nations revered him and cherished his wisdom.30 Ironically, Rumi would very likely have found the rhetoric of his devout hagiographers embarrassing. As Julie Meisami notes in the foreword to Lewis’s Rumi: Past and Present, East and West: ‘For Rumi, all of creation is a veil between the questing human being and the truth: This transient world is a sign of the miracle of Truth; but this same sign is a veil which hides the eternal Verities.’31 Shams ad-Din of Tabriz was, in this regard, a man after Rumi’s own heart, because he dressed plainly, eschewed signs of rank, preferred to live in caravanserais rather than well-endowed religious institutions and sought to hide his miracles. Denizens of Anatolian Sufi cosmology Rumi’s wider world was truly cosmic in scope, and a sense of the larger context of human life was by no means limited to the worldview of explicitly religious communities such as the Mawlawis. Suzan Yalman has studied the role of cosmological imagery in descriptions of a major Saljuk sultan who ruled from Rumi’s Konya. She describes the influence of the ‘illluminationist’ (Ishraqi) thought of Suhrawardi, spiritual leader of a major pre-Mawlawi Iranian Sufi organisation. The Rum Saljuks may have found [Shihab ad-Din] Suhrawardi’s ideas particularly appealing since they overtly brought together ancient Greek and Zoroastrian concepts with Islamic ones­–

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t­ hrough a shared ‘Western’ and ‘Eastern’ interest in illumination­ – ­providing a new path that could be shared with the mixed population now under Rum Saljuk rule. Hailed as the ‘Shaykh of Illumination’, this Suhrawardi (d. 1191) had been a well-known spiritual teacher in Anatolia and was evidently the inspiration behind light imagery that eventually attached to the person of Saljuk Sultan Ala ad-Din Kaykubad (r. 1220–37). He was only the most celebrated of the several sultans to be associated with such exalted symbolism. In addition, Aflaki explicitly associates Suhrawardi’s signature light-symbolism with Rumi’s major alter ego, Shams (Sun) of Tabriz.32 Yalman further credits Suhrawardi’s illuminationism with blending apparently disparate traditions: ‘through a mystical Sufi reading, he conceptually fused Plato with the wisdom of Zoroaster as reflected in the Persian national epic Shahnama (Book of Kings) by giving it new meaning in an Islamic context.’ She is persuaded that such a ‘hermeneutical reading of the Shahnama indicates that there was likely an added mystical dimension to the Rum Saljuk choice of Shahnama names for their sons.’33 Three additional concepts associated with a Sufi cosmological framework already well-developed by Rumi’s time are a cluster of individuals known as the ‘Substitutes’ (abdal), the Cosmic Axis or Pole (qutb) and the ‘Perfect [or Complete] Person’ (al-insan alkamil). At the pinnacle of the cosmic hierarchy sits the qutb, a figure endowed with remarkable powers, one whom God promised would always be present in the world as a reliable point of reference and conduit of divine power and presence. Like the generality of God’s Friends, the Pole’s identity is revealed only to individuals endowed with refined sensibilities. Ordinary people might deal with such a person without ever suspecting his lofty station. Two of our manuscript images illustrate stories about encounters with and recognition of a Pole.34 Virtually synonymous with the Pole as a cosmic embodiment of wisdom and holiness is the concept of the Perfect Person, formulated by Ibn Arabi (d. 1240), a major Sufi theorist with whose thought Rumi was familiar. Though some have applied the term only to the Prophet Muhammad, in Rumi’s world it refers to the ideal shaykh, or spiritual guide. For Rumi, Shams apparently played this role; for Rumi’s disciple, the shaykh himself fit the bill. Finally, individuals known as abdal (‘Substitutes’) represent yet another aspect of divine providence. These are living individuals variously numbered at four, seven, forty or seventy, chosen to mediate between seen and unseen worlds. They are known as substitutes because when one dies he is replaced so that their number remains constant. Aflaki mentions the abdal on many occasions, as did Rumi himself in his poetry; and they appear in two of our paintings (one in Morgan, one in Revan) as messengers sent

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to induct new members into their ranks when one of their number has died. Konya societal themes: gender, corporate loyalties Rumi and his descendants cut a wide swathe in Konya society, to put it mildly. Several pictures illustrate episodes that offer some sense of the complexities of their influence and the conflicts that social standing (whether earned or imputed) often entails. The larger ambience is one of considerable diversity in medieval Konya, as recent scholarship suggests. A. K. Dahlén’s research offers insights into the immediate social context with respect to the place and role of women among Rumi’s disciples. ‘Creative, not created’, says Rumi of those who are ‘not merely the earthly beloved’ but the very ‘ray of God’. Aflaki gives important information about Rumi’s mother, Mu’mina Khatun, as a formative influence in Rumi’s education by emphasising his exposure to poetry, music and painting. She was one of Baha Walad’s several (three or four) wives. Rumi himself married twice. He married Gawhar Khatun when he was seventeen and Kira Khatun thirteen years later after Gawhar had died. The Christian Kira was then already a widow with a fouryear-old daughter. Even the sober Mawlawi hagiographer Sepahsalar notes that Kira was so spiritually advanced that she was likened to Abraham’s wife Sarah. Together Rumi and Kira had a boy and a girl. Though the son, Muzaffar ad-Din, initially joined the cabinet of the influential Saljuk minister Mu`in ad-Din Parwana, he later opted for the dervish life. Kira’s daughter by her first marriage, Kimiya Khatun, soon became a love-interest of Shams ad-Din, then already in his sixties, and they married in 1247, to the displeasure of Rumi’s second son Ala ad-Din. Immediately after Kimiya’s sudden death from an apparent illness, Shams departed for Damascus. Dahlén discusses reports of Ala ad-Din’s rumoured involvement in the death of Shams to avenge Kimiya’s death and Rumi’s grief over Shams’s sudden departure. Two other younger women, both daughters of Salah ad-Din the Goldsmith (discussed below), deserve special mention here as disciples. Fatima Khatun, wife of Sultan Walad, possessed such spiritual qualities that she merited the sobriquet ‘Second Mary’. Aflaki recounts tales of her miraculous deeds and ability to read another’s thoughts. The other was Hadiya, on whom Mawlana lavished his concern and mentorship.35 Bruno de Nicola notes that important women ‘actively participate in the consolidation of the order by being included by both Aflaki and Sipahsalar as sources for the compilation of the miracles’ of Rumi, and he identifies Fatima Khatun as a prominent disciple of Burhan ad-Din. Very soon after the anecdote of the female disciple of Burhan ad-Din, Aflaki explicitly refers to

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Fatima as ‘the Friend of God on earth’, making it very likely that she is indeed the woman who appears in Fig. 4.9.36 Wider societal engagements are, naturally, often associated with major institutional venues. Oya Pancaro©lu offers some helpful context on the role of the madrasa in Mawlawi life and that of the broader Konya community. She uses the example of a jewel of Konya’s architecture, the Karatay Madrasa. A renowned Saljuk minister endowed it in 1251 as a venue for Hanafi law and whose chief professor had to be of that school, though its waqf document stipulated that members of other legal schools were also welcome. Rumi is said to have been among attendees at its inaugural ceremonies, along with other figures who make appearances in the present study and its paintings: Shams of Tabriz, Qadi Siraj ad-Din and Ibn Arabi’s most famous student, Sadr ad-Din of Konya. According to Aflaki, it was in fact Rumi himself who ‘ordered a splendid inauguration ceremony to be held’.37 Like other madrasas, this one was often the backdrop of competition between a Sufi of Rumi’s stature and the madrasa’s faculty and students­– a­ contest that invariably ended with the latter acknowledging the mystic’s priority. That included members of other Sufi orders as well. Such places became a stage for this type of competition not only through the performance of Sufi rituals in buildings that were primarily endowed for the dissemination of Sunni legal and theological teachings but also through their capacity for hospitality which extended beyond the accommodation of its students and teachers.38 In particular, the movers and shakers of Konya singled out the Karatay madrasa for the use of Rifa`i dervishes, already famous for their attention-getting rituals and reputation for spectacular miracles. Rumi’s wife Kira Khatun drew her husband’s annoyance for attending one of the Rifa`i ceremonies. Pancaro©lu concludes that the madrasa’s role in sponsoring ‘competing discourses’ is an index of the movable boundaries with respect to religious adherence in a country newly opened to the impact of Islam in its various guises while still negotiating the ongoing and fundamental dynamics of settlement. The search for a correlation between different social or religious groups and the spaces which would be identified with them resulted in a complex situation where institutions and their patrons had to maintain an adaptable outlook that would meet the changing political and social exigencies of their environment.39 In addition, a bit of background on the so-called Akhi organisations or ‘orders’ is essential to understanding the larger social context of Rumi’s community. Early in the thirteenth century the major

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Persian-born Sufi leader Umar Suhrawardi (1135–1234) was instrumental in helping the Abbasid caliph in Baghdad by introducing a broad spectrum of ‘chivalric’ men’s organisations (futuwwa) into Anatolia.40 Typically populated by craftsmen, the ‘heroic’ values of these guild-like brotherhoods had become associated with Sufi thought. By Rumi’s day, a distinctively Anatolian type of men’s fraternities had come to be known as Akhi groups, a label popularly believed to derive from the Arabic expression akhi (‘my brother’), and were a prominent fixture of medieval Anatolian society.41 Ethel Sara Wolper notes that ‘the practices and beliefs of Anatolian akhis . . . stand out as one of the most prominent examples of the joining of mystical and mercantile interests’ in their mutual quest for ‘ethical perfection through mysticism’.42 Though they were not typically inclined toward explicitly religious or legal pursuits, many Akhi groups were actively engaged in support of religious and pious institutions. As patrons of scholars, popular preachers and Friends of God they enhanced their social standing through such ostensibly religious legitimation, and some were genuinely devout and pious. Husam ad-Din was associated with such a group, as was Salah ad-Din the Goldsmith.43 Individual members of Akhi organisations play a featured role in several stories illustrated in our three manuscripts. In one, for example, Rumi interacts positively with a certain Akhi Chuban in Aksaray; in another Sultan Walad engages in a fraught relationship with Akhi Mustafa, leader of an influential faction of Konya; and in a third, Rumi’s grandson Arif deals with Akhi Muhammad the Madman in Erzurum. The second epoch: from Saljuk Rum to the Ottoman Empire According to Ottoman accounts of the dynasty’s origins a late ­thirteenth-century frontier warrior named Osman (d. 1324) muscled his way to the leadership of a minor Turcoman principality in Anatolia. Inexorably asserting dominance over other tribal groups, Osman’s successors brought their consolidated force to bear in the 1453 downfall of Constantinople. Ottoman lore featured progenitoreponym Osman as a devotee of a Sufi shaykh, laying the groundwork for later influential/formative symbiotic associations between sultans and dervishes. Like other Muslim political power brokers, Ottoman dynasts typically credited Sufi connections with their continued success, though (according to Zeynep Yürekli) Ottoman devotion was typically more muted and limited to honouring and providing material support of deceased paragons of spirituality. An important reason for this difference was the rise of political competition of the Safawid Persian Shi`i dynasty in direct connection to the shrine of the eponymous Sufi Shaykh Safi ad-Din. Rumi’s shrine in Konya would­– ­along with that of Ibn Arabi in Damascus­– ­become one of two major examples of direct Ottoman

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patronage from Sulayman I’s father, Salim I. Support of Ibn Arabi’s shrine, given the shaykh’s often controversial legacy, is of interest here because of the prominent role in early Mawlawi history of Ibn Arabi’s most celebrated disciple, Sadr ad-Din of Konya (d. 1274). He was a proponent of key theological themes, among which the concept of the ‘Complete Person’ played a significant role in Rumi’s theo-poetic writings. Not long after Ottoman domination had definitively encompassed Konya (in 1467), Rumi’s shrine­– ­holding his father’s tomb as well­– ­would become a major locus of sultanic attention and renovation. A century later an Ottoman chronicle (by Nasuh Matrakci) would credit the spiritual power of the enshrined Rumi with Salim II’s victory of brother Bayazid in the (Second) Battle of Konya (see Fig. 6.23).44 In this context, recent research on Persian learning in the Ottoman world sheds important light on the presence of otherwise surprising references to the celebrated fifteenth-century author and poet, Abd ar-Rahman Jami (d. 1492), a shaykh of the Naqshbandi Sufi order. Though he had lived far to the east (present-day Afghanistan) his works became important to Ottoman rulers and scholars in both Baghdad and Anatolia. One of the key mediators of Jami’s posthumous cross-cultural links was a Naqshbandi scholar, Lami`i Chalabi (d. 1532), author of a martyrology, the Maqtal-i Al-i Rasul (The Killing of the Family of the Messenger). Murat Inan notes further that, during the mid-later fifteenth century Ottoman mystical orders took the Persian tradition as a model and established close relations with Persian schools of mysticism, which gave rise to an exchange of texts and scholars between the Ottoman lands, Iran, and Central Asia. This vibrant mystical network contributed to, and kept alive, a broader Ottoman interest in the language as well as in Persian mystical literature and culture. On the other hand, within the Ottoman mystical canon itself, the Mawlawi and Naqshbandi orders, in particular, took the lead in promoting the study of the language through instruction in the classics of Persian mysticism.45 Sultan Mehmed II (r. 1444–81) had even invited Jami himself to Istanbul and an early sixteenth-century Naqshbandi community flourished in the early Ottoman provincial capital at Bursa in western Anatolia. By later in that century (around the time our three manuscripts were created), it had become a focal point of scholarship that featured both a Naqshbandi madrasa professor (Sururi, d. 1562) and a Mawlawi dervish, Sami`i (d. 1603), noted for his links to the Sultan’s court. Both wrote commentaries on Rumi’s Mathnawi as well as works by Persian poet-sages Hafiz and Sa`di. Sami`i’s interests most notably also included mystical works by Jami, Attar and Nizami.46 These and similar connections help to explain the otherwise unex-

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pected prominent inclusion of Jami-related material at the ends of both O Nova 94 and Revan 1479, to which I will return in Chapter Seven: Conclusion. Chapter Two now turns to the rich tradition of Islamic hagiography­– ­literary and visual­– ­and the place of our three manuscripts within that tradition. Notes  1. Further detail in Peacock, ‘The Seljuk Sultanate of RËm and the Turkmen of the Byzantine frontier, 1206–1279’, Al-Masaq. See also Carole Hillenbrand, ‘Aspects of the Court of the Great Seljuqs’, in The Seljuqs: Politics, Society and Culture.   2. Peacock, ‘Islamisation in the Golden Horde and Anatolia: Some remarks on travelling scholars and texts’, in Revue des mondes musulmans et de la Méditerranée.   3. Karamustafa, ‘Origins of Anatolian Sufism’.  4. For greater detail see De Nicola, ‘The Fustat al-`Adala: A Unique Manuscript on the Religious Landscape of Medieval Anatolia’.   5. Türer, ‘General distributions of the Sufi orders in Ottoman Anatolia’, p. 238. On the westward spread of Sufi groups see Clayer and Popovic, ‘Les Turuq dans les Balkans a l’époque ottomane’, and on documentation concerning foundations see Göyünç, ‘Archival sources for the history of Sufism in the Ottoman period’and Uluda©, ‘Basic sources for mystical thought in the Ottoman period’.  6. Ay, ‘Sufi Shayks and Society in Thirteenth and Fifteenth Century Anatolia: Spiritual Influence and Rivalry’, pp. 4–7, 15–24.  7. Cailah Jackson, ‘An Illuminated Manuscript of Early FourteenthCentury Konya? AnÈs al-QulËb (MS Ayasofya 2984, Süleymaniye Kütüphanesi, Istanbul)’, p. 92.  8. Peacock, ‘Islamisation in Medieval Anatolia’ in Islamisation: Comparative Perspectives from History, pp. 134–55.  9. Yürekli, ‘Ibn `Arabi and Rumi in the Twists and Turns of Ottoman Religio-Politics’, in Sacred Spaces and Urban Networks, p. 166. 10. RPP, especially Chapter One, ‘Baha al-Din Walad’, pp. 42–95. 11. Küçük, ‘Sultån Walad’s Role in the Foundation of the Mawlawi Sufi Order’, pp. 32–50.  12. Küçük, ibid.,22-31. 13. Pancaro©lu, ‘Devotion, Hospitality and Architecture in Medieval Anatolia’, Studia Islamica pp. 67–8. 14. For greater detail on residential facilities, see RPP pp. 26–30, especially concerning forms/functions introduced into Anatolia during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries from points south and east. 15. Peacock, ‘Sufis and the Seljuk court in Mongol Anatolia: politics and patronage in the works of Jalal al-Din Rumi and Sultan Walad’, in The Seljuks of Anatolia: Court and Society in Medieval Middle East, p. 221. 16. RPP, especially pp. 42–78 on the functional centrality and endowment of madrasas. 17. For rich detail on crucial aspects of this subject, see Leiser, ‘The Madrasah and the Islamization of Anatolia before the Ottomans’, in Law and Education in Medieval Islam: Studies in Memory of Professor George Makdisi, pp. 174–91. 18. Küçükhüseyin, ‘Some Reflections on Hagiology with Reference to

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the Early Mawlawı-Christian Relations in the Light of the Manaqib al-Arifın’, in Al-Masaq. 19. For deeper background on the origins, historic evolution and the westward (Saljuk-sponsored) movement of the Hanafi and Shafi`i law schools and the related Maturidi and Ash`ari theological schools, see Widigdo, ‘Nishapuri Scholars in the formation of Sunni Scholarship in the Eleventh Century’ and Tor, ‘Rayy and the Religious History of the Seljuq Period’. 20. De Nicola, ‘The Fustat al-`Adala’. Referring to a thirteenth-century text (but in a sixteenth-century copy, pp. 54–5) concerning Qutb ad-Din Shirazi, a prominent magistrate (qadi) of Sivas, de Nicola refers to ‘extensive references to Islamic law and jurisprudence based both on the Hanafi and Shafi`i legal traditions. This suggests that the author was someone who certainly received religious education or might have been’ a scholar. The Fustat text is highly critical of the religious scholars (`ulama), because they did not counteract ‘heresy’ boldly enough. It expresses concern with the growing influence of Shi`i communities in Ottoman lands and strives to provide information about those and other non-Sunni Muslims. It pointedly singles out ‘deviant dervish groups’ that could have been of interest to the sixteenth-century readership of this work. De Nicola notes that the text combines historical narrative with elements of the ‘mirror for princes’ genre and hagiography in an attempt to highlight the dangers of religious decadence and the spread of heresy, and proposes Sharia-based solutions. It is particularly critical of mendicant dervishes in Anatolia, such as the qalandars, who, despite their insistence on being Muslims, were ignorant of the Qur’an and spread disbelief. De Nicola helpfully cites Shafi`i law in terms of issues on which it agreed with the Hanafis. 21. For further details on the madrasa and its larger functions see RPP sections on Rumi as Hanafi (pp. 14–21) and on ‘pious endowments’ (pp. 74–8). See also MA 552–3 [9] on Gorji Khatun’s monumental generosity. 22. See Keshavarz, Reading Mystical Lyric: the Case of Jalal ad-Din Rumi, for a rich introduction to this facet of Rumi’s literary genius. 23. Peacock and Nur Yıldız, ‘Introduction. Literature, Language and History in Late Medieval Anatolia’, in Islamic Literature and Intellectual Life in Fourteenth- and Fifteenth-Century Anatolia, pp. 21–2. 24. For a broader background on Rumi’s narrative art, see Hamid, ‘Storytelling Techniques in the ‘MasnavÈ-yi Ma’navÈ’ of Mowlana Jalal Al-Din Rumi: Wayward Narrative or Logical Progression?’ 25. Hamid’s analysis of one extended story in Book VI of the Mathnawi is particularly helpful. 26. MA 247–8 [293]. See also RPP, pp. 248–9 for Sepahsalar’s hagiography on Rumi’s marvels. 27. MA 628 [47] and passim under ‘miracles’ and ‘thamaturgic gifts’ in O’Kane’s index. 28. Thackston, Signs of the Unseen: The Discourses of Jalaluddin Rumi, Discourse 2. 29. Ibid., Discourse 26, p. 124. 30. RPP p. 284. 31. RPP p. xiii, quoting one of Rumi’s distichs. 32. Yalman, ‘Ala-ad- Din Kayqubad Illuminated: A Rum Seljuq Sultan as Cosmic Ruler’, p.177. Aflaki’s reference in MA 466–7 [75]. 33. Yalman, ‘From Plato to the Shåhnåma: Reflections on Saintly

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Veneration in Seljuk Konya’, in Sacred Spaces and Urban Networks, p. 137. See also Tor, ‘The Long Shadow of Pre-Islamic Iranian Rulership: Antagonism or Assimilation’, in Late Antiquity: Eastern Perspectives. 34. See MA 618–19 where Aflaki clusters these and other cosmic ranks together in connection with miracles and exalted spiritual stations. 35. Dahlén, ‘Female Sufi Saints and Disciples: Women in the life of Jalål al-dÈn RËmÈ’, in Orientalia Suecana. On Rumi’s relationships to Gurji Khatun and Fakhr an-Nisa, see ibid., pp. 57–60. Franklin Lewis provides further detail and critical analysis, especially of the relationship of Kimiya Khatun and Shams, in ‘Mawlånå RËmÈ, the Early Mevlevis and the Gendered Gaze: Prolegomenon to an Analysis of RËmÈ’s View of Women’, in Mawlana Rumi Review. 36. De Nicola, ‘The Ladies of RËm: A Hagiographic View of Women in Thirteenth- and Fourteenth-Century Anatolia’, in Journal of Sufi studies 3, p. 144. See also Carole Hillenbrand, ‘Women in the Seljuq Period’, in Women in Iran: From the Rise of Islam to 1800. 37. MA 86–7 [38]. 38. Pancaro©lu, ‘Devotion, Hospitality’, p. 56. 39. Ibid., p. 57. She also provides excellent institutional perspectives on other cities in Saljuk Rum. 40. This Suhrawardi was also directly associated with the Sufi order of that name. He lived most of his life in Baghdad and was buried there. For further detail, see Goshgarian, ‘Futuwwa in Thirteenth-Century Rum and Armenia: Reform Movements and the Managing of Multiple Allegiances on the Seljuk Periphery’, in The Seljuks of Anatolia: Court and Society in Medieval Middle East. 41. The more accurate etymology of Akhi is that it is Turkish for ‘generous’. See, for example, RPP pp. 126 and 216–17. 42. Wolper, Cities and Saints: Sufism and the Transformation of Urban Space in Medieval Anatolia, p. 77. 43. Pancaro©lu also gives excellent background on ‘Convivial Congregations: AkhÈs and their Lodges’ across the region in ‘Devotion, Hospitality’, pp. 60–72. 44. Yürekli, ‘Ibn al-Arabi and Rumi’. 45. Inan, ‘Imperial Ambitions, Mystical Aspirations: Persian Learning in the Ottoman World’, in The Persianate World: The Frontiers of a Eurasian Lingua Franca, pp. 76–7. 46. Ibid., pp. 82–7.

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CHAPTER TWO

Islamic Hagiography: Literary and Visualised

Accounts of men and women regarded as exemplary primarily for their religious and ethical qualities are part of a vast literary treasury of Islamic heroic lore generated in more than a dozen major languages and cultures. Telling stories of historically and spiritually important Muslims and interpreting them visually through the art of textual illustration comprise the twofold object of the present study. Both the notion and fact of Islamic prosopography have fairly recently begun to attract serious scholarly attention but the subject is enormous and deserves closer study. This project therefore begins with the literary phenomenon known generically as ‘hagiography’. Islamic hagiographical works are surprisingly abundant and widespread, as are scholarly studies of the literary aspects of these. But a little appreciated dimension of Islamic hagiography is the role of the visual arts as a way of interpreting the narratives of the tradition’s most admired ethical and spiritual paradigms. Islamic illustrated manuscripts of hagiographic interest cover a vast range of subjects and personalities presented in diverse literary genres and visual forms, and represent an equal variety of societal and religious sponsorship and patronage. Figures embodying ideals of devotion and spiritual accomplishment are similarly diverse. They run a gamut from scriptural prophets to post-prophetic religious authorities such as the Martyr-Imams of the major Shi`i communities to Friends of God who are, in many ways, analogous to Judaism’s sages and Christianity’s saints. Not surprisingly, the vast majority of Islamic hagiographies never achieved the notoriety of their illustrated counterparts and, given the fragility of the paintings adorning such texts, we are fortunate indeed to have spectacular samples of the art form still available. In Chapter Three I will use works mentioned here as a basis for thematic, stylistic and iconographic comparison with our three principal manuscripts: O Nova 94 (University of Uppsala,

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Sweden), Revan 1479 (Topkapı Palace Library, Istanbul) and Morgan 466 (Morgan Library, New York). Medieval Islamic hagiographical traditions Earliest literary stirrings of Islamic interest in showcasing the virtues and ‘excellent qualities’ (fada’il) of paradigmatic figures appear in sections of major hadith (Prophetic traditions) collections devoted to describing and praising the Prophet, his family and major members of the first two generations of Muslims­– t­ he Companions and Followers. The task of authenticating the countless ‘sayings’ attributed to Muhammad centred on the need to evaluate the thousands of ‘transmitters’ whose names were included in the ‘chains’ (isnad) of custody that became attached to each of these hadiths. That, in turn, required a system for winnowing out the trustworthy transmitters from the unreliable and eventuated in a considerable library of biographical lexicons based on an evolving ‘science of men (and women)’ (`ilm ar-rijal). Thus began a distinctively Islamic approach to prosopography that soon became adapted to the purposes of hagiography strictly so-called. Emine Fetvacı and Christiane Gruber offer larger cultural context for the study of illustrated hagiographies. Discussing pictorial interpretation of ‘religious themes’ generally, they connect the subject with two essential factors: princely patronage and the ‘borrowed’ influence of non-religious works, both literary and visualised, on explicitly religious productions. Here they set the scene succinctly: Emanating primarily (but not exclusively) from royal or princely ateliers, religious texts and their paintings did not comprise an entirely separate branch of book arts. To the contrary, they were linked to other literary products, particularly epic tales and universal histories. Much like the movement of manuscripts from Iran and Central Asia to Ottoman and Mughal lands, literary genres proved quite mobile and open‐ended. For instance, a religiously edifying tale might be depicted in an epic style, while a dynastic history might promote a particular devotional system or faith group. The fluidity between these literary and visual products reveals the extent to which they overlapped in both thematic content and artistic mode. Specific implications of this fluidity for the study of illustrated hagiographies will take centre stage in Chapter Three, in the context of stylistic/iconographic comparison across genres and illustrative methods. That will also contribute to our discussion of the influence of dynastic self-identities on the choice of thematic clusters as a means of ‘promoting an elite group’s politico-religious ascendancy’. This large dynamic became increasingly critical from the early 1500s

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as the Ottomans and Safawids confronted each other militarily and reached a high point with the anticipation of a new Islamic (i.e. lunar, dating from 622 ce) millennium in 1591.1 From The Life of the Prophet to Tales of the Prophets A century or so before the first authoritative written collections of Muhammad’s hadith appeared, Ibn Ishaq (d. 780) produced an Arabic ‘life story’ (sira) of the Prophet, which was revised and expanded by Ibn Hisham (d. 833). As the first Islamic example of a ‘monohagiography’­– ­a work dedicated entirely to a single exemplar­– ­the work furnished material and inspiration for generations of storytellers and later writers. In addition, accounts of the wondrous birth of Muhammad (mawlid) included extraordinary signs manifest on a global, even cosmic scale that had become associated with the earthly arrivals of great heroes: miraculous conception, gestation, nativity and infancy. These became part of a lively oral tradition of recitation during annual observances of the Prophet’s birthday. For present purposes, I focus on the two most important examples of Muhammad-centred themes. First, a spectacular Mongol period account of the Prophet’s signature twofold experience of a ‘Night Journey’ (Isra`) from Mecca to Jerusalem and an Ascension (Mi`raj) to the various levels of the next world was entitled the Mi`rajnama (Book of the Ascension). Our earliest extant complete illustrated version is a Uighur Turkish text from an early fifteenth century Timurid (Herat) manuscript with fifty-seven images. Denizens of the infernal realms depicted in the 1436 manuscript were a likely inspiration for the Satanic presence in a Morgan 466 image depicting a story of the Caliph Umar being tempted, as told in Aflaki by Rumi’s alter ego Shams ad-Din, as well as an image (both Morgan and Revan) in which Rumi interacts with a ‘water monster’ (Figs 4.4, 6.4 and 6.5).2 David Roxburgh uses a scene of Muhammad’s meeting with several major prophets in Jerusalem (the terminus of his Night Journey) and subsequent moments in the Prophet’s journey to analyse important features of depictions of prophets generally. He suggests that this manuscript shares its characteristic ‘ecstatic aesthetic’ of the prophets with images in our next important text, though its illustrated version appeared a full century and a half later.3 Second, fourteenth-century Anatolian Mustafa Darir wrote one of the most influential Turkish vitae of Muhammad: the Siyar-i Nabi (Lifestory of the Prophet), commissioned by fourteenth-century Mamluk Sultan Barquq (r. 1382–99) when Darir was on a five-year sojourn in Cairo.4 He based his work on a thirteenth-century Arabic life by Abu’l-Hasan al-Bakri, consulted with Ibn Hisham’s Sira and further embellished it with his own selection of folk elements. Barquq wanted the work to include ‘quotations from the Qur’an, and

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extracts from tales of saints and heroes, that would not only teach their readers gratitude, patience and the praise of God, but would in themselves be a form of prayer.’5 The sultan also wanted readers to enjoy the story. An important Mawlawi dervish, who composed a popular Mawlid in Bursa in 1409, quoted from the Siyar. And it was Ottoman Sultan Murad III whose patronage was essential to the production of many works of the Baghdad School, including our Aflaki manuscripts, and who commissioned the spectacular multi-volume illustrated version of the Siyar. Tanındı suggests that Darir’s sources for the many miracle accounts he includes drew upon a combination of Anatolian folk tales and anecdotes about Jewish and Christian traditions.6 Fetvacı and Gruber offer important context for this remarkable document. Murad III, keen to promote his own claim to fulfilling the divine promise of a millennial ‘Renewer’ (mujaddid) of the faith, had his artists ‘depict the Prophet and his entourage in an Ottomanised setting, bringing Muhammad’s life story in close proximity to that of the viewers.’7 In particular, accounts of Muhammad’s precocity in effecting marvels betoken familiarity with stories of Jesus’s childhood. Tanındı notes that the Siyar includes more illustrations of miracles than any other text, the Mi`rajnama placing second in this category.8 Of particular interest here are these marvel-images, including one of Muhammad healing a child, a theme that appears in Revan as Rumi ministers to a grandson (Fig. 6.17). Christiane Gruber offers a particularly enlightening appreciation of Murad III’s version of the Siyar in a chapter on ‘Ottoman Prophet-Centred Devotions’ in The Praiseworthy One: The Prophet Muhammad in Islamic Texts and Images. She describes the role of ‘visual strategies’ particularly in illustrated works between 1580 and 1600, such as increasingly dramatic use of fiery haloes that ‘hyperbolised’ the ‘Light of Muhammad’ to accent Ottoman royal claims as heirs of the Prophet. These artistic products developed alongside the increasing influence of Sufism and were in effect visual accompaniment to the quest for Prophetic blessing and guidance. Gruber suggests that the language and style of the Siyar-i Nabi was particularly appealing to princes and women of the court, noting the disproportionately detailed treatment of Muhammad’s birth­– ­with all of its implications for questions of royal succession/rank and symbolic resonances for mothers. Throughout the massive work, ubiquitous symbolism recalls the Qur’an’s ‘Verse of Light’ (24: 35) and intensifies visual focus on baby Muhammad’s inherent luminosity as manifest from birth on in spectacular all-enveloping flaming mandorlas.9 As Chapter Three will make clear, scenes and stories of saintly marvels arguably account for the single largest category of illustrations in our three manuscripts. Carol Garrett Fisher has studied the ‘pictorial cycle’ of the Siyar. Its original six volumes included more than 800 pictures (of which some

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200 are lost), making it by far the most lavishly pictured work of its kind. She notes that one of Murad III’s teachers and confidants was a Sufi, and that the sultan himself ‘had strong Sufi sympathies’. The Mi`rajnama just mentioned, in particular, along with Turkish works of the sorts described below, supplied ‘precedents’ for the Siyar’s paintings. Fisher describes in detail the various stylistic similarities, particularly with the Uighur work. But in addition an illustrated version of the genre Marvels of Creation supplied models,10 as did richly illustrated manuscripts of the genre Tales of the Prophets discussed below, along with a variety of explicitly hagiographical texts associated with the Shi`i community.11 As David Roxburgh notes, a significant difference in the depiction of Muhammad is that though in the Timurid Mi`rajnama Muhammad’s face is fully visible, the Siyar’s Prophet consistently wears a white veil.12 Now to our second ‘sub-genre’. In addition to these most important ‘mono-prophetic’ texts, the equivalent of a ‘prophetic anthology’ provides literary and visual material important for comparative purposes here. Three of the earlier and more important Arabic versions of Tales of the Prophets (Qisas al-anbiya) were written by Tha`labi (d. 1036, Baghdad), Tarafi (d. 1062, Cordova) and Kisa`i (fl. c. 1200). They were the first to assemble material solely on prophets in a freestanding literary form. At least five of the Arabic originals rendered into Persian in northeastern Iran date from around 1100 onwards (including several contemporaneous with our Aflaki manuscripts) and Turkish versions appeared in both Central Asia and Anatolia from 1400 onwards. Tha`labi wrote his version under the influence of the Baghdadi Sufi circle of Junayd (d. 910) and explains that his purpose is to ‘confirm the hearts’ of his readers by unfolding for them the ‘five wisdoms’ known to all prophets: proof of Muhammad’s message; of Muhammad’s moral example; of the superiority of his community; the means of uplifting the aspirations and moral conviction of all; and the revival of memory of the prophets themselves.13 Rachel Milstein, Karin Rührdanz and Barbara Schmitz have produced a comprehensive overview of major illustrated Persian versions of this genre. They note that the Ottomans captured the northwestern Iranian city of Tabriz in 1576, thereby allowing a ‘diffusion of established styles into remote geographic centers, the emergence of new centers with imported mixed styles, or the modifying of existing style and iconography to fit into the religious framework of the conquering power.’ It was this situation, they argue, that made it possible for the illustrators of the Qisas manuscripts to co-opt the prophet images first produced in a series of fourteenth-century illustrated texts of several examples of the ‘universal history’, a genre I will discuss further shortly. Milstein and colleagues observe that ‘the great versatility among the iconographic cycles of the manuscripts excludes the possibility of an accepted iconographic tradition or of an imposed scheme’, resulting in the unusual situation in which

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individual patron/clients wound up making idiosyncratic choices.14 With their focus on religiously and ethically exemplary figures, Tales of the Prophets qualify as a type of hagiography, offering insight into prophetic heroic qualities, miracles and interaction with the peoples to whom God sent the emissaries. Prophetic figures appear in two of our three manuscripts. Shi`i hagiography: Imams and martyrologies In addition to the predominantly Sunni works mentioned thus far, several important Shi`i hagiographies with a martyrological twist attracted artistic patronage. Here are two of the most prominent illustrated versions, both written by Sufis with strong links to Shi`i lore and spirituality. A famed poet named Fuzuli (d. 1556) wrote The Enclosed Garden of the Felicitous (Hadiqat as-Su`ada) in prose under the patronage of Sulayman the Magnificent (r. 1520–66). He selected several pre-Islamic themes as backdrop for episodes from the lives and martyrdoms of major figures of the Shi`i family, beginning with Muhammad and culminating with Zayn al-Abidin (grandson of Ali and fourth Imam). Pre-Islamic figures functioning as ‘types’ of the martyrs included Adam and Even being expelled from the Garden of Eden; Abraham in Nimrod’s bonfire and/or preparing to sacrifice Ishmael; Joseph in the well; and Zakariya (father of John the Baptist) about to be killed. Seven principal illustrated manuscripts follow virtually identical illustrative cycles. Milstein notes that the original text and its illustrated versions closely follow Kashifi’s (d. 1504) The Resting Place of the Martyrs (Rawdat ash-Shuhada), of which only a single version exists. Like his more famous contemporary Jami (d. 1492), Kashifi was a Naqshbandi Sufi. Another Naqshbandi Sufi, Lami`i Chalabi (d. c. 1530) composed the The Martyrdom of the Family of the Messenger (Maqtal-i Al-i Rasul), and translated Jami’s Warm Breaths of Intimacy (discussed below) into Turkish, working under the patronage of both Sultan Salim I and his son Sulayman I. The two principal illustrated manuscripts feature short and virtually identical illustrative cycles, one anchoring authority with the Prophet preaching from a minaret and both listing decidedly towards battle scenes.15 The prominence of these and other Shi`i-themed manuscripts raises intriguing questions about the views of Ottoman patrons concerning the relationships between Sunni and Shi`i orientations and their implications for religious culture more broadly. Vefa Erginba∞ argues that Shi`i themes were not limited to texts exclusively about the ‘Family of the Prophet’. He observes that the Siyar-i Nabi, for example, ‘has a very strong Ahl al-Baytist [related to the People of the House, that is, the Prophet’s Family] tone: Ali was portrayed as a miraculous figure akin to Muhammad.’ This should come as no surprise because ‘Ottoman Sunnism, at least in its cultural and intellectual representations,

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continued to be colored by this confessional ambiguity throughout the sixteenth century, despite the efforts of legalists to enforce their way of Sunnism.’ In addition, by the late fifteenth century, a pro-Alid strain was inculcated into Sufi thought resulting in a blend of Sufism and Shi`ism. Erginba∞ identifies a signature feature of this amalgamation as Tashayyu` hasan (good or moderate inclination toward Shi`ism) among the Sunnis. This tendency downplayed the differences between Sunnis and Shi`is by extolling the virtues of Ali and the Imams without denigrating the first three caliphs. In their first two centuries, the Ottomans, who are regularly considered to fall in the Sunni realm, also showed signs of this ambiguity and tashayyu` hasan, with a strong attachment to the Prophet’s family.16 As for the meaning of the term ‘Sunni’ in the Lands of Rum, Rıza Yıldırım argues that among the Akhis of Anatolia, ‘Sunni’ ‘actually meant someone who had an abiding love for the family of the Prophet and not someone who positions himself against the Shi`is.’17 Christiane Gruber offers a still more expansive look at these and related artistic developments in ‘Safavid Paintings and a “Shi`i” Muhammad‘, referring to a wider spectrum of illustrated texts and delving into the particular details of Shi`i-related scenes in key works of this next literary genre but in an explicitly Persian cultural context.18 Hagiographic elements in the ‘universal histories’ Though the genre known as the ‘universal history’ does not formally fit the category of hagiography and is often not even specifically religious in intent these works provide important related kinds of data. An underlying concern here is to detect the political import of the universal histories and of the interrelationship of Sufi and dynastic historiographies in various Islamicate societies. Stories of prophets and other exemplary figures are indeed part of a larger picture and a political entity might naturally hope to seek legitimacy within an Islamic setting by associating itself with such individuals. That does not, however, simply evacuate the stories and their illustrations of all religious significance. A story told or a picture painted with a view to making history come alive and to making important historical associations can also reinforce the broadly religious significance of history. At the very least one can argue that the images of several fourteenth-century manuscripts served a didactic function for the Mongol rulers, who had only recently embraced the religion of Islam and were probably unacquainted with its lore . . . They were perhaps visual aids to help

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the Mongol rulers understand as well as to call to mind or verify the basic stories read in the sacred Qur’an and retold with many embellishments . . .19 Cairene historian and traditionist Sakhawi (d. 1497) believed that the authors of the early universal histories who included stories of prophets were doing a unique service, in that their stories prepare people for the next life and improve their religious convictions and the way they live out their values.20 Like many avowedly hagiographical works, major examples of the universal histories have survived in illustrated versions. Seminal works include: Biruni’s Al-Athar al-Baqiya; Rashid adDin’s Compendium of Histories (Jami` at-tawarikh); and Hafiz-i Abru’s revised and expanded version of that in the Quintessence of Chronicles (Majma` at-tawarikh). In what came to bear the look of a work of ‘comparative religion’, eleventh-century polymath Biruni (d. 1048 in present-day Afghanistan) produced an encyclopaedic text properly dubbed The Enduring Traces of Bygone Eras. Robert Hillenbrand has studied the truly global scope of the text as well as the images of the Prophet that came to adorn the work long after Biruni wrote it. He has focused particularly on a remarkable set of images of Muhammad, including three with clearly Shi`ite themes. Hillenbrand concludes that although Biruni’s purpose was in no way religious, the images (in the Edinburgh manuscript) cannot be interpreted as a judicious and appropriate correspondence to the text that they purport to illustrate. They reveal themselves instead as a considered response to an event that post-dated al-Biruni’s text by some three centuries, namely the conversion of the Mongol elite to Islam. He identifies this text as a forerunner of Islamic religiously themed painting whose practitioners used it to question old taboos.21 Christiane Gruber picks up the theme of the images of Muhammad in the major Biruni manuscripts (Edinburgh and Paris), affirming that the patron and artists chose these specific scenes in hopes of ‘promoting Islam’s superiority over other religions’, with likely implications for ‘inter-faith polemics’. Depicting Muhammad as a ‘prophetic hero’, the images ‘provide a visual exegesis in history’. I will argue in connection with our three manuscripts’ paintings that the late sixteenth-century Ottoman patron sought to depict Rumi (and his family as a whole) as religious heroes in the mold of the Prophet, in keeping with the saying that the ‘Friends of God are heirs to the Prophets’.22 Rashid ad-Din’s (d. 1318) monumental universal history, produced in several richly illustrated manuscripts (especially those of

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Edinburgh and Istanbul’s Topkapı), represents yet another reservoir of hagiographically apposite visual imagery. Studies of this very influential work’s religiously themed images by Sheila Blair, Robert Hillenbrand and Christiane Gruber offer important insights in this context. Many of the images suggest a keen interest in the Prophet’s intimate relationship with God as he enacts his mandate as divine emissary­– a­ role evidenced by cosmic symbolism throughout his life, beginning with the ‘annunciation’ of his anticipated birth. As a convert from Judaism to Islam, Rashid ad-Din was familiar with a wide range of interreligious themes.23 In a fine new study of a third work in this category, by Hafiz-i Abru, Mohamed Reza Ghiasian describes the ‘historical style’ of paintings that typically ‘portray the climax of the stories, and almost in a minimal way, they show the most important elements of the narratives’, resulting in a ‘true visualization of the narrative’. He notes that the principal source of iconography was the school that produced illustrated texts of Rashid ad-Din’s masterwork, but ‘updated’ its fourteenth-century aesthetics, including dramatic changes in picture size and shape. A noteworthy and unique feature of Hafiz-i Abru’s adaptation of the ‘historical style’ is his ‘colour theory’. For example, he assigns specific symbolic and affective qualities to yellow (in livestock), green (in images of earth) and red (in garments), at sight of which the ‘heart becomes happy’. Prophets here typically wear signature green and their key companions brown, but prophets occasionally appear in blue.24 Milstein and her co-authors explain further how in the fifteenth century a growing taste for romantic and didactic poetic works then gradually morphed into a penchant for Sufi-inspired variations on the ‘universal history’ model. Important fifteenth- and sixteenthcentury versions included Mirkhwand’s Resting Place of the Pure (Rawdat as-safa) and Khwandamir’s Beloved of Life-stories (Habib as-Siyar).25 For present purposes, a late sixteenth-century illustrated text of Mirkhwand provides abundant examples of human figures whose shapes, expressions and gestures are virtually identical to those of our three manuscripts.26 Finally, an unusual work straddles the imaginary line between universal history and frank hagiography. The Collected Biographies (Jami` as-Siyar) was composed by a Suhrawardi Sufi named Muhammad Tahir in the late 1500s in Baghdad. Ottoman governor and active patron of the arts Hasan Pasha commissioned an illustrated version in 1598. It was originally a six-volume opus that began with biblical history, continued through the pre-Islamic Persian heroes and followed Islamic history into early fourteenth-century Mongol reigns. Of particular interest for the present investigation is one manuscript’s (Hazine 1230, fols. 112a, 121a) illustrations of Rumi’s father preaching his final sermon before departing from Balkh and one of the most fascinating images of Rumi’s initial encounter with

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Shams of Tabriz. Both were apparently the first such scenes included in a ‘universal history’ volume, evidently reflecting the explicit wishes of the patron and unusual enough to signal the governor’s extraordinary level of interest in the Mawlawi order.27 Michael Rogers suggests that the illustrations of religious themes in fourteenth-century Iranian manuscripts of historical works do not serve a religious purpose at all. Instead, they ‘emphasize the historical connexion of the Il-Khanids with the earlier Islamic dynasties and the general development as seen in the Qur’an, to minimise their strangeness and lack of antecedents and, so to say, legitimise the regime.’ The same writer argues that the religious figures’ lack of any distinguishing visual apparatus, such as haloes or flaming nimbus or facial veil, suggests that the authors, painters and patrons regarded them from a purely secular point of view.28 That argument fails to convince, for a variety of reasons, two of which involve contradictory conventions in the use of face-veiling. One, for example, is the practice in such clearly religious works as the early fifteenthcentury Mi`rajnama (discussed above) of veiling none of the faces of major figures; another is the evidence of several illustrated universal histories in which even evil characters receive haloes.29 One important aspect of illustrated universal histories in the context of this investigation is that several contain illustrations of pre-Islamic prophets as well as stories from Muhammad’s life. Choice of scenes to be illustrated in any given manuscript opens a window into the life and values of the painters and their patrons. In some cases the artists give visual emphasis to occurrences that rate barely a passing mention in the text. What was of marginal significance to the author has taken on increased importance to a later generation of Muslims. For example, a Shi`i patron might wish to emphasise elements of Muslim history that support the interpretation of Muhammad’s choice of his successor to leadership of the community. As Gutmann and Moreen explain, ‘whatever the emphasis in a particular work’s visual interpretation, each one provides a glimpse of some aspect of Islamic spirituality’s multidimensional sense of history as the arena in which God deals with humanity through the agency of paradigmatic figures.’30 Falnamas and prognosticatory imagery Though works dedicated to the interpretation of ‘omens’ might seem an unlikely candidate for contributions to this study they offer important insights into the proclivities of major royal patrons and include images related both in style and content to our illustrated manuscripts. Murad III was an avid consumer of augury and, in his chosen role as the promised mujaddid (renewer), he cultivated the arcane arts with particular gusto as the dawn of the new millennium (to commence in 1591) approached. In nearby Persia Safawid monarchs shared Murad’s

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concerns and several illustrated Falnamas (Books of Omens) were the result. Massumeh Farhad and Serpil Ba©ci have produced a superb overview of the genre and key illustrated versions. Murad also commissioned illustrated texts on ‘dreams, exotic lands, esoteric matters, and mysterious events and stories’.31 Among the scores of images in three well-known Falnama illustrated manuscripts are many of the same major characters one finds in the Tales of the Prophets and the universal histories. By far the largest single category is that of pre-Islamic prophets. This cluster is followed a distant second by scenes featuring a heroic Ali and other Shi`i Imams, notably of the eighth Imam, Riza, and the twelfth and final figure, the Mahdi, whose anticipated return represents the ultimate in eschatological symbols. All of these are accompanied by esoteric interpretations of associated Qur’anic texts. Many of the images’ depictions of persons are reminiscent of images in our three target manuscripts­– ­including body types (especially the anatomically impossible head angle), clothing and footwear. Also of interest here are images illustrating works on the “‘marvels of creation’ (especially Qazwini’s Aja`ib al-makhluqat), which include images of the Prophet and of which Murad III commissioned a Turkish translation.32 Sufi hagiographical traditions An essential consideration here is the extensive body of literature dedicated to preserving the lives of major Sufi exemplars. From a structural perspective, three principal types of hagiographic work have been dedicated to the lives and works of major Sufi leaders: hagiographical anthologies, mono-hagiographies and a kind of hybrid of these in substantial works dedicated to extended treatment of multiple figures celebrated as quasi-dynastic leaders of a single Sufi Order. Sufi hagiographical anthologies Anthologised lives of spiritual exemplars have taken two principal forms: as segments offering bio-summaries of prominent Sufis built into compendia or manuals dedicated to more or less systematic treatments of Sufi spirituality; and free-standing works containing as many as several hundred bio-sketches. The former represent arguably the earliest form of Sufi hagiographical writing. They appeared most prominently in three of the more influential manuals of Sufi thought: Sarraj’s (d. 988, Khurasan) Book of Light Flashes (Kitab al-Luma`), Qushayri’s (d. 1072, Nishapur) Treatise on Sufism (Ar-Risalat alQushayriya) and Hujwiri’s (d. 1072, Lahore) Revelation of Realities Veiled (Kashf al-Mahjub), the first such work in Persian. Unlike free-standing anthologies, works of this genre have never inspired illustrated manuscripts.

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Four of the most important free-standing anthologies, two each in Arabic and Persian, represent a significant flourishing of interest beginning in the early eleventh century. The Arabic Generations of Sufis (Tabaqat as-Sufiya­– o ­ riginally a collection of some 1,000 bio-sketches) by Sulami (d. 1021, Nishapur) and a Persian revision/­ adaptation thereof by Ansari of Herat (d. 1089) attracted many readers. Just a bit later than Sulami, Abu Nu`aym of Isfahan (Persia, d. 1038) completed the multi-volume Ornament of the Friends of God (Hilyat al-Awliya) with 691 mini-life stories. Nearly two centuries later, and on Sulami’s home turf, Farid ad-Din Attar (d. 1221, Nishapur) modelled his Persian Recollections of the Friends of God (Tadhkirat al-Awliya) in part on both Abu Nu`aym and Sulami. Only Attar inspired illustrated manuscripts but they were of a non-hagiographic genre, namely his Conference of the Birds (Mantiq at-Tayr). For present purposes, the most important illustrated anthology is Jami’s Warm Breaths of Intimacy (Nafahat al-Uns) in the Chester Beatty Library. As I have noted above in connection with several works, Jami as well as other members of the Naqshbandi Sufi order left their marks on texts created far west of the order’s ancestral Central Asian homelands and Jami’s home city, Herat. Patrons and artists in many a Middle Eastern royal court expended time and treasure producing spectacularly beautiful versions of Jami’s more famous works of didactic/mystical poetry. Of this hagiography we have only two extant illustrated manuscripts, one from Mughal India and one from late sixteenth-century Baghdad with nine spectacular paintings. Three of the latter are particularly relevant for present purposes: one illustrating the execution of Hallaj (the story of which Rumi tells in Aflaki); one scene depicting ninth-century Shaykh Junayd (d. 910) preaching from a minbar and surrounded by other famed Sufis; and a third whose key iconographic tag is again ‘preacher on a minbar’, but here depicting two moments in two visual spaces­– ­one of a famous Sufi on a minbar telling a story of Muhammad preaching (also from a minbar) and whom the artist shows as if in a dream-image to which the first Sufi gestures. Multiple images of the preaching theme appear in manuscripts of interest here.33 Another example of the genre is the idiosyncratic but intriguing The Sessions of the Lovers (Majalis al-Ushshaq). It includes some seventy-two ‘short biographies of celebrated figures, mystics, poets (who are often themselves Sufis) and rulers, narrating their loves with a view to explaining that one cannot reach true spiritual love without having endured and understood the pangs of earthly longing.’ Though it may lack the gravitas one might expect in genuinely hagiographical literature, it does pay tribute to major figures including Rumi, Fakhr ad-Din Iraqi (who makes several cameo appearances in Aflaki) and Jami. Kamal ad-Din Gazurgahi of Herat dedicated the work in 1502 to the famed Timurid patron of the arts, Husayn Bayqara (d. 1506). A major Sufi influence on the Timurid court was

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another illustrious Herati, none other than Jami.34 Safawid patrons also funded several illustrated manuscripts of the Majalis, creating a fascinating mystico-royal amalgam, as Kishwar Rizvi observes: The love of God that Gazurgahi explores in his text was overlaid with the charismatic authority deployed by Safawid rulers in the rituals of devotion they enacted and also manifest in the cultural productions of their courtly milieu. This overlay of worldly and esoteric themes may be among the reasons that the text became so popular during the sixteenth century. Spiritual authority was made incarnate in the body of the Shah, just as divine love was personified by human subjects, such as Majnun.35 This work shares a number of features embodied in my next example as well. Illustrations of importance for the present study include: Sa`di in the bathhouse (Topkapı H. 829, 92b); Rumi whirling with disciples (Ouseley, Add. 24, 119a); Rumi whirling at Salah’s gold shop (BL IO Islamic 1138, 113a); dervishes whirling (BL IO Islamic 1138, 43a); and multiple images of Hallaj at the gallows. Sufi mono-hagiographies Hagiographic works dedicated to a single Sufi shaykh, typically an order’s founding figure or eponymous ancestor, began to appear in Arabic and Persian around the early eleventh century. But illustrated versions are exceedingly hard to find. One rare example is a monohagiography sponsored by a Shi`i patron of the Safawid Empire. Fetvacı and Gruber describe this work as an illustrated version of Ibn Bazzaz’s Safwat as-Safa (The Quintessence of Purity), which recounts episodes in the life Shaykh Safi al-Din (d. 1334), eponym of the Safawid dynasty. Although there may have been other copies originally, only one, dated 1582, survives. One of the greatest of all patrons of book arts, Shah Tahmasp, commissioned in 1533 a revised version of an earlier text in which Muhammad foretold the advent of a great Sufi wonderworker. As monarch of an officially Twelver Shi`a state, Tahmasp wanted a document that cast the Safawid patriarch as unambiguously Shi`ite in his views, and required the formulation of a lineage that traced Safi’s roots all the way back to Ali himself. The manuscript’s fourteen images emphasise the shaykh’s clairvoyance, miraculous powers and the ability to escape death at the hands of even the craftiest of assailants.36 I will return to this work in Chapter Seven. This illustrated version of the Safwat as-Safa is also a fine example of the roles of women as patrons of mystically tinged visual arts. Bruno De Nicola’s study of female patrons in Ilkhanid Iran and Anatolia is meant to

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show that, in the relationship between women and shaykhs in Ilkhanid lands, personal relationships cohabited with the religious legitimation that patronage could provide to rulers, suggesting a combination of political convenience and personal involvement in the process of the Islamisation of the Mongols. Women made notable contributions to religious architecture in Saljuk Anatolia beginning in the early twelfth century and prominent Sufis often had significant interaction with women of the court.37 Aflaki and Mawlawi hagiography in context As a literary work in the broad category of hagiography, Aflaki’s contribution is a ‘hybrid’, occupying the mid-ground between the monohagiography and the anthology. Earlier hagiographies composed by Sepahsalar and Rumi’s son Sultan Walad supplied a good deal of material but Aflaki is far and away Rumi’s most important hagiographer.38 At the behest of Rumi’s grandson Arif Chalabi (d. 1320), Aflaki began writing his Persian Wondrous Feats of the Knowers of God in 1318, more than four decades after Rumi’s death. Aflaki gathered the order’s narrative heritage concerning Rumi’s father, Rumi himself (most of the book) and several of his successors in leadership of the Mawlawi community, across four generations in all. His is arguably the most important early work of its kind and the only one dedicated entirely to Rumi and the Mawlawiyya. Aflaki’s method in constructing this masterwork appears at first to be more or less chronological, in that his nine main chapters are titled after an historical succession of major figures. He begins with Rumi’s father, Baha ad-Din Walad and follows with a brief section on Burhan ad-Din, Baha Walad’s de facto successor and Rumi’s first important mentor. By far the largest chapter is, not surprisingly, dedicated to Rumi himself. Subsequent chapters focus in turn on Rumi’s first spiritual mentor, Burhan ad-Din, teacher (and alter ego) Shams of Tabriz, Salah ad-Din the Goldsmith, Husam ad-Din, Rumi’s ‘secretary’ in composition of the Mathnawi and initial successor to leadership of the Mawlawi community, Rumi’s eldest son, Sultan Walad and ending with Rumi’s grandsons Amir Arif Chalabi and his half-brother Amir Abid. A very brief tenth chapter reprises Rumi’s entire lineage in genealogical shorthand. Notwithstanding his generally chronological overall structure, the material in each chapter is assembled in an agglutinative, paratactic and often apparently haphazard method in which free association or even a virtual stream of consciousness governs the succession of themes and anecdotes. For example, many specific episodic accounts begin with ‘Similarly . . .’ or ‘And again . . .’ or ‘Some also narrated that . . .’ and then introduce a character or story one might have expected either earlier or later in his overall narrative. This ­frequent

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flashing both backwards and forwards suggests that Aflaki is more interested in thematic and relational interconnectedness than in chronological continuity. Translator John O’Kane offers a helpful characterisation of Aflaki’s communicative style. Showing only ‘the thinnest shadow of a plot . . . or a dramatic build-up over a longer sequence of anecdotes’, the text is often a ‘sea of heterogeneous anecdotal material’. On the other hand, he observes that ‘an accumulation of stylized perspectives and circumstantial detail’ can, surprisingly perhaps, present a ‘rich and vivid portrait of a particular medieval culture and mentality.’39 In the wider context of medieval Anatolian exemplars Gottfried Hagen contributes a final ingredient to the broader cultural interpretation of these narrative traditions. He has studied Anatolian ‘heroic hagiography’ during the century or so after Aflaki completed his masterwork (as the young Ottoman movement was taking hold in Anatolia) and prior to the era of massive Ottoman expansion. He suggests a useful way of understanding the broader socio-political contexts limned out in those narratives, an approach I believe is applicable to the present exploration. He juxtaposes ‘didactic literature, teaching a regularized Sufi path, predicated on structure and order’ with fifteenth-century ‘heroic hagiography’ that characteristically lacks ‘a particular set of doctrines and practices’. In that literature, the ‘immutable and unintelligible character of the “chaotic” world does not leave a path to redemption in this world; therefore, world rejection remains as the only option.’ He argues that by focusing on the efficacy of deeds done by individuals who wield ‘supernatural strength’ in none-too subtle ways, heroic hagiography ‘minimizes the believers’ agency in worldly affairs, and thus ultimately has a stabilizing effect on existing power relations.’ Hagen argues further that heroic hagiography sits between ‘order Sufism’ and antinomianism in that ‘world neglect and veneration of the saint as a redemptive figure emerged as the crucial features of this hagiography’. As the Ottomans gained ascendancy in Anatolia and the Balkans, larger organisational frameworks subsumed and ‘regularized’ saintly cults as integral to a larger religio-political order. Classical Sufi teachings became the touchstone of authenticity by which ancient legendary lore was re-appropriated. As a result, ‘new saints emerged, while increasing emphasis was put on beliefs and practices in the sense of a state-sponsored orthodoxy. Where heroic hagiography survived, it did so confined to the realm of “popular” religion.’40 I believe our three manuscripts are manifestations of the changing dynamic behind the rise of saintly traditions Hagen describes here.

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On to manuscripts and method Against this broad backdrop, my reconstruction will seek to present the larger story according to a series of three broad themes implicit in Aflaki’s work: The Virtuous Community (built around Rumi’s extended family) planted in a Muslim Society within a cosmos sustained by Divine Providence. First, images of four generations depict the Family Rumi, along with four key non-family individuals, as the heart of a Virtuous Community. This will encompass Rumi’s extended family and lineage as well as scenes and patterns of early Mawlawi life (even before there was a formal ‘order’ structure) and the critical role of pedagogical storytelling in inculcating wisdom in the community’s members. Aflaki offers a hint as to the nature of this community in his introduction’s expression of hope that his work may be a ‘reminder among the people of spiritual presence and the brethren of light’ of the path to the Lord. Second, Aflaki situates this Virtuous Community squarely in the midst of an explicitly Muslim Society. Clustered under this theme will be events and figures in the social, religious and political contexts of thirteenth-century Konya and greater Anatolia in which Rumi and Company acted and to which they contributed. Major interlocutors include the ubiquitous chief minister of the sultan and a variety of religious scholars, judges and lay supporters of both local and regional contingents of Muslim society. Sub-themes will include a host of metaphors for and manifestations of religio-spiritual authority and its superiority to secular oversight, so that the ‘Sultan of Religious Scholars “outranked” the Sultan of Commanders‘.41 Third, a multi-faceted array of miraculous episodes characterises Aflaki’s view of creation and the cosmos as the theatre of divine engagement in human affairs. In particular, he notes that he included many ‘reports expounding the miracles of these great personages’ so as to demonstrate their authority, both epistemic and charismatic. Chapter Three will now focus on the three Ottoman illustrated manuscripts. Notes  1. Fetvacı and Gruber, ‘Painting, from Royal to Urban Patronage’, in A Companion to Islamic Art and Architecture, p. 884.  2. See Felek, ‘Reading the Mi`raj Account as Theatrical Performance: the Case of Ma`arij al-Nubuwwa’, in The Prophet’s Ascension: Crosscultural Encounters with the Islamic Mi`raj Tales; Giardino, Images of the Prophet in the Narrative of the Ascension; Gruber, The Book of Ascension: A Persian Sunni Devotional Tale; Gruber, The Timurid ‘Book Of Ascension’ (Miʻrajnama): A Study of Text and Image in a Pan-Asian Context; Gruber and Colby, The Prophet’s Ascension: CrossCultural Encounters with the Islamic Mi’raj Tales.   3. Roxburgh, ‘Concepts of the Portrait in the Islamic Lands, c. 1300–1600’,

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in Dialogues in Art History, from Mesopotamian to Modern: Readings for a New Century, Studies in the History of Art, pp. 120–3. For a fine interpretation of the Mi`rajnama’s portrayal of Muhammad, see Gruber, The Praiseworthy One: The Prophet Muhammad in Islamic Texts and Images.   4. Further on the close connections between the Mamluk and Ottoman dynasties, see Muslu, The Ottomans and the Mamluks: Imperial Diplomacy and Warfare in the Islamic World. Most Mamluk sultans were well-connected to Sufis of various kinds, and Barquq chose a Turkish-speaking tutor for his son.  5. Tanındı, Siyer-i Nebi. An illustrated cycle of the Life of Muhammad and its place in Islamic Art, p. 10.   6. Further on links between Anatolian heroic literature and hagiography, see Hagen, ‘Heroes and Saints in Anatolian Turkish Literature’, Oriente Moderno.   7. Fetvacı and Gruber, ‘Painting, from Royal . . .’, p. 885.  8. Tanındı, Siyer, pp. 10–15.  9. Gruber, Praiseworthy One, pp. 253–8. 10. Milstein and Moor, ‘Wonders of a changing world: late illustrated `aja`ib manuscripts (part I)’, JSAI 3:26. 11. Fisher, ‘A Reconstruction of the Pictorial Cycle of the Siyar-i NabÈ of Muråd III’, Ars Orientalis 14, p. 76. 12. Roxburgh, ‘Concepts’, p. 126. 13. Thackston, Tales of the Prophets of al-Kisa`i, pp. 11–26. See also Tha`labi, Ara’is al-Majalis fi Qisas al-Anbiya, Or: Lives of the Prophets and Klar, Interpreting al-Tha`labi’s Tales of the Prophets: Temptation, Responsibility and Loss. 14. Milstein, Rührdanz and Schmitz, Stories of the Prophets: Illustrated Manuscripts of the Qißaß al-Anbiyå`, pp. 5 and 17. 15. Summarising from MPOB 100–8. 16. Erginba∞, ‘Problematizing Ottoman Sunnism: Appropriation of Islamic History and Ahl al-Baytism in Ottoman Literary and Historical Writing in the Sixteenth Century’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 60, pp. 619–20 and 626. 17. Yıldırım, ‘Shiitization of the Futuwwa Tradition in the Fifteenth Century’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 40:1, p. 60. 18. Gruber, Praiseworthy One, pp. 199–250. 19. Soucek, ‘The Life of the Prophet: Illustrated Versions’, in Content and Context of Visual Arts in the Islamic World, p. 194; see also Soucek, ‘An Illustrated Manuscript of al-Biruni’s Chronology of Ancient Nations’, in The Scholar and the Saint 20. Rosenthal, A History of Muslim Historiography, p. 216. 21. Robert Hillenbrand, ‘The Edinburgh Biruni Manuscript: A Mirror of its Time?’, JRAS Series 3, p. 199; see also his ‘Images of Muhammad in al-Biruni’s Chronology of Ancient Nations’, in Persian Painting from the Mongols to the Qajars: Studies in Honour of Basil W. Robinson, especially pp. 133–5 on his interpretation of the Shi`i-themed images. 22. Gruber, Praiseworthy One, pp. 64–85. 23. Blair, A compendium of chronicles: Rashid al-Din’s illustrated history of the world and ‘Illustrating History: Rashid al-Din and his Compendium of Chronicles’, in Illustrating History: Rashid al-Din and his Compendium of Chronicles, Iranian Studies. See also Gruber, Praiseworthy One, pp. 91–4, 104–10, 116–22; Robert Hillenbrand,

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‘Muhammad as Warrior: Images from the World History of Rashid al-Din’, in The Image of the Prophet between Ideal and Ideology and ‘The Arts of the Book in Ilkhanid Iran’, in The Legacy of Genghis Khan. 24. Ghiasian, Lives of the Prophets: The Illustrations to Hafiz-i Abru’s ‘Assembly of Chronicles’; Gruber, Praiseworthy One, pp. 94–100. 25. Milstein et al., Stories of the Prophets, pp. 5–6. See also Thackston’s translation of the latter 26. Roxburgh, ‘Concepts of the Portrait . . .’ image of Ali destroying idols at the Ka`ba on p. 119. 27. Ça©man and Tanındı, ‘Illustration and the Art of the Book in the Sufi Orders in the Ottoman Empire’, SSOS, 519, figs 11, 12. Ms. data summarised from Milstein, Baghdad, pp. 110–11. Baha al-Din Walad preaching, H. 1230, fol. 112a; Mawlana meeting Shams, H. 1230, fol. 121a. Two related images depict major twelfth -century Sufi Abd alQadir Gilani accosted by bandits, H. 1230, fol. 107b; and an audience of two major figures in Rumi’s world, Kay Khusraw III and Mu`in al-Din Parwana, H. 1230, fol. 194a. Melis Taner offers a detailed description of this product of Hasan Pasha’s patronage in ‘Two Paths to Power: Sokolluzade Hasan Pa∞a and Hadım Yusuf Pa∞a and Their Art Patronage in Early-Seventeenth-Century Baghdad’, Osmanlı Ara∞tırmaları/The Journal of Ottoman Studies. 28. Rogers, ‘The Genesis of Safavid Religious Painting’, p. 168. 29. See Ettinghausen, ‘Persian Ascension Miniatures of the Fourteenth Century’. 30. Gutmann and Moreen, ‘The Conflict between Moses and Og in Muslim Miniatures’, Bulletin of the Asia Institute, p. 119. See also Ettinghausen, ‘An Illuminated Manuscript of Hafiz-i Avru’ and Yetkin, ‘An Illuminated Manuscript of the Zubdat-al-Tavarih’. 31. Farhad and Ba©ci, Falnama: The Book of Omens, p. 73. 32. Ibid. 33. For example, in the much-illustrated Shi`i hagiography, the Garden of the Felicitous: Prophet preaching just before his death (Brooklyn Museum of Art, New York, 70.143, fol. 144a; and Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris, Supp. turc 1088, fol. 65a.; and in the martyrology, The Killing of the Family of the Messenger, British Library, London, Or. 7328, fol. 3a, and Metropolitan Museum New York, 55.121.40, dispersed leaf. Images of Zayn al-`Abidin preaching appear in the Garden of the Felicitous, Brooklyn Museum of Art, Brooklyn, fol. 560a; British Library, London, Or. 12009, fol. 269b; Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris, Supp. turc 1088, fol. 263a; and Museum of Turkish and Islamic Arts, Istanbul, T. 1967, fol. 271b. On parallel minbar scenes: Robert Hillenbrand, ‘Images of Muhammad in al-Biruni’s Chronology of Ancient Nations’, in Persian Painting from the Mongols to the Qajars: Studies in Honour of Basil W. Robinson comments on the ‘universality’ of the genre scene ‘fully appropriate for an image dealing with the enunciation of doctrine’, blending religious and secular authority. ‘As for the minbar, its form is unmistakably anachronistic, for it has much more in common with the developed `Abbasid type as at Qairawan than with the version known in the seventh century, of which Umayyad coins seem to preserve an echo.’ (p. 131). 34. See for example Melville, ‘Sultans and Lovers: Gazorgahi’s Tales of Royal Infatuation’, Iran: Journal of the British Institute of Persian Studies.

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35. Rizvi, ‘Between the Human and the Divine: The Majålis al-ushshåq and the Materiality of Love in Early Safavid Art’, in Ut Pictura Amor: The Reflexive Imagery of Love in Artistic Theory and Practice, 1500–1700, p. 263. 36. For a full study see Erkmen, ‘The visualization of Shaykh Safi al-Din Ishaq Ardabili: A unique illustrated copy of the Safvat al-Safa at the Aga Khan Museum collection and its illustrations’, Iranian Studies and Fetvacı and Gruber,‘Painting, from Royal to Urban Patronage’, p. 884. 37. De Nicola, ‘Patrons or MurÈds? Mongol Women and Shaykhs in Ilkhanid Iran and Anatolia’, Iran 52:1, p. 144. 38. Lewis argues that Sepahsalar’s Risala was completed by the author’s son between 1320 and 1338; RPP 244-45. Nicolas Trépanier, in ‘Starting without Food: Fasting and the Early MawlawÈ Order’, in Starting with Food: Culinary Approaches to Ottoman History, pp. 1–21, especially p. 19n 13, agrees that it was likely contemporary with Aflaki’s work but acknowledges that further scholarship is needed to make a solid case. 39. MA p. xix. 40. Hagen, ‘Chaos, Order, Power, Salvation: Heroic Hagiography’s Response to the Ottoman Fifteenth Century’, Journal of the Ottoman and Turkish Studies Association 1:1-2, pp. 106–9. See also his ‘Heroes and Saints in Anatolian Turkish Literature’. For a most entertaining example of a major ‘heroic saint’ of the age, see Anetshofer, ‘Legends of Sarı Saltık in the Seyahatname and the Bektashi Oral Tradition’, in Eviliya Celebi: Studies and Essays Commemorating the 400th Anniversary of his Birth. 41. MA p. 13.

CHAPTER THREE

Visualised Hagiography: Manuscript and Method

Building upon Chapter Two’s overview of Islamic hagiography, with special reference to literary works that survive in richly illustrated manuscripts, our focus here narrows to consideration of one major hagiography­– t­hat of Aflaki in three extant illustrated manuscripts. One Persian abridgement and two Turkish translations thereof represent selections from Aflaki’s work. Essential ingredients begin with 1) Sufis and sultans: patronage and politics; 2) a description of the three sixteenth-century texts commissioned by an Ottoman sultan; 3) images unique or shared: an inventory of the images illustrating assorted anecdotes in each of the manuscripts; 4) comparison of the choices and arrangements of images among the three manuscripts; 5) a summary of key stylistic and iconographic themes; and 6) an approach to visual-verbal hermeneutics. Appended to the chapter is a table paralleling scenes from the three manuscripts in relation to Aflaki’s accounts and summarising data comparatively. Royal patronage of the visual arts Aflaki’s own accounts of the importance of images of major religious figures as well a striking example of female patronage make a suitable backdrop against which to explore the larger subject of Ottoman imperial patronage of our three key manuscripts. In one account, Aflaki tells of how Gurji Khatun (d. 1246), wife of an important Saljuk leader and a devotee of Rumi, commissioned an originally Christian painter to create multiple images of Rumi that she could take with her as a token of Rumi’s presence. Mawlana agreed to ‘sit’ for a portrait, saying in effect, ‘go ahead, if you can do it’. Each time the painter completed a version, he looked back at Rumi only to see a different image of him­– ­twenty times in succession. Beside himself in bewilderment, painter Ayn ad-Dawla destroyed his pens and fell prostrate before the ‘real’ Rumi before delivering the images

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to his patroness. In the second account, Ayn ad-Dawla hears from a second ‘Greek’ (that is, formerly Christian) painter and disciple of Rumi, Kaluyan, that there is in Constantinople a wondrous painting of Jesus and Mary. Ayn ad-Dawla travels to the monastery and, after a year’s stay, takes the painting to Konya to show Rumi. As he listens to the complaints of the pictured pair about the painter’s mistreatment, Ayn ad-Dawla replies that the figures have no soul. Although he genuinely enjoys the picture, Mawlana berates the painter for loving a soul-less artefact while abandoning the Creator of all things. At that, the painter professes Islam.1 Filiz Ça©man and Zeren Tanındı explore various aspects of Mawlawi, Ilkhanid and Ottoman imperial patronage of illuminated and illustrated Sufi works. They note that Rumi’s son Sultan Walad and grandson Arif Chalabi both cultivated relationships with princely figures in Baghdad, Tabriz (northwestern Iran) and points further east, where influential illustrated versions of the Shahnama and Mi`rajnama (among many others) would be produced over the subsequent centuries and whither branches of the Mawlawi order would soon spread. More importantly for present purposes, they describe how ‘interest displayed by the Mawlawi elite’ eventually became an important ingredient in the arts of the book. Equally significant was the involvement of other Sufi orders in producing and fostering similar works. Of particular relevance here are their findings concerning the burgeoning interest in illustrated religious and hagiographical texts among Sufi groups in Baghdad, especially towards the end of the sixteenth century, where Ottoman provincial rule was firmly entrenched. ‘The topics treated in the illustrated works produced in Ottoman Baghdad between 1590 and 1606, the copying and ownership records and the seals show that these were produced in a Sufi environment to suit the taste of members of the ruling class.’ A symbiotic relationship thus both supported the Orders financially and rendered the populace more favourably disposed towards rulers who cultivated spiritual interests.2 When Sulayman I’s son Salim II died in 1574 his son Murad III secured his succession by ordering the assassination of his five younger brothers. During his twenty-one year reign, the Ottoman Empire reached its broadest expanse, retaining control of northwestern Iran, all of Iraq and the holy cities of Mecca and Medina. Murad was responsible for the production of many richly illustrated manuscripts, including the seminal Siyar-i Nabi and very likely all three of our manuscripts of abridged versions of Aflaki’s hagiography. Murad’s son Mehmed III evidently continued his father’s interests and patronage.3 Enter Hasan Pasha (d. 1602), governor of Baghdad and trusted courtier of several sultans, including Murad III (r. 1574–95) and Mehmed III (r. 1595–1603), and major facilitator in the production of our three manuscripts. After a two-year war between the expanding Ottoman

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Empire and its long-time Persian Safawid adversary, Sultan Murad III and Shah Abbas I concluded a 1590 peace treaty that set the stage for the rich cultural cross-pollination that, in turn, made possible our three manuscripts. Hasan Pasha would continue to burnish his celebrity credentials as a major patron of the visual arts. His well-attested affinity with the Mawlawi Order is reflected in the central themes of this remarkable trio of illustrated hagiographic manuscripts. A prime example of Hasan Pasha’s involvement is his patronage of The Collected Life-stories (Jami` as-Siyar) by a murid (aspirant) of the Suhrawardi Order in Baghdad. This unusual version of the genre ‘universal history’ is also testimony to the growing currency of ‘pan-Sufi’ interests in its inclusion of two images of major Mawlawi themes­– ­Baha Walad preaches in Balkh (just before departing for the Middle East) and Rumi’s initial meeting and conversation with Shams of Tabriz.4 Aflaki illustrated: three manuscripts and their contents Aflaki’s Persian text appeared between 1318 and 1354 under the patronage of Rumi’s grandson Arif Chalabi. Around 1540, Ottoman Sultan Sulayman I the Magnificent commissioned Abd al-Wahhab ibn Muhammad Hamadhani to produce an abridged Persian version of Aflaki’s Wondrous Feats of the Knowers of God under the title The Shining Stars of the Wondrous Feats of the Knowers of God (Thawaqib manaqib al-arifin). An illustrated version of the Persian abridgement, O Nova 94, with nine images in 181 folios, may have been the earliest of our three manuscripts. Occupying its final eight folios (173b–181b) is the Nay-nama (Book/Poem of the Reed Flute) of the widely influential Naqshbandi Sufi poet of Herat Abd ar-Rahman Jami (d. 1492), a poetic commentary on the opening lines of Rumi’s Mathnawi. Chapter Seven will offer an explanation of the function of this poetic coda. According to Barbara Schmitz, an early Turkish rendering of the abridged Persian also appeared in 1540 in honour of Sulayman I. Some fifty years after the Persian abridgement appeared (c. 1590), Sultan Murad III commissioned another Turkish translation from the Persian. A renowned ‘Mathnawi-reciter’ at the Konya mausoleum named Darvish Mahmud Dede (d. 1602) did the honours, learning of the sultan’s interest in mysticism when Mahmud visited Istanbul in 1589. After Murad III retained his services, Mahmud returned to Konya in 1590 to begin the work. He apparently completed it towards the end of Murad’s life and Mahmud Dede lived to see the completion of two late 1590s illustrated versions of this Translation of the Shining Stars: the Morgan Library’s (M466), which now contains twenty-nine pictures and was certainly produced in Baghdad; and the Topkapı Saray Museum manuscript (Revan 1479), copied in

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1599, with twenty-two images and likely produced at least partially in Konya. Revan is complete at 289 folios, while the Morgan’s 185 extant folios represent a loss of as many as twelve pictures and around one hundred folios. All three illustrated works date from the latter part of Murad III’s reign and the early years of Mehmed III’s rule (1595–1603).5 An essential prologue to an exploration of the larger purposes and design considerations of the three manuscripts is a bare-bones inventory of the episodes pictured in each. Prefixed to each imageentry here (in parentheses) is a number indicating the scene’s relative location in Aflaki’s hagiography, giving an indication of how the ­illustrated manuscripts departed from the primary text’s arrangement. In addition, asterisks indicate images that appear only once in our manuscripts. Suffice it to note, for the moment, that while O Nova departs from Aflaki’s story-order in only one instance (167b), Revan and Morgan have both diverged from Aflaki quite dramatically. I will return to consider the implications of this phenomenon later. O Nova 94 order of images: (1) 21a Baha Walad preaches in a Konya cemetery (3) *30b Burhan ad-Din listens to a female disciple (5) *37b Rumi received by Kaysari dignitaries who vie to offer him lodging (35) *134a Sultan Walad seeks missing Shams, finds a young Frank who is secret Qutb (38) *141a Husam prays for rain for Konya (40) 151b Rumi and Husam at reception of Parwana (43) *158b Sultan Walad preaches in Kaysari (17) *167b Arif Chalabi and the royal falcon (50) *170b Chalabi Amir Abid (or Zahid?) death scene Revan 1479 order of images: (1) 14b Baha Walad preaches in Konya cemetery (30) *35a Rumi gives his belt to a blind beggar in Aksaray (22) *54b Rumi meets a visiting priest from Constantinople (14) *82b Rumi’s small candle outlasts candles of guests of the Parwana (19) *95b The First Battle of Konya – Mongol siege of General Baju (20) *88a Rumi and the pilgrim returned to his caravan after being lost (27) *101b Rumi saves a ship from sinking (15) *110a Rumi corrects observers at sama` (33) 115a Rumi and the water monster (42) *125a Rumi reprimands Sultan Walad’s unconcern over minor faults (50) 132b Scene in a hammam with dervish clothes in change room

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(23) *146b Story of the stingy vizier and the potter (18) *166b Rumi keeps the Parwana waiting (13) 171a Rumi liberates the supplicant ox (29) 176a Moses and the Giant Og (34) *215a Assassins arrive to take Shams (36) *219b Rumi whirls at Salah ad-Din’s goldsmith shop (41) *238a Abdal come to take Rumi’s sons away (44) *246b Rumi miraculously heals a boil on baby Arif’s neck (47) *261a Arif cures Akhi Muhammad the Mad in Sivas (49) *275b Arif sits in a newly returned marble basin (X) *279b Saqi gives a drink to a ‘madman’ who toasts to the deaths of Sultan and Sana’i Morgan M466 order of images: (1) 13a Baha Walad preaches in Konya cemetery (2) *14a Sultan’s courtier disrupts Rumi’s visit to father’s mausoleum (21) *15a Khidr listens to Rumi preach (25) *18a Abdal take the Mawlawi water carrier (9) *21b Rumi plugs his ears and the death of Kilich Arslan IV (16) *29a Rumi raises flutist Hamza (4) *34a Rumi leaves Aleppo madrasa (11) *38a Dispute with qadi about use of music in ritual (7) *58a Rumi healing a Frankish king at a distance (33) 63b Rumi and the water monster (10) *66b Rumi and the marketplace dogs (28) *76b Rumi tells the Story of Seth (26) *83b Atabek’s endowment of a madrasa (?) *89b Shams and sun’s reflection in a pool (separated image) (20) 90b Rumi and disciples in hammam (46) *96a Story of Muhammad revealing secrets of the Mi`raj to Ali (8) *99b Hallaj executed (13) 107b Rumi liberates the supplicant ox (29) 111a Story of Moses and the Giant Og (24) *115b Story of a king being bled (31) *121a Rumi’s last meeting (32) *124a Rumi’s death (X) *131a Ottoman princes battle for Konya (6) *137a Story of Umar and Satan (40) 151b Rumi and Husam at the Parwana’s reception (39) *156a Husam’s dream of Muhammad reading Mathnawi before Ali and sons (37) *159a Scene of Mawlawi ritual (45) *166a Dream of the death of Akhi leader (48) *170b Arif discerns the death of Ghazan Khan (12) BMFA 07.692 * Rumi multiplies sweets (separated image) (?) *Mayer 58–96 Rumi whirls with four disciples

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Preliminary data: choice of themes, content and placement in the manuscripts It is noteworthy that O Nova 94 alone dedicates all of its images to events involving eight major Mawlawi figures and is the only manuscript to explicitly include a woman as a disciple of one of those figures. The manuscript’s core set of pictures therefore arguably centres entirely on internal concerns of the Order, to the virtual exclusion of wider contexts. Two notable exceptions are the scene in which the well-connected of Kaysari vie for the honour of offering the visiting Rumi hospitality and one in which a search for Shams leads to an episode that features the unexpected discovery of a young Frankish (that is, European) qutb in Syria. It is not clear to me why O Nova would be unique in this respect. In marked contrast, roughly two-thirds of Revan 1479’s twentytwo paintings illustrate scenes in which Rumi and other Mawlawi exemplars are pointedly engaged outside of the Family Rumi, with the non-Mawlawi wider public both within and beyond Konya. Major figures interact with non-Muslims (especially Christian monks), political figures (especially the sultan’s minister), disgruntled citizens observing sama`, non-human subjects (the water monster and the supplicant ox) and beings from a higher spiritual world (the abdal). They also appear several times outside of Konya (Erzurum, Aksaray, Antalya as Rumi saves an imperiled ship, and in a vaguely described region somewhere on a Hajj route). Revan also includes stories that involve moral critique (Walad’s sins, the stingy minister, healing Akhi Muhammad the Mad) and features outcomes of ethical and/or spiritual conversion (ship’s passengers, the ox and the water monster, Og with Moses, visiting Christian monks and an obstreperous religious figure of Erzurum). Morgan’s notable divergences from both O Nova and Revan include the addition of still wider engagement with political authorities and social rivals (the courtier’s disruption of Rumi’s visit to the sepulchral shrine, a Frankish king, the death of Sultan Kilich Arslan IV, the death of Mongol Ghazan Khan and conflict with Akhi organisations), and with religious authorities (a dispute about ritual use of music, Rumi leaving an Aleppo madrasa). A much larger number of major pre- and early Islamic figures also appear in M466 (Moses, Seth, Khidr, Muhammad, Ali and sons, and the Caliph Umar). Several questions come to the fore here: What scenes appear only in this trio, and how are they distributed among them? What are the unique scenes and how are they distributed among the three? As for specific choice of scenes, an important thematic issue concerns the appearance of individual major personages: Rumi and his family members, both biological and spiritual; then figures of more broadly religious and cultural import; and variations in the order of

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presentation of major thematic scene types. Finally, I will lay out a similar breakdown of types of scenes, distinguished by the kind of interaction depicted. Shared image-topics among the three Ottoman Rumi mss compared to other contemporaneous mss Only seven scenes occur in more than one of the manuscripts, and only one of those occurs in all three: Baha Walad preaching (all 3); Rumi and the ox (M, R); Husam and Rumi at the Parwana’s reception (M, O); Rumi and the water monster (M, R); Moses and Og (M, R); Bathhouse scenes, albeit based on separate Aflaki accounts (M, R); and battle scenes involving Konya­– i­n two different sieges, the earlier described in Aflaki (R), the later added by the Turkish translator (M). Only the first shared image appears at the same location in all three manuscripts (the first image). The striking fact that forty-seven remaining images illustrate unique episodes presents a considerable challenge to an attempt to determine a sense of purpose in selecting a set of narrative scenes for what is essentially a single text base. By contrast, a survey of the stories illustrated in seven contemporaneous manuscripts of Fuzuli’s Hadiqat as-Su`ada (Garden of the Felicitous) reveals a very high percentage of shared themes and very few unique images. For example: All seven manuscripts begin with a scene of Adam and Eve being expelled from the Garden, and all seven end with Zayn al-Abidin (Ali’s grandson) preaching from a minbar. All seven locate in second place an episode from the life of Abraham­– ­five with the prophet either in Nimrod’s fire or about to be catapulted into it. Two depict Abraham’s near-sacrifice of Ishmael in second place, while three locate that scene in third place. Five include images of Joseph either with the Ishmaelite merchants or already arrived in Egypt. Six of the seven include at least one image depicting the death of a major Shi`i figure: one of Ali, two of Fatima, three of Husayn (in addition to five other scenes featuring Husayn), and four of Hasan. Muhammad appears in five manuscripts. As a comparison, one could select virtually any three illustrated manuscripts of major classics like the Shahnama, the Persian Book of Kings, and find a significant number of figures and scenes shared by all three. Scenes unique to each of our three manuscripts Among O Nova’s seven unique images, one depicts a woman in a starring role; two feature Sultan Walad; two describe events involving grandsons (a miracle of Arif and the funeral of Amir Vajid [or Amir Zahid]); one depicts Husam performing a miracle; and in another Rumi interacts with dignitaries of Kaysari. Revan’s seventeen unique scenes include: six miracles of types

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not shown elsewhere; one generic scene of Mawlawi ritual life; one of Rumi with the minister (Parwana); one in which Rumi meets a visiting monk; one story of a stingy vizier; one scene in which Rumi is with Shams as assassins arrive to kill Shams; one of Rumi at Salah’s goldsmithing shop; two of Rumi with sons; and two featuring grandson Arif Chalabi. Morgan has a leading twenty-four unique scenes (accounting also for the two ‘separated’ images). These include five on the theme of Rumi’s relationships to religious and/or political authorities; six dealing with miracles of various types; three scenes related to early Mawlawi life; five illustrating stories told by Rumi or Shams; two on the relationships of son and grandson to other social or political groups or individuals; and two dealing with the end of Rumi’s life. Images appearing only in these three manuscripts collectively Raising a different set of questions altogether is the appearance of scenes that are unique to this set of illustrated manuscripts. I leave aside scenes that belong to genres found elsewhere, even when the specific narratives and individual actors in the scenes are different. So, for example, I am not including in this category the four images depicting a major figure preaching from a minbar, the two scenes in a hammam, assorted sessions of dervish rituals, the four depicting death-related episodes, or the two Konya battle scenes. Scenes that stand out in this regard include: the arrival of abdal (figures from the classical cosmic hierarchy of Sufism) to ‘borrow’ members of the Mawlawi community (Morgan), including even Rumi’s two sons (Revan); a story featuring Adam’s son Seth; a courtier disrupting visitors to Baha Walad’s mausoleum; an encounter of Rumi concerning the endowment of a madrasa; Husam’s dream of Muhammad reading the Mathnawi in the presence (apparently) of Ali’s two sons, Hasan and Husayn; Khidr attending and extolling a sermon by Rumi; and Rumi’s meeting with the important monk from Constantinople. How does one determine the nature of such specific choices? I submit that there may be important evidence in perhaps the most puzzling selection of all. I refer here to the presence in both Morgan and Revan of a scene in which Moses engages the giant Og (of Biblical fame, as in Number 21: 31–4).6 Scenes of Moses with Og are notably among the most widely represented in both Tales of the Prophets and several major universal histories (among other similar texts). All of these depict, in virtually identical format and detail, the moment when Moses leaps to whack the giant’s ankle with his wondrous staff, causing the behemoth to collapse into a lifeless heap. As recounted in both Tha`labi and Kisa`i, along with Rashid ad-Din and Hafiz-i Abru, Og has agreed to serve his king by hewing from a mountain a stone large enough to smash the entire army of Moses’ people. As Og is at the

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point of dropping the monolith on his intended target, God sends the hoopoe, along with countless other wondrous birds, to peck a hole in the stone, causing it to fall precisely around the giant’s neck. With Og reeling and disorientated, Moses then manages to disable him permanently with his staff.7 This is the image one might have expected our artists and their patron to select, and indeed, Aflaki alludes to that specific episode twice: once merely listing Og as one of five enemies over whom God made Moses victorious and once emphasising Og’s daunting enormity.8 Instead, Morgan and Revan chose to illustrate a scene that existed (to my knowledge) only in the imagination and poetry of Rumi himself. Aflaki takes his lead from Rumi by recording for posterity a discourse on ‘the benefits of hunger’, the uses of food in hospitality and as a source of gratitude (as in Abraham’s feeding a stranger) and lets Rumi riff on the symbolism of bread. The more elaborate, virtually stream of consciousness version of this discourse and its polyvalent symbolism appears in Rumi’s Mathnawi Book V, over nearly the first 300 verses. This astonishing narrative virtuosity features Abraham (at first), then morphs into a story in which it is Muhammad who extends hospitality to an uncouth giant who, like all infidels, devours his food with ‘seven stomachs’, that is to say, ravenously. Aflaki’s version (in the guise of a report of Rumi’s words) shifts the lead in the encounter to Moses, who solicitously offers to help Og get control over his appetite even as he becomes a believer, thus attaining spiritual equilibrium in the bargain. It serves Aflaki as a fitting conclusion to an unusually lengthy thematic segment that begins with a Prophetic Tradition (hadith) on the spiritual benefits of hunger and fasting, slides into a mini-treatise on gratitude as mediated by sayings of Ali and of several revered Sufis of old, and concludes with a blend of two values in Og’s miraculous satiety thanks to another prophet’s intervention. The segment is, in effect, a kind of frame-tale.9 In the unique choice of this image we find, I believe, a welcome clue to the larger mystery of the idiosyncratic choice of scenes found virtually nowhere but our three manuscripts: like Aflaki himself, the patrons and artists have made their choices by following the peculiarly imaginative lead of Rumi. I will revisit this key dynamic in Chapter Seven. Appearances of major personages and ‘types’(per manuscript) O Nova: Scenes Featuring Rumi: surprisingly, O depicts Rumi in only two of its nine pictures. Baha Walad appears once (preaching); Rumi appears twice (visit to Kaysari; with Husam at Parwana’s reception); Burhan appears twice, in Figs 4.9 and 5.16; Sultan Walad appears twice (seeking Shams, preaching); Arif appears once as the major player (charming the royal falcon); a great-grandson of Rumi appears once (death scene)­– ­one would expect that to be Amir Abid, given

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his importance, though the text on the image explicitly gives data for the death of his less prominent brother, Amir Zahid; and Husam ad-Din is featured in two pictures­– a­ s the sole key figure making rain, and with Rumi at the Parwana’s reception. Beyond Rumi’s inner circle and spiritual progeny, O Nova includes the only visual reference to a qutb (Sufi cosmic ‘axis’ or ‘pole’), but no other references to figures with broader religious significance, such as prophets or Sufis. With the notable exception of the civic dignitaries who compete to offer Rumi hospitality when he visits Kaysari, it does not feature any other religiously or culturally important characters beyond the Mawlawi community. Revan: Baha Walad appears once (preaching); Rumi stars in a total of sixteen paintings including ten in miracle-related events; Sultan Walad only twice (with Rumi both times, and with brother Ala ad-Din in one of those); Arif twice on his own (unmasking a charlatan and sitting in a returned marble basin) and once as recipient of a healing miracle; Shams appears only once (as assassins converge), as does Salah ad-Din (at his shop); Husam is missing only from this manuscript. Like Morgan, Revan depicts the prophet Moses once and the abdal who (in this instance) come to ‘borrow’ Rumi’s sons. As for explicit depiction of religious ‘others’, Revan is alone in its visual reference to Christians (as when the monk and his entourage meet Rumi), unless one includes a minor representation of non-Muslims referred to in the Morgan scene of Rumi’s funeral. Revan also includes multiple scenes that feature Muslim but nonMawlawi-related characters, such as voyagers on a ship that Rumi saves from foundering and assorted government officials. Morgan: includes Rumi himself in a remarkable twenty-four of its thirty-one paintings (here including the two ‘separated’ images)­– ­ten of them in relation to the exercise of preternatural powers. Sultan Walad appears only once (as compared to twice in R and O); Husam ad-Din appears explicitly twice (as in O Nova); and Arif Chalabi makes only one appearance. In addition to Rumi and his extended family, Morgan includes a credibly representative selection from the Islamic religious pantheon, such as the prophets Seth and Moses (2), the ever-mysterious Khidr, Muhammad (2), Ali and his sons Hasan and Husayn, the Caliph Umar, the abdal (2), and the martyr-mystic Hallaj. As for religious and cultural ‘others’, one image features characters of ‘Frankish’ ethnicity. Among leaders contemporary with Rumi and his community, Morgan includes the sultan’s minister (2), a murdered sultan, a regional governor (atabek) and a unique image of an Islamic judge. Arrangement and spacing in relation to Aflaki’s story-order O Nova: None of the three manuscripts follow Aflaki’s story-order strictly. O Nova comes closest to doing so, transplanting only the

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story of Arif charming the falcon (167b) from Aflaki’s location within the chapter on Rumi and placing it, logically enough, in parallel relationship to Aflaki’s chapter on Arif. The spacing of the images raises a major puzzlement about their distribution: three pictures occur within the first thirty-eight folios and the remaining six make their first appearance some one hundred folios later and occupy the relatively cramped confines of fewer than forty folios. Revan begins reordering scenes at will with its second image, located a surprising 157 folios after that. Revan, like Morgan, departs markedly from Aflaki’s story-order and offers just a hint as to a possible rationale in the sequence of illustrated scenes. Eight of the first ten images depict miracle-based encounters. By way of exceptions, Rumi meets and honours a Christian monk and bathes with disciples. Of the remaining twelve, nearly all resonate with themes of need for some sort of conversion, repentance, forgiveness or healing. The exception is the arrival of Shams’ would-be assassins. Morgan: after keeping the first three images in Aflaki order (as in O Nova), this manuscript begins toggling back and forth at random between still-early episodes in Aflaki and much later ones. On the other hand, Morgan’s overall spacing is the most consistent of the three with, at most, fifteen folios between pictures (without speculating on the possible implications of the likely loss of some one hundred folios and as many as twelve images). Morgan’s twenty-nine images are sprinkled more or less evenly across the 185 folios, but are arranged in an idiosyncratic thematic order and dramatically out of sync with Aflaki. Although I have not made the kind of careful survey that could provide exact statistics, I believe it is not unreasonable to suggest that, in light of the above data, these three manuscripts have far fewer shared thematic images than almost any three manuscripts illustrating, say, the Shahnama, Jami’s Seven Thrones, Nizami’s Quintet, examples from the Tales of the Prophets, Universal Histories, or Shi`i texts such as the Garden of the Felicitous. In other words, our three works suggest greater ‘independence’ with respect to choices of themes to be illustrated. And among our three, apart from the seven scenes depicted in more than one of them, the only common thematic ingredient is Aflaki’s hagiographic substrate itself. I suggest, therefore, that the most important information as to the whys and wherefores of our manuscripts’ choices of episodes for illustration lies in Aflaki’s own chief concerns, some of which in turn (as in the Og episode discussed above) are rooted in Rumi’s own works. I will address this topic sporadically in Chapters Four, Five and Six. Artists and styles: the ‘two school’ theory Filiz Ça©man and Nurhan Atasoy categorised a group of late sixteenth-/early seventeenth-century manuscripts as belonging to a

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tekke style of illustration. Among these they included Muhammad Tahir al-Suhrawardi’s Jami as-Siyar, half a dozen versions of Fuzuli’s Shi`a martyrology, the Garden of the Felicitous (Hadiqat al-su’ada’), as well as Mahmud Dede’s Turkish translation of the abridged Persian of Aflaki. According to Ça©man and Atasoy: The tekke style may actually have originated in the last quarter of the sixteenth century in the Ottoman court ateliers. It is further conceivable that painters as well as translators moved between the tekkes and the palace, for the Meriç pay records list only the amount of payment, not the physical location of specific painters.10 This stylistic judgement applies to at least seventeen of Revan’s images, whereas the Morgan and O Nova were almost certainly produced in Baghdad. As for composition, scholars have long spotlighted the habit of Baghdad school painters of situating their principal character at the centre, with groups of secondary figures clustered along diagonals or in triangular fashion.11 Concerning style in Revan, Milstein opines that, as with O Nova, ‘another of the Baghdad artists . . . did not agree with the rapid change of norms in the school’, and opted to retain older stylistic conventions.12 Carol Garrett Fisher suggests links between the ‘Baghdad style’ in the Siyar-i Nabi miniature cycle and two pictures in the Keir Collection that depict Muhammad and His Companions, and Muhammad in Paradise, respectively. Both scenes show figures with notably ‘outsized heads and varying physical proportions­– ­distinctive features, as we have seen, of the Baghdad style’. They are similar in size and as well as in the arrangement and style of the naskhi calligraphy. She adds that ‘the topics of the Keir paintings would fit easily into the pictorial hiatus in [Siyar-i Nabi’s] volume three’s Mi`raj series.’ In spite of Robinson’s tentative assignment of these paintings to the early seventeenth century, Fisher argues that ‘on the basis of this study it seems possible to propose an earlier, late sixteenth-century to early seventeenth-century date and to locate them in the Siyar-i Nabi cycle.’13 Barbara Schmitz argues that the twenty-two images in Revan were produced by two different artists: five are clearly recognisable as likely by the very accomplished painter of the Morgan pictures, while the remaining seventeen are clearly less sophisticated stylistically, though often, as I believe, quite clever in content and composition. The five in question here depict Baha Walad preaching (14b, comp M13a); Rumi giving a belt to blind beggar (35a); Rumi saving a ship from being lost at sea (101b); Rumi converting the water monster (115a, comp M63b), and Rumi freeing the supplicant ox (171a, comp. M107b). She also suggests that the Morgan pictures predated the Revan images slightly. As for architectural and decorative dis­ tinctiveness, the Morgan images suggest ‘south Persian culture’, as

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­evidenced by muqarnas domes, tan brick minarets and vaulted halls opening onto courtyards, among other features. Scenes of Mawlawi life in Morgan strongly hint that the painter had actually seen the activities depicted. As for general stylistic features, Schmitz sees the Morgan images as merging qualities of ‘slightly earlier Safawid and Ottoman characteristics’.14 With respect to O Nova, Milstein observes that ‘. . . in terms of style, it is close to the Morgan [Aflaki] . . . as can be seen from the brilliant color scheme, the fanciful pants, the variegated ceramic mosaic of the domes and minarets, and the human beings who recall Qazwin painting’, here evidently referring to a celebrated Falnama funded by Murad III. Unlike Morgan, though O Nova’s ‘iconography is original and faithful to the literary account’, it ‘displays neither symbolic interpretation nor intermingled time sequences’. Milstein suggests that because the artist continued to use ‘archaic elements’ rather than going enthusiastically for the innovations of the Baghdad school (as Morgan did), the c. 1595 manuscript was probably by an artist from Qazwin ‘who did not agree with the current tendencies in the style of Baghdad and continued to work in the leading style of the earlier stage.’15 As for style in Morgan, Milstein regards the iconography as ‘entirely original and designed to match the particular text . . .’ and displaying novel methods of using conceptual perspective and visualising spatio-temporal dimensions of the narrative. She concludes that the Morgan’s artists borrow motifs from Qazwin and Mashhad that result in a striking resemblance to Persian-style images. She considers this the most ‘daring and important’ product of the Baghdad school, a work whose ‘new realism’ and ‘popular folkloristic atmosphere’ as well as notably witty tone were seminal in the evolution of a ‘new pictorial symbolism’.16 Milstein situates Morgan in an earlier stage of the Baghdad school, close to the several Hadiqat as-Su`ada manuscripts and before the Beatty Library’s Jami hagiography (CBL T474). She argues that the images communicate in a manner that reflects Rumi’s own allusive poetic style ‘in which deeper meanings are achieved by the use of tales, fables, mythological legends, as well as elements of nature and society . . . [capturing] the special atmosphere and way of life of the Mawlawi order.’17 In this context, she contends that these pictures often ‘illustrate a verbal statement or abstract idea rather than an event as such’ [for example, Rumi’s love for Husam]; employ symbols and metaphors derived from mystical poetry; and use the device of the frame-tale combined with the visual telescoping of multiple times and places in an image­– ­before/after, inside/outside.18 These last observations are applicable to the paintings of O Nova 94 as well as to the five images in Revan 1479 done in the Baghdad style. In sum, all of Morgan and O Nova, as well as five images in Revan (some forty-five in total) represent the Baghdad style, while

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the remaining seventeen images in Revan represent the tekke style. Finally, Milstein sums up the characteristic compositional features of the Morgan: The concepts of space and time in the illustrations of this manuscript, which are so different from those of the court schools of Turkey and Persia, agree to a surprising extent with the world view of the Sufi, in which the physical world is understood to consist of six directions, to which God is both internal and external, and in which relative concepts of space and time exist. These concepts change according to, and depend on, the point of view of the individual, as for God there is no ‘early’ and ‘late’, no ‘before’ and ‘after’.19 I would add that these same features are evident in O Nova as well as the five Revan images in the Baghdad style. Life settings: architecture, costume, individuals, crowds and an icon of authority Milstein has studied ways that the Baghdad school incorporated ‘real life’ details, from the largest, in architecture, to the more minute features of items of clothing and simple utensils of daily life. She suggests that the Baghdad school in general depicted borrowed elements from other cultures ‘more realistically than in the countries of origin’, reflecting careful observation of cosmopolitan Ottoman life. Baghdad school artists typically knew only local architectural styles, and as a result architectural elements in a painting ‘may thus be regarded as the one most faithfully representing the geographical and historical circumstances of the school.’ Baghdad’s architectural diversity and pluralism served them well, and their images incorporated samples of both Turkish and Persian buildings. Signature themes include, for example, shortened minarets with prominent galleries with colourful mosaics, and rich tile-mosaic cladding on domes contrasting with the drabness of baked brick structures.20 Among these artists’ cleverest devices are decorative facades (pishtaq) of vaulted hallways (iwan) opening onto interior courtyards, particularly in madrasas, offering another, even broader, canvas for spectacular ceramic floral and geometric design. Such features had long been decorative staples in cities under Saljuk rule prior to their arrival in Anatolia (for example early medieval Isfahan in Iran). In some images, references to both Iranian and Turkish themes occur in a single building in a painting.21 As for details of costume and distinguishing features of human figures, Milstein describes various social strata commonly depicted. In addition to upper class Ottoman citizenry in sartorial finery, the school’s artists typically included a range of ‘ordinary’ folk of the

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sort that were rare in Ottoman and Persian miniatures generally. Tradespeople of all stripes include fishermen, gardeners, butchers, doorkeepers and the like, especially when mentioned in Aflaki’s (or other) texts. But, Milstein adds, members of various dervish groups often appear even when a text does not mention them at all, including socially marginal, solitary, unaffiliated and sometimes quirky antinomian types. Such individuals populate the images of all three of our manuscripts, sometimes in large clusters. Filiz Ça©man and Zeren Tanındı note that a common feature of many of the Baghdad school’s religiously themed manuscripts is the remarkable number of prominent turbans. ‘These pictures, which include depictions of various people belonging to the different Baghdad environments together with sheikhs and dervishes belonging to the various religious orders, clearly reflect the medley of beliefs in the city and the power of the administration.’ Turbaned figures frequently appear in diverse clusters of characters that burst out of a painting’s frame, evincing a far more imaginative and freewheeling social energy than do more typically regimented Ottoman group scenes.22 Other types that make regular appearances are spiritual paradigms (that is individuals representing specific religious roles/functions) from pre-Islamic prophets on down to Muhammad, the Caliph Umar and the Shi`i Imams at the pinnacle. For present purposes it is noteworthy that the prophets Moses, Khidr and Seth make appearances, as do Ali and his two sons, Hasan and Husayn. As for Friends of God, the next and post-prophetic echelon, Rumi, his family and followers naturally get the lion’s share of attention. Finally, Milstein sums up the Baghdad school’s attention to ethnic and social status diversity: western and eastern ethnicities are represented together, and individuals of lower estate garbed in colourfully diverse costume outrank nobility in numbers depicted.23 Painters have been keenly interested in signaling Mawlawi identity by means of the tall honey-coloured hat (sikke) even in situations in which such an iconographic tag is clearly anachronistic. Such markers rarely, however, include specific indications of a common type of garb or ‘habit’. Against this background we continue with a consideration of visual treatment of women, symbols of Mawlawi authority, depiction of groups and individuals, images of community, and overall settings (whether architectural or natural).24 Visual treatment of women and gender: Our three manuscripts represent distinctly different attitudes to the presence of women in their pictures. O Nova 94 depicts only one woman in its nine images. She wears a face veil but plays a starring role in the scene as a disciple of Rumi’s mentor Burhan ad-Din. Morgan’s twenty-nine images include women in six scenes, four locating the women as onlookers from windows or on a roof above the main action. One ­features Frankish women in a royal court scene and one has Rumi’s wife and

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daughter in the foreground along with a handmaiden. Roughly half appear in hijab, half (including Rumi’s immediate family women) without veils. By contrast, Revan includes women­– ­all unveiled­– ­in a total of eleven of twenty-two pictures. Apart from the episode of the water monster (which depicts Rumi’s wife and daughter as in Morgan), all take their places among spectators looking down from above the central action. Comparable manuscripts of other key works follow noticeably different conventions: Topkapı’s Jami as-Siyar (Hazine 1230) depicts all women veiled while the Jami Nafahat al-Uns (CBL T474) so resolutely avoids including women that it even replaces a major female actor in one narrative with an aged man. Groups are generally of two main types: clusters of Mawlawis only and assemblages of very diverse social and ethnic representation. Integrated crowds typically engage actively in or react to the main scene. Ethnic, social and religious diversity includes Christians, Muslims, Turks, Arabs, nomads, dervishes of many stripes, rulers, tradespeople, doctors, soldiers, police, as well as women often animated and clearly involved. Body types in all the Baghdad school images include arresting and often witty features: they are diminutive, vivacious and often seem to be in motion. Some characters even engage by looking directly out at the viewer or playing hide-and-seek in the nooks and crannies of a building or natural setting, suggesting a humorous sub-plot. Main characters are often depicted as engaged in the scene with an impossibly painful angle of head and neck. Milstein identifies the shaykh or mystic-type as a special case, typically shown with wide-set eyes suggesting a ‘look of ecstasy’. This, she argues, represents a late development of explicitly ‘Sufi’ types that began with the eccentric characters of the Siyah Kalam manuscripts and developed into the late fifteenth century in the works of premier artists Behzad and Sultan Muhammad.25 Settings among the images of our three manuscripts fall into three categories: clearly indoor (O Nova: 1, R: 11; M: 13), clearly outdoor (O Nova 4; R: 8; M: 8), and a combination of indoor and outdoor (O 4; R: 3; M: 8). The majority of overall settings are urban, with architectural designs providing both background and general specification of locale. Several distinct architectural styles and functional types are identifiable through a host of features. These include, in particular, mosques typically showing mihrabs, minbars, domes and minarets; madrasas that tend to suggest iwans (vaulted halls) opening into courtyards, occasionally showing individual cells; and residential features including balconies and attached formal gardens. Much of this detail tends to reflect Baghdadi and Persian colour and style.26 Natural settings evidence both Turkish and Iranian traditions, chosen eclectically but with innovations. Milstein and Schmitz note especially gold illuminated margins used as integral to an image while dematerialising the image overall. So, for example, the sky

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disappears within the frame, while ‘sky’ in the upper portion ‘turns into a distant plane of earth and gives a non-physical feel to central event’. Sky and nature can be literary symbols. Preachers in the minbar: an iconographic case study Arguably the single most significant ‘icon’ of community authority among illustrated manuscripts of the Baghdad school is that of an eminently qualified figure preaching from the minbar. It is no accident or mere coincidence that all three of our manuscripts chose the same scene featuring Baha Walad preaching a sermon on eschatological themes as their first illustrated scene. Aflaki’s chapter dedicated to the patriarch is shorter than all the other nine with the exception of those on alter ego Burhan ad-Din and great-grandson Amir Abid. Since the dominant theme in Aflaki’s treatment of Baha Walad is his pre-eminence as a preacher and teacher, this genre scene was a natural if not obvious choice of setting. Given his symbolic importance in the saga of the Family Rumi, however, it is definitely significant and surprising that though his ‘ancestral shrine’ is the setting of many episodes, Baha Walad himself appears only in these three images among our three manuscripts. Like Aflaki himself, our three manuscripts’ abridgements of the grand story include multiple recurring textual references to Baha Walad (and his mausoleum) as the touchstone against which all his descendants are measured and a deeply felt undiminished spiritual presence. Other than the inaugural pictures of the patriarch preaching, however, the only visual allusions to the long shadow he cast appear in only five images in the Morgan and Revan manuscripts and two oblique visual references by virtue of Rumi’s burial next to his father. As for the location of the images, arguably by sheer coincidence, the appearance of Baha Walad preaching in the first picture in all three texts makes this the only correspondence among the manuscripts with respect to their relative placement in relation to Aflaki’s original narrative. From here on, when laid out against a column of all Aflaki stories illustrated, the three manuscripts exhibit a striking divergence both from Aflaki and from each other. What we seem to have on the whole is therefore not merely variance in the selection of episodes to be illustrated but an apparently deliberate restructuring of the overall narrative and departure from Aflaki’s master design. In the context of contemporary (late sixteenth-/early seventeenthcentury) hagiographic works under Ottoman patronage, this genre scene of a major figure preaching from the minbar was clearly a favourite setting. A fortuitous conjunction of thematic and compositional elements in these first three images presents an opportunity for a broader comparative mini-case study of the single most common genre scene among these three manuscripts in light of parallels in several other illustrated hagiographies. These offer

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important ­evidence of the interrelationships among major illustrated hagiographic texts under Ottoman patronage. Rachel Milstein’s several excellent studies of Ottoman illustrated hagiographies provide a welcome entrée to this rich subject, while Melis Taner’s Caught in a Whirlwind offers a significant update to that endeavour. Among the more important additional Shi`i hagiographies are the Garden of the Felicitous (Hadiqat as-Su`ada), the Martyrdom of the Family of the Messenger (Maktal-i Al-i Rasul by Lami`i Chalabi (a Naqshbandi leader), as well as the Sunni Lifestory of the Prophet (Siyar-i Nabi). Examples of the minbar genre scene occur in the Garden showing the Prophet fully flamed with Ali holding Hasan and Husayn at the foot of the minbar; (BN Supp. Turc., 65a; Milstein MPOB 20) and Imam Hasan delivering his first sermon (Istanbul, Turk vs Islam, T1967, 123a; Milstein MPOB VII); the Martyrdom showing Muhammad preaching with Ali, Hasan and Husayn at his side (Maktal, Met. Rogers 55.121.40, online; Ma˚tal-i Ål-i RasËl, 55.121.40, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, dispersed leaf); and the Lifestory showing the Prophet’s Last Sermon (covered in white and flames) as well as Muhammad preaching in Medina (full body flaming mandorla). All seven major manuscripts of the Garden end with an image of Zayn al-`Abidin, Ali’s grandson and fourth Twelver Imam in the pulpit. Of a different sort altogether are the multiple scenes of preaching in thirteenth-century Iraqi manuscripts of Hariri’s Maqamat, the satirical ‘Assemblies’ that feature the chicanery of Abu Zayd who revelled in claiming credentials he never owned, including the role of preacher in a mosque’s minbar.27 A note on text placement on the images All three manuscripts employ consistent and largely utilitarian devices for displaying on-image texts. Nearly every picture in Morgan and Revan places panels at or near the upper and lower edges of a (usually) three-sided border. These typically present four lines of text per image, though several images include as few as two or as many as seven. Morgan is the more consistent of the two in this respect, displaying more than four lines only once. By contrast, and within its smaller pictures, O Nova more commonly places a one- or two-line text at the top and/or bottom within a full (or nearly so) rectangular frame. Here lines-per-image vary slightly from one to three and average two lines per page. Finally, a noteworthy difference between Morgan and Revan, on the one hand, and O Nova on the other, is that while the former integrate text panels tightly and precisely into the overall compositional frame or architecture, the latter’s panels also appear to ‘float’ rather than being anchored into the image’s overall composition. Our manuscripts share this predictable use of simple rectangular text panels integrated into upper and lower frames (and extending over only part of the image’s width)

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with virtually all other works of the Ottoman Baghdad school mentioned in the present chapter.28 Seen but not mentioned, vice versa, and questions of visual-verbal hermeneutics I have noted several instructive observations of Milstein and Schmitz concerning artists’ inclusion of various extra-textual features, whether human, animal or botanical, that function as metaphors and allegorical allusions based in the thought and writings of Rumi and other Sufi authors. Further reflection on the social, ethnic and religious make-up of the variegated human attendees in many settings not specified in Aflaki and the implications for understanding the intent of patrons and artists is in order here. What does the make-up of those ‘witnessing’ the actions at the core of Aflaki’s narratives (as further edited by the Turkish translator) suggest about the larger thematic intent of a given image? This not inconsiderable cast of ‘extras’ is often predictable enough­– ­all Mawlawis in bath scenes with Rumi, for example­– ­but also includes a few surprises. Chad Kia offers some larger context, arguing that such usages became prominently evident in manuscripts of Jami produced in fifteenth-century Herat under Timurid patronage and eventually migrated westward into Safawid and Ottoman works. One could call the result an additive rather than strictly illustrative hermeneutic. Kia suggests that the ‘contemporary dominance of Sufism must be foregrounded among the origins of this phenomenon’. He proposes, largely in agreement with Milstein, a ‘schematic framework for a generic decryption of such figure-types’ that ‘form an iconographic complex whose symbolic referents are the same wider discourse of Islamic mysticism that precedes the illustrated text. Each such figure may be understood as an instance of metaphorical reading of a narrative that is itself an allegory.’ Kia traces the underlying mystical conceptual framework to Ibn Arabi, whose notions of the ‘unity of being’ (or metaphysical unity) and ‘the complete/perfect person’ were passed on to Rumi via Ibn Arabi’s most influential disciple and friend of the early Mawlawis, Sadr ad-Din of Konya (d. 1274). He argues that Jami, a towering figure who lived and wrote under several major Timurid patrons in Herat, was a major conduit through whom this current of mystical thought was propagated initially in Central Asia and percolated westward as Safawid and Ottoman patrons funded lavish visual interpretations of Jami’s works.29 For present purposes the two paramount visualised texts of Jami’s are his mystical Seven Thrones and his hagiographic anthology, Warm Breaths of Intimacy. Kia sums up the situation this way: The discourse that emerges is of a journey through the elements, vices, and dangers of this world towards true salvation, that is,

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union with the Divine through annihilation of the ego. Crucially, none of this can be achieved without the aid of a wise master who has already traversed this same path. I suggest that the ‘additive’ characters in our three Ottoman manuscripts represent the implied reach and spiritual effect­– ­the inclusiveness­– ­of the central action’s transformative efficacy in a given episode. The consistent message is that the expansive impact of the epistemic and charismatic authority of Rumi and his descendants generously embrace and benefit a richly diverse public well beyond the confines of the Mawlawi Order. But why would the artists and patrons want to convey such a universally inclusive message? Kia suggests that ‘if there is one factor in interpreting images in Persian manuscript painting that is even more important than the tenor of the narrative subject it would be historical context and the contemporary circumstances of their creation.’30 Given that the burden of Aflaki’s text as represented in all three manuscripts is an encomium of all things Mawlawi, the overall use of additive personages is understandably less prominent than in manuscripts visualising the much more diverse repertoire of scenes described in poetic texts not orientated to the community life of a specific organisation. Of our three manuscripts, O Nova 94 depicts diversity most consistently, in eight of its nine paintings. Similarly broad coverage occurs in eighteen of Morgan 466’s twenty-nine (31) images, and fifteen of Revan’s. On the crucial question of text-to-image relationships as an index of artistic method and intent, Robert Hillenbrand has proposed a spectrum of interpretative modes. He suggests three types of visualisation of narrative texts: images that tell the ‘full story’ in a ‘straightforward’ manner; depictions that leave the viewer in suspense, as the on-image text omits the ending; and those that offer tantalising hints as to a likely denouement by setting up ‘a tension between the ostensible subject matter and the hidden agenda, between the present and the future’. In the third instance as applied to our manuscripts, such clues include, for example, symbolic colours, gesture, individuals associated with specific religious or social roles or stature, spatial arrangement, types of animals or natural environmental features and related metaphors, specific implements such as weapons, musical instruments, books and other indicators of easily identifiable context. Hillenbrand further describes telling modalities of the artist’s response to subject matter. For present purposes, two of these are particularly pertinent. One is an artist’s penchant for dramatic effect in service of revealing the ‘mainspring of the action’, as suggested by such things as arrangement of groups of spectators and addition of features not specified. To that I would add the omission of details explicitly mentioned in Aflaki’s original, the abridged Persian, or the Turkish translation (a multi-layered business). Of equal impor-

visualised hagiography

tance here, I suggest, is the choice of, and focus on, an intangible or abstract quality as a central motif. Hillenbrand’s observation that a miniature in a Timurid Gulistan of Sa`di showing Sa`di and a companion conversing in a garden depicts ‘not action but contemplation’ is applicable here, mutatis mutandis. He is alluding to the painter’s communication of an inherently spiritual, immeasurable and invisible quality or process, whose effects are similarly beyond the reach of empirical observation. Nearly all of our images trade in precisely such elusive happenings, interactions and transformations for which the outward trappings of the picture are an essential but highly symbolic medium. It is as though the scene depicted functions primarily as the occasion, context or vessel for an unseen event of a higher order. In the case of Hillenbrand’s subject, that intangible is the experience of ‘misfortune’. In the present exploration an overarching parallel is the phenomenon of transformation and conversion, with a thematic bias in favour of Mawlawi success in overcoming whatever ethical or spiritual deficit lies at the core of the episode visualised.31 In short, none of our images function merely as ‘snapshots’, capturing a specific instant in a definable, perhaps momentary, action occurring in a clearly limited space.32 Moving into a three-part thematic consideration of text and image, I summarise the results of this chapter’s analysis as follows. To undergird the conviction that the predominant message of these manuscripts is their religious, ethical, spiritual and related affective dimensions, I emphasise Aflaki’s explicit rationale for presenting his rich portrait of the Family Rumi. Aflaki’s statement of purpose sets the tone and alludes to his underlying concerns and presuppositions. He begins, of course, with God’s creation and establishment of the seal of Prophethood in Muhammad. He refers to the operative spiritual force as the ‘essence of noble intelligence that is a shrine candle of the rotating heavenly vault and the niche-lamp among the glittering stars’ that elevates humankind from ‘the abysses of error to the heights of divine guidance’. Against that background he identifies his own goal as presenting ‘miracles of the lofty forefathers and ancestors and their successors’ and hopes his account will function as ‘a reminder among the people of the spiritual presence and the brethren of light’ of ‘the subtleties and rarities’ of his memoir’s exemplars. Emphasising the universality of his message, he concludes with his desire to report in detail the marvels of these Friends of God in a way ‘accessible to the intelligence of beginners on the mystic path as wells as [more advanced] travelers on the King’s Road’.33 His emphasis on three large religious/spiritual frames of reference is the focus of the next three chapters: Virtuous Community (centred on sama’ and emphasising ethical pedagogy) within a Muslim Society (centred in the madrasa and emphasising the Community’s broader reach and impact) under Divine Providence (as manifest in wondrous deeds and emphasising the saintly mediation of God’s power). I hope to make it

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Morgan 466 (29+2) Folio#/Order in ms ONE: Baha Walad 13a/1 14a/2 TWO: Burhan ad-Din X THREE: Rumi 34b/7 X 137a/23 58a/9 99b/17 21b/5 66b/11 38a/8 BMFA 07.692 (Separated) 107b/18 X X 29a/8 X X X X X 90b/15 15a/3 X X 115b/20 18a/4 83b/13 X 76b/12 111a/19

Aflaki Story-order: O’Kane Page #

AFLAKI CHAPTER 1:28 Baha Walad preaching in cemetery 2:29 Courtier upsets Rumi at Baha’s tomb

AFLAKI CHAPTER 3:48 Woman disciple addresses Burhan

AFLAKI CHAPTER 4:59 Rumi leaves Aleppo madrasa 5:61 Rumi wooed by dignitaries in Kaysari 6:63 Satan and Caliph Umar at mosque 7:92 Youth cures Frankish king with Rumi’s intercession 8:101 Hallaj executed 9:103 Rumi as Sultan Kilich is strangled 10:112 Rumi talks to marketplace dogs 11:115 Qadi and dispute on music in Mawlawi rituals 12:118 Rumi multiplies sweets 13:121 Rumi frees the supplicant ox 14:127 Rumi’s candle outlasts others 15:149 Rumi rebukes critic at sama` 16:161 Rumi raises flutist Hamza 17:167 Arif and the sultan’s hunting falcon 18:175 Rumi keeps Parwana waiting 19:179 Mongol siege at first Battle of Konya 20:183 Lost pilgrim rejoins caravan 21:223 Rumi in bath with Mawlawi garb 22:159 Rumi in bath hiding in reservoir room 23:231 Khidr listens as Rumi preaches 24:249 Rumi meets Christian monks 25:257 Story of the stingy vizier 26:258 Doctor bleeds a king 27:261 Abdal take Mawlawi water carrier away 28:305 Atabek Toghmosh’s waqf 29:326 Rumi saves ship in peril 30:340 Rumi tells the story of Seth 31:370 Story of Moses and the Giant Og

Appendix 3.1  Comparative table of images

X 54b/3 146b/12 X X X 101b/7 X 176a/15

X X X X X X X X X 171a/14 82b/4 110a/8 X X 166b/13 95b/6 88a/5 132b/10

X

14b/1 X

Revan 1479 (22) Folio#/Order in ms

X 37b/3 X X X X X X X X X X X 167b/8 X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

30b/2

21a/1 X

O Nova 94 (9) Folio#/Order in ms

X X X X

279b/22 X X X

FIVE: Salah X SIX: Husam 159a/27 X 156a/26 151b/24 SEVEN: Sultan Walad X X X EIGHT: Arif X 166a/28 96a/6 X 170b/29 X NINE: Genealogy X X 131a/23 89b/14 Likely separated from M466, but in Mayer Museum, Israel, 58–96

AFLAKI CHAPTER 39:514ff Sama` under Husam (not exact) 40:522 Husam prays for rain 41:535 Husam dreams of Muhammad reading Mathnawi 42:536 Rumi and Husam at Parwana’s reception

AFLAKI CHAPTER 43:561 ‘Men’ (abdal) take Sultan Walad, then Ala ad-Din 44:562 Rumi critiques Sultan Walad for even minor sins 45:566 Sultan Walad preaches

AFLAKI CHAPTER 46:584 Rumi cures boil on Arif’s neck 47:586 Sultan Walad and the Akhi group 48:589 Prophet tells secrets of Mi`raj to Ali 49:597 Arif heals Akhi Muhammad the Madman in Sivas 50:599 Arif senses Ghazan Khan’s death 51:633–5 Arif sits in marble basin returned after theft

AFLAKI CHAPTER 52:699 Amir Abid (or Vajid?) dies

NOT IN AFLAKI: Lunatic toasts deaths of Sultan, Sana’i NOT IN AFLAKI: Battle of Konya II TEXT Unidentified: Rumi, Shams/sun’s image/pool MA130? Rumi whirls with four disciples. Text from Unwan of Jami, Yusuf and Zulaykha

X

246b/18 X X 261a/20 X 275b/21

238a/19 125a/11 X

X X X X

219b/17

170b/9

X X X X X X

X X 158b/7

X 141a/5 X 151b/6

X

X 134a/4

AFLAKI CHAPTER 38:494 Rumi dances at Salah’s goldsmith shop

215a/16 X

FOUR: Shams X X

X X X X

AFLAKI CHAPTER 36:474 Shams’ assassins at the door 37:482 Sultan Walad seeks Shams, finds Frankish Qutb

35a/2 X X 115a/9

X 121a/21 124a/22 63b/10

32:384 Rumi giving belt to beggar 33:398 Rumi’s last meeting of Mawlawis 34:404ff Rumi’s funeral 35:417 Rumi converts water monster

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clear that these images are neither mere ‘literal illustrations’ of the text nor simply eye-candy designed to enhance the visual appeal of a book, but an integral tool for a religious/spiritual interpretation of Aflaki’s vision of the Family Rumi as cultivated and appropriated by Ottoman royal patrons.34 Notes   1. MA 292–3 [373], 382–3 [540].  2. Ça©man and Tanındı, ‘Illustration and the Art of the Book in the Sufi Orders in the Ottoman Empire’, in SSOS, p. 518.   3. See for example Börekçi, ‘On the Power, Political Career and Patronage Networks of the Ottoman Royal Favourites (Late Sixteenth and Early Seventeenth Centuries)’.   4. Both in Topkapı Hazine 1230, 112a and 121a.   5. SMC 84–5; MPOB 96–9.   6. See for example Kosman, ‘The Story of a Giant Story: The Winding Way of Og King of Bashan in the Jewish Haggadic Tradition’.   7. Brinner translation of Tha`labi, 399–400, p. 407; Thackston translation of Kisa`i, 251–3.   8. MA 377 [529] and 462 [69].   9. MA 367 [521]; 71 [522]. 10. Fisher, ‘A Reconstruction of the Pictorial Cycle of the ‘Siyar-i NabÈ’ of Muråd III’, Ars Orientalis p. 82. 11. MPOB 56–63; SMC 86. 12. MPOB 84–5. 13. Fisher, ‘Reconstruction’, p. 82. 14. SMC 85–6, and Ça©man and Tanındı, ‘Illustration’, pp. 521–2. 15. MPOB 82. 16. Ibid. 78. 17. MDA 24. 18. MPOB 34. 19. MDA 21–2; MPOB 54–63. 20. MPOB 43–4, 43. 21. For further on architecture and decoration see MPOB 64–6. 22. Ça©man and Tanındı, ‘Illustration’, pp. 520–1. 23. MPOB 45–7. She describes utensils and other accoutrements in detail on pp. 48–9. 24. See also Chittick, ‘Rumi and the Mawlawiya’, in Islamic Spirituality: Manifestations, pp. 105–26; and McGowan, ‘On Mevlevi Organization,’, in Osmanlı Ara∞tırmaları/The Journal of Ottoman Studies. 25. MPOB 34. 26. Further detail in MPOB 53–70. 27. Relevant comparable images are included in Taner, Caught in a Whirlwind: A Cultural History of Ottoman Baghdad as Reflected in its Illustrated Manuscripts, especially Chapter Four; still more plates are in Taner’s Harvard dissertation, https://docplayer.net/60108833Caught-in-a-whirlwind-painting-in-baghdad-in-the-late-sixteenthearly-seventeenth-centuries.html, figs 3.31–35 and 2.52–57; also in MPOB. And on a related image in Biruni, see Robert Hillenbrand, ‘The Arts of the Book in Ilkhanid Iran’, in The Legacy of Genghis Khan, p. 143: fig. 170, Edinburgh Biruni (Arab 161) ‘Muhammad forbids inter-

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calation’, showing the Prophet in a minbar, very near the beginning of the ms. And in the context of the broader arena of Persian, Turkish and Mughal illustrations of literature beyond hagiography (for example, Shahnama), the three initial Baha Walad images connect directly to the broader universe of fascination with themes of progenitor and the importance of lineage. 28. With the notable exception of, for example, Murad III’s Siyar-i Nabi, in which there are usually two- or three-line text blocks at the top and bottom edges of every image, thus completely enclosing the miniature’s upper and lower limits. 29. See also LeGall, ‘Forgotten NaqshbandÈs and the Culture of Pre-Modern Sufi Brotherhoods’, in Studia Islamica 97. 30. Kia, ‘Sufi orthopraxis: visual language and verbal imagery in medieval Afghanistan’, in Word & Image: A Journal of Verbal/Visual Enquiry, pp. 2–5, 10. He cites the relevant article of Susan Babaie (2001), ‘The Sound of the Image/The Image of the Sound: Narrativity in Persian Art of the 17th Century’, in Islamic Art and Literature, eds. Oleg Grabar and Cynthia Robinson, Princeton: Markus Wiener, pp. 143–62. For further on larger cultural contexts see Inan, ‘Imperial Ambitions, Mystical Aspirations: Persian Learning in the Ottoman World’, in The Persianate World: The Frontiers of a Eurasian Lingua Franca. 31. Robert Hillenbrand, ‘The Message of Misfortune’, Asian Art 2. 32. On Image Science in wider comparative setting: Related themes explored in medieval European contexts offer slightly different, but potentially useful perspectives here: Jaritz (Pictura quasi fictura) argues that images functioned not as representations of ‘reality’ but as aids to contemplation and veneration or to elicit certain emotional responses. Moxey (‘Reading the Reality Effect’, Pictura quasi fictura) adds that religious images typically communicated not ‘reality’ but a ‘reality effect’ through a ‘realistic visual rhetoric’ that reflects the cultural, historical and social influences contributing to an artist’s inspiration. In the same collection of essays, Norbert Schnitzler describes how late medieval European Christian theologians worked out a de facto compromise with respect to the religious value of images: prayer to a saint mediated by images was acceptable provided that they did not seduce viewers away from the central reality of the Eucharist. And in a study of later medieval Jesuit art, Martinez-Burgos Garcia (Idolos e imágenes: controversia del arte religioso en el siglo XVI español) argues that images functioned as an aid to participating in Ignatius of Loyola’s ‘Spiritual Exercises’ by mediating one’s emotive engagement with the scene depicted through a ‘composition of place’ that facilitated spiritual identification with, and ‘imitation’ of, the subjects depicted (Jesus and those close to him). See also Jaritz, Angels, Devils: The Supernatural and its Visual Representation, especially his ‘Visual Images of the Supernatural, or How to Make the Entities Recognisable that Are Not Part of our Natural World’, (pp. 17–28); and Schnitzler’s ‘The Beam of Grace and the Ocular Paradigm: Some Remarks on the Relation between Late Medieval Theology and Art’ (4-15) in Jaritz. See also Hahn, Portrayed on the Heart: Narrative Effect in Pictorial Lives of the Saints from the Tenth through the Thirteenth Century, especially ‘Word and Image: Narrative Problems in Pictorial Hagiography’ (pp. 29–58), emphasising the image’s function of evoking compunction and edification and eliciting imitation; and ‘Epilogue: Narrative and

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Innovation’ (pp. 319–31) where she discusses ‘Genre and Innovation in Hagiography’ and ‘Pictorial Narratives of the Later Middle Ages: Innovation and Other Media’. 33. MA 2–4. 34. For an alternative reading of the purpose and function of images attached to texts, see Sellyer, ‘Pearls of the Parrot of India’, in The Journal of the Walters Art Museum, Chapter 5, especially pp. 105–6, 112–15. On the same work, also Brend, ‘Akbar’s “Khamsah” of Amir Khusrau Dihlavi: A Reconstruction of the Cycle of Illustration’, in Artibus Asiae 49: 3–4.

PART TWO TEXT AND IMAGE

Aflaki’s Unwan (Introductory Invocation). The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911. 1b.

INTRODUCTION

Throughout the next three chapters, two organizational devices will provide a scaffolding for further investigation of the visual embellishment of Aflaki’s hagiography in our three manuscripts. First, I suggest a layered approach to the richly metaphorical tapestry beneath the superficial manifestations of a text that supplies the basic narrative ingredients. The outward layer consists of three structural metaphors and their supporting sources of information that I have already hinted at in both the Preface and at the end of Chapter Three. One can further identify a deeper level of metaphorical communication at which visual interpretations of a text uniquely excel but which are not always obvious. Most of these metaphors, I suggest, are inseparable from many of the main characters with whom Rumi and his spiritual progeny interact. These manifest themselves in qualities, both laudable and execrable, the former either possessed by our leading figures or supplied through their ministrations, the latter characterising the deeds and essential qualities of the forces that our heroes seek to counteract. In addition many images communicate in a more passive manner through metaphors inherent in natural symbolism or through inanimate objects, including architectural settings. The second organisational device is much more obvious and mundane and involves arranging pictures in thematic clusters in each of the following chapters on the basis of their dominant metaphors. Chapter Four will, accordingly, focus on the symbol that became an expression of the core of the Mawlawi Community, the ritual gathering called sama`. Aflaki clearly identifies its chief functions as a symbol of membership with its attendant tutelage, as well as a setting around which spiritual transformation occurs as onlookers become swept up and drawn into the rites. At the heart of sama` is a state of psychic focus and concentration called dhikr­ – ­mindful recollection or remembrance sometimes captured in a ritual word or

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phrase. A desirable result is an altered consciousness often ­identified as ecstatic. Secondary metaphors here include, for example, the symbolic meanings of the many beings, human and otherwise, that populate the pedagogical stories and the values that epitomise the lives of major figures of the Virtuous Community. Chapter Five will revolve around the metaphorical significance of the madrasa as a symbol of religious and epistemic authority as a core value in a Muslim Society. Here the ancillary imagery will include the roles of the prime representatives of such a society’s ‘divisions of labour’, such as governmental rulers and ministers, judges, the well-heeled whose material support is critical to a mendicant religious Community, elements of the society that sometimes represent views at variance within that Community and the ordinary folk. In Chapter Six the central metaphor is that of our exemplars’ intermediary role in bringing together the ‘seen and unseen’ realms through their ‘wondrous feats’. Here an overarching metaphor intimately connected to marvellous powers in the first place is that of charismatic authority, a clear cut above mere ‘acquired/discursive’ epistemic credentials and available only via affirmation from still higher authorities­– G ­ od and the prophets. Truth be told, nearly every episode in Aflaki (and our three abridged versions) emanates a distinct aroma of the miraculous. I have located in Chapter Six episodes that most clearly evidence a full range of types of saintly marvels and divine miracles. As in earlier chapters, the key secondary metaphors turn on the wide range of attributes, desirable or damnable, variously symbolised by a cast of characters. So, for example, a water monster (along with Satan) is recalcitrant and incorrigible nastiness; marketplace dogs and an ox fleeing from butchers, and a royal hunting falcon, embody honest seeking for higher knowledge and spiritual freedom and betoken a cosmos brimming with unsuspected spiritual capabilities; and untamed forces of nature threaten potential disaster that only recourse to God can neutralise.

CHAPTER FOUR

The Virtuous Community

Virtue in all its colourful variety is not hardwired in human beings. It is nearly impossible to conjure up any virtue­– ­kindness, wisdom, compassion, forgiveness, generosity, justice, faith, hope, love, for starters­– ­that we do not have to learn largely from the example of the most ethically and spiritually gifted among us. Communicating such sought-after values has long been among the loftiest desiderata in the explicit intentions of hagiographers of many faith traditions. Aflaki’s overarching goal is to present, in acces­s­ible form, the role of Rumi and his extended family as exemplars of the values they sought to embody in what eventually grew into the Mawlawi community. This came to include many people beyond the formal confines of actual membership who supported it in countless ways (many of which Chapter Five will discuss in detail). Rumi’s own writings include numerous reflections on the life of virtue, numbering even scholarship among the exemplary attributes of the righteous. In his forty-sixth Discourse, Rumi puts the quest and exercise of virtue in its broadest context: The prophets did not attain prophethood through personal effort­ – ­they gained that fortune through Divine grace. Yet God still required the prophets to live a life of personal effort and virtue. This was for the sake of the common people, so they could put reliance on the prophets and their words. The gaze of ordinary people cannot penetrate into the inward heart­– ­they see only the outward show. Yet, following those externals, through the Divine blessings bestowed on those forms, people find the way to the internal. And in Discourse forty-eight, he observes that ‘examples of virtuous women and men encourage the development of virtues within, as the melodious minstrel’s rhyme inspires the passing of wine’, quoting

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major thirteenth-century mystic Sana’i’s Garden of the Ultimate Truth.1 In support of this thematic perspective, Küçükhüseyin underscores the role of ‘aretalogical elements, that is the communication of religious virtues that pave the way to salvation’ as a key descriptor of Friends of God in Muslim hagiography.2 Carrying on Rumi’s own concern, Aflaki makes it clear that one of the essential roles of the Family Rumi was to set precisely that example as the touchstone of membership in the evolving Mawlawi community. As hagiographer in chief, Aflaki’s rich tapestry of anecdotal coverage embraces a wide range of related themes: the need of discernment­– ­‘polishing the mirror of the heart’­– ­as an essential tool in distinguishing religious and spiritual truth from falsehood; right from wrong; shaykh from demagogue; miracle from magic/sorcery; the divine from the diabolical; authenticity from delusion; accurate guidance from sorcery; and prophet from charlatan. Building on the hadith the ‘The believer is mirror to the believer’, Aflaki’s conviction that a primary function of every Friend of God, as Heart of the World, is to reflect faithfully the higher realities. In short, God’s Friends mediate authentic understanding of the meaning of life and death. Major lessons include awareness that true community is an antidote to divisiveness; the need for compassion for the suffering (human or animal) and unending forgiveness. These episodes underline the role of relationships in discernment and an appreciation of ritual as an essential and signature expression of a discerning life. And in maintaining strong communal bonds the roles of shaykh, confidant, mentor, student/disciple and father/son are paramount. Teaching in both word and example are the heart of the matter and I will organise visualisations in the following thematic categories: pedagogical stories, Rumi’s own teachers, teachable moments and tests of community virtue­– ­death and loss. Pedagogical stories Our three manuscripts clearly have their own individual purposes with respect to choice of anecdotes to be illustrated. From their unique perspectives nearly all of the material included in the texts of the Persian abridgment and its Turkish translation falls, by definition, under the heading of storytelling. In that broader context, I will suggest (in conclusions below) that even amid the diversity of nearly forty-eight genuinely unique image themes, the guiding principle in all three visualised versions was a shared understanding of a distinctive Mawlawi charisma and set of values within Ottoman society. My setting aside these particular narratives for this chapter on pedagogical storytelling is somewhat artificially based on the further distinction of anecdotes that Aflaki explicitly labels (with the exception of Fig. 4.5) as Rumi’s own teaching moments. The present chapter’s internal argument is that those who chose

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the material to be illustrated (here only in Morgan and Revan) did so with a particular ethical quality in mind, and here I draw on the work of Cyrus Ali Zargar.3 I will begin discussion of each of the images with a suggestion as to what specific ethical/spiritual concern is at play. I will arrange the images and their stories more or less in chronological order of their prime referents, moving from preIslamic themes (including stories of Seth and of Moses and the giant Og), to stories featuring prominent Muslims (Muhammad, Second Caliph Umar, Sufi proto-martyr Hallaj), to more generic ‘types’ (the stingy vizier and the king’s bloodletting). Pre-Islamic and early Muslim exemplars Chapter Three described how Rumi’s version and use of the tale of the giant Og’s encounter with Moses represents a noteworthy departure from those of earlier accounts made famous by authors of Tales of the Prophets.4 Like the biblical account (Number 21: 33–4, where Moses kills the giant), these sources, as well as major ‘universal histories’ of Rashid ad-Din and Hafiz-i Abru (among others), focus on the combat in which the much smaller Moses defeats the enormous champion of the forces bent on preventing the Israelites from entering the Land of Canaan.5 The nearest reference in earlier sources to the version that, according to Aflaki, Rumi uses here are traditions that in Jericho (where Og lived) there were 12,000 bakers who were unable to satiate Og’s hunger. Here Aflaki quotes Rumi at length, elucidating key spiritual themes. Rumi’s springboard is a reflection on a hadith that suggests that the heart of a true believer is the perfect place of spiritual retreat. Rumi circles around and winds his way through subtle allusions to how small things­– ­whether requested by or denied to others­– c­ an develop into spiritually potent symbols. Enter Moses’ lesson to a big eater about how to make do with minimal food and be thankful for it. As Chapter Three indicated, Rumi’s version modifies many of the key circumstances. According to Aflaki, even the steady labour of seventy bakers could not assuage the prodigy’s ravenous hunger. This scene opens as Moses notices that even after consuming an enormous quantity of bread Og remains unimaginably famished. Moses reveals that he knows how Og can be sated by a mere seven mouthfuls. Og scoffs and laughs, saying he could stuff seven mouthfuls up one nostril without even sneezing. Moses suggests that Og prepare for a meal by washing his hands and reciting the basmallah blessing (In the name of God, the Gracious and Merciful). After doing so, even seven mouthfuls were more than Og could eat. Moses then explains that bread (a small physical need) is only a device by which God can bestow the gift of grateful satiety (a significant spiritual necessity). Rachel Milstein notes further the symbolism of Moses’ staff in

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combatting the evil of Pharaoh and other enemies of the prophets, with Og functioning as a symbol of an unbeliever who is proven incompetent when presented with the truth.6 The texts on the two images overlap slightly: Revan chooses a shorter segment including the reference to sneezing; Morgan begins just after that and includes the ‘moral’ of the story­– t­ hat both satiety and hunger are gifts of God and that bread and all other ostensible forms of sustenance are merely a distraction. Here (Fig. 4.1) the three-sided border opens to the left, accommodating a vast open natural space featuring a gallery of fifteen onlookers of diverse types, balanced on the right by two clusters of slightly less variegated curiosity seekers who have apparently just happened by the unfolding interaction. The crowd on the left includes two qalandar-style ascetics carrying their signature spear-like symbols. The natural landscape shares the same playful spirit as that of the Seth image (Fig. 4.3), and Og’s kilt may have been designed by the creator of the quirky dervish to the lower-left of Seth. Revan depicts the same story (Fig. 4.2) but with a different visual emphasis. Whereas M466 is set entirely outside, Revan clearly indicates that the giant is far too large to fit into the house. Moses and companions stand inside and Moses hands Og only a single round loaf. M466 is more fanciful, features a much larger crowd of mystified onlookers, and emphasises Og’s prodigious appetite by showing a large basketful of pita rounds. As in the Morgan depiction, Og appears with a conspicuous earring and a decorative kilt, the latter here brocaded rather than uncured animal skin. The witnesses here are not only far fewer but represent only a single basic character type. An intriguing feature in the natural background on the left is that a humanoid face is clearly visible in the rock just to the left of Og’s ear. The scribe has also gilded the basmallah in the upper text register, a text included on the Morgan image but in black ink.7 Thoughts on the meaning of ‘higher knowledge’ possessed by certain individuals who care little for mundane matters prompted Rumi to wax pedagogical about Seth (Fig. 4.3). Opinions vary among Muslim commentators as to the precise identity and genealogical status of Seth. Many identify him as a son of Adam and Eve but, according to the renowned historian Tabari, some consider Seth a grandson of the progenitor pair. From Rumi’s perspective, Seth was most importantly a spiritual heir of Adam’s ‘mystical knowledge’, locating him in a tradition along with the prophet Idris as a key interpreter of ancient prophetic lore. Like the ‘culture hero’ Idris (also often identified as a grandson of Adam and Eve), Seth possessed practical knowledge of sewing and the arts of survival. In one of the Mathnawi’s only two references to Seth, Rumi observes that Seth ‘gathered the light of Adam’s knowledge of God’ so that Adam designated him his caliph.8 Aflaki explicitly calls Seth Adam’s son, one whose favoured position in the family elicited envy from his

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Figure 4.1  Moses and the giant Og, Morgan interpretation. The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911. 111a.

‘seventy-two’ brothers­– ­a central theme shared with the story of Joseph. For their disrespect Seth subjected the brothers to a famine and reduced them to penury. When they repented and sought counsel

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Figure 4.2  Moses and Og reinterpreted. Presidency of the Republic of Turkey, the Directorate of National Palaces. TSMK. Revan 1479, fol. 176a.

from Adam, the paterfamilias went with them to seek forgiveness from Seth. Seth drove a hard bargain, insisting that the brothers dedicate to God half of their income and produce. Adam explained that they were too disobedient to comply and Seth eventually reduced

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Figure 4.3  The story of Seth and his brothers. The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911. 76b.

his demand to one-tenth of their wealth. The moral of the story, Rumi adds, is that anyone who claims allegiance to God’s prophets and Friends must prove it by their generosity; and, as in the story of Joseph, a ruler must attend to his subjects’ legitimate needs. The

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story ends with prosperity returning to humankind. The Turkish text apparently refers to Adam’s intervention for a partial payment from Seth’s brothers: ‘Let them give. Let the rest be theirs, said he. They also agreed and the prophet Adam­– ­peace be upon him­– ­prayed and they were saved from that trouble’, evidently of famine and poverty.9 Text on the image adds that Rumi identified himself as another ‘Adam’, a twist not included in Aflaki, thus suggesting that Adam himself was a prototype of the shaykh in his capacity of teaching Seth and the brothers. In this picture, Rumi sits amid a small circle of disciples and regales them with the story­– ­thus becoming the only story-image in which the raconteur himself appears. To the upper left, Seth, sporting a prophet’s fiery halo, is surrounded by his supplicant siblings. Visual metaphors for the breaking of the drought include a blue cloud and a stream emerging from a rock, where a man collects water. This imagery is reminiscent of Moses’ drawing water from a rock with his wondrous staff. Rachel Milstein notes that the painter suggests discrete time periods and incorporates explicitly two separate but similar story plots: the contending descendants of Adam and the jealous sons of Jacob. As culture-hero Seth’s role links him with that of Gayumars­– ­hero-progenitor of humanity, and Persians in particular­– i­ n the Shahnama. As for composition, the painter divides the image diagonally. At upper left Seth is surrounded by a group of people raising their hands in supplication, reminiscent of numerous depictions of Gayumars surrounded by his needy subjects. The diverse throng includes representatives of a remarkable cross section of humankind, including the by now familiar idiosyncratic dervish with unusual cloak and cap. At lower right, Rumi teaches. In the mid-space are the symbols of miraculous transformation following upon Seth’s accommodation to his brothers. A three-sided border opening wide to the right carries on a standard compositional device used throughout the Morgan manuscript. All the characters inhabit a whimsically vibrant, colourful landscape.10 It is entirely possible that the designer of this image also intended to suggest that Rumi and his disciples represent an anti-type of Seth the Shaykh mediating higher learning to his followers. Aflaki attributes to Shams ad-Din the arresting anecdote behind Fig. 4.4. Shams begins by alluding to a time when Umar (d. 644), Muhammad’s second successor (caliph), hit Satan with a punch that blinded one of his eyes­– ­ hastening to add that Satan is not an embodied being. This unusual image depicts Satan putting Umar to the test. A golden-eyed Iblis invites Umar, one of whose sobriquets is the ‘one who discerns’ (faruq), to come see the marvels he will show him through a narrow crevice in a mosque wall (or a ‘door ajar’ according to the Turkish translation). Here the painter depicts Satan actually inside the mosque, though in the story he explains to

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Figure 4.4  The story of Caliph Umar and Satan. The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911. 137a.

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Umar precisely the reason why he dared not enter the building. Satan shows Umar one man sleeping, his books on the floor nearby, while another stands in ritual prayer. Iblis explains that fear of the fire of love in the sleeper’s breast prevents him from entering and this, in turn, saves the man praying: if Satan had entered he would have destroyed the praying man, who was not in fact genuinely engaged in his ritual prayer and therefore vulnerable. As a cautionary note Aflaki adds that ‘Satan flows through the children of Adam like blood through their veins’. The moral of the story is that love is the sole all-conquering power in creation, and only love (the light/fire in the true believer’s heart) can scorch Satan. No ascetical practice (as symbolised by the standing man) can fend him off because asceticism is a battle against the fires of lust, of which Iblis was fashioned and which attracts Satan like a moth to flame.11 Many pictures, such as those depicting Nimrod launching Abraham into his bonfire at Satan’s urging, show Iblis in ordinary, if grey and disgruntled looking, human guise. Demon-like characterisations similar to the thoroughly disagreeable figure pictured here occur in the Timurid Mi`rajnama of 1436, where a flame-coloured wild-eyed denizen of the Inferno confronts Muhammad as Gabriel squires him through the horrors of the nether region. Many images depict the Evil One trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Even in images of the temptation of Adam and Eve, Satan is decidedly less malevolent and threatening.12 The architectural space accounts for the entire image, with only Umar outside of the structure. Two muezzins appear on the roof, and the unoccupied minbar recalls an essential element in the genre scenes (major figure preaching) analysed in Chapter Three and depicted in Chapter Five (Figs 5.4–5.9)13 Aflaki also reports that, one day, Rumi became engrossed in an explanation of lofty mystical topics and opined that widespread ‘popular’ opinion as to the reasons for Hallaj’s martyrdom was incorrect. Long-standing traditions suggested that the early ‘intoxicated’ mystic Mansur al-Hallaj (858–922) was executed because of his heretical statements appearing to claim identity with God by uttering the words ‘I am the Truth’ (al-Haqq, one of God’s ‘names’). From another (also mistaken) perspective, early Muslim historians had argued that Hallaj’s execution resulted from the Abbasid caliph’s jealousy that Hallaj had claimed superiority over the sovereign­– w ­ ho thought of himself as the very Shadow of God on Earth. Many Sufis later interpreted Hallaj as qutb (cosmic axis or pivot) who was asked to suffer death (offering his head) as a sacrifice of love for God. According to Aflaki, however, Rumi rejects these explanations. He argues instead that Hallaj had said that if he had met the Prophet, he would have asked why on his Mi`raj (Ascension) Muhammad had not interceded for all of humankind rather than only true believers­ – ­to which even the Prophet would have had no sufficient retort. According to Rumi’s interpretation, Muhammad appeared to Hallaj

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Figure 4.5  The execution of Hallaj. The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911. 99b.

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in a dream and excused his own failure because God had stipulated ‘for believers only’, and that he was therefore simply doing God’s will and not his own. Hallaj then boldly insisted that Muhammad’s excuse was not acceptable, whereupon the Prophet said that Hallaj would receive an adequate reply if he sacrificed his own life in expiation. Hence Hallaj said at the gallows, ‘I know who has required this of me I will not refuse his request.’14 In a selective abridgement of the Persian original, Turkish text on Fig. 4.5 picks up after Aflaki’s account of the debated reasons for the execution, with Hallaj insisting that even though he must be ‘beheaded’, he will not back down from his critique of Muhammad. Hallaj’s final prayer is ‘O God, do whatever you choose to do, but O Muhammad, behave appropriately’, meaning exercise proper adab. The moral of the story, as Rumi tells it: if even the Prophet had to learn a lesson, no one is excused from abiding by Islam’s ethical requirements. Like many other interpretations of the episode, this Morgan image depicts an execution by hanging, even though many classical sources indicate that Hallaj was crucified. An interesting parallel cross-over, but in the opposite direction, is the occasional depiction of Jesus’s execution as a hanging rather than a crucifixion. Rachel Milstein points out various aspects of the structure and symbolism: most images of the scene show a barefoot and bareheaded brown-clad Hallaj led toward the gallows by red-hatted executioners. She suggests interpreting the image as a mandala centred on a pillar. In the foreground a dervish’s gesture towards the religious scholars on the left may suggest their complicity and guilt in the event. For Sufis, on the other hand, execution on the gallows symbolises the good news of reunion with one’s Creator.15 Numerous paintings of Hallaj’s hanging portray very similar details, as the following image suggests. Another major contemporary Ottoman manuscript depicts the same story, but with a different interpretation. Here (Fig. 4.6) the illustration is in a text of Jami’s hagiographic anthology, Warm Breaths of Intimacy (mentioned in Chapter Two). As in the image that depicts Junayd Preaching (Fig. 5.8), this artist has taken the liberty of inscribing on several turbans the names of individual Sufis he imagined would have been present at the execution. He also includes one onlooker (upper right) wearing a Mawlawi hat and sets a religious scholar-authority apart by his oversized turban. Unlike the Morgan image, this one shows Hallaj already on a stool as executioners prepare to cut off his arms. Milstein points to the stark differences between Hallaj and his killers: an aged Hallaj wears the brown Sufi khirqa, and in his slightly larger head his eyes evidence a mystical serenity. An immense and variegated crowd is clearly engaged in the spectacle. Milstein suggests that a verse from Rumi’s Spiritual Couplets captures the role of religious authorities in the miscarriage of justice:

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Figure 4.6  The execution of Hallaj, second interpretation. Jami, Nafahat al-Uns (Ottoman 1003/1595), © The Trustees of the Chester Beatty Library, Dublin. CBL T474: 79a.

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‘When the pen of authority is in the hand of a traitor, without doubt Mansur [Hallaj] is on the gibbet.’ She suggests that the gesture of a green-capped dervish (in the foreground) towards a young man of social position may imply a critique of the ruling class. She points out that other figures are arranged in four groups constituting four diagonals that lead the eye to Hallaj as the ‘axis pole of the age’. As for temporal symbolism, the four clusters of witness are associated with the ‘present’, while the various dervishes allude to the times both before and after the execution.16 Lessons involving public figure ‘types’ One day a follower of Rumi observed that a particular individual was a ‘heavy burden’ because of his deeply flawed character. Not missing a beat, Rumi hastened to explain the origin of the proverb, ‘Bad character is an onerous burden’. Once upon a time, Rumi recounts, an aged jug-seller was marketing his wares at the city gate. That New Year’s Day the sovereign happened by. At the old man’s request, the sultan decreed that his retainers should all purchase gifts for him from this potter exclusively and should always buy at the potter’s asking price whenever they passed him at the gate. One day a miserly minister came by and, though he intended to obey the king’s order to buy from the potter, he refused to buy a vessel at asking price of 100,000 dinars, offering only 1,000 (Fig 4.7). At that, the potter insisted (in the text on the picture) that if the vizier wanted to present the ewer to the sultan the vizier must hang the jug around his neck and carry the potter on his shoulders before the ruler so that the potter himself could hand it to his majesty. When they came into the ruler’s presence the potter explained that the vizier’s stinginess was a manifestation of his ego-soul’s corruption. A key feature here is that Rumi uses the term pir, ‘aged one’, a standard term for a spiritual guide, rendering the story into an allegory of the inward quest.17 The painter collapses the several moments in the story to a single frame very cleverly. He depicts the mounted sultan attended by retainers on horseback behind him approaching from the right, all apparently in a street scene near the city gate. On the left, the minister, holding a ewer, appears to approach the ruler carrying on his shoulders the potter, who gestures as he explains the situation to the sultan. The painter has diverged from three clear features in the narrative: 1) the potter stipulated that he give the ceramic gift to the ruler himself, but here the painter leaves the gift in the minister’s clutches; 2) the story says that the minister was to carry the potter to the king, but in the image the ruler comes to the pair; and 3) though the story says the minister came in search of a jug, the potter showed him a bowl instead and the minister bought it, but in the image the minister clearly holds a jug. Behind the stacked piggybacked pair stand several of the potter’s other customers holding wares (all

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Figure 4.7  Story of the stingy vizier and the potter. Presidency of the Republic of Turkey, the Directorate of National Palaces. TSMK. Revan 1479, fol. 146b.

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jugs, apparently) purchased previously. Six onlookers, including four women, view the action from a gazebo above the wall, while another seven comment from a gallery, one holding a jug. The moral of the story: beware the snares of the profoundly ungenerous ‘lower self’ (nafs) lest it corrupt your honour. Essential background to the next story (Fig. 4.8) is that one of Rumi’s followers recalled that a group of jurists who disagreed with Rumi and his disciples once cornered him and pummelled him with a rod, causing the man such pain that he broke wind. His tormentors laughed hysterically and set him free. Once outside, the man shouted, ‘A fart from me and a favour from God.’ Following up on that account Rumi explains that it is essential to understand that the theological counterpart to the man’s exclamation is found in the proverb ‘The Rooster Crows, but God brings the Dawn’. Rumi continues: once upon a time a court physician determined that his majesty required the tried and true procedure known as bloodletting. As depicted in the painting, the bleeder inserts his lancet and his assistant collects the output in a golden bowl, all in a lovely garden setting­– ­note especially the beautifully ornate incense burner not mentioned in Aflaki’s text. When the physician determines that the king has bled enough, he removes the lancet. Alas, the sudden realisation that the tip has broken off and remained in his majesty’s arm leaves him understandably frightened, embarrassed and exceedingly nervous. At that point, according to Aflaki, from the terrified physician there came an emission of extreme pungency, at which the king laughed so raucously that the tip of the lancet popped out of his arm and he was saved. Said the immensely grateful physician, ‘O Ruler of the World, a fart from me and favour from God!’ Rumi then explained that his superficially jocular story is not merely humorous but an educational device. It appears, however, that embarrassment at the thought of presenting such a story to his royal patron, Murad III, led the Turkish translator to render the whole episode more acceptable for polite company. He thus replaces the word ‘fart’, in both the original anecdote and Rumi’s exegesis thereof, with a word that could mean either ‘mistake’ or ‘angry/fearful outburst’.18 Unlike the Turkish translator, Aflaki was clearly unencumbered by concern for the delicate sensibilities of a royal patron. Apart from the principal dramatis personae, Rumi’s narrative provides scant detail, leaving the artist free rein as to how to frame and adorn the story. Gathered in a bucolic setting, a token royal retinue surrounds the action, providing the necessities for a picnic. His majesty sits on a portable throne, attended by the physician and his assistant. Expanding above and to the right beyond the threesided frame, a profusion of natural beauty completes the magical setting. Barbara Schmitz discerns influence of the Persian school of Qazwin in the figural types and poses and in the protrusion of

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Figure 4.8  A physician bleeds a king. The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911. 115b.

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landscape beyond the margin­– ­the latter very common in Morgan images.19 Rumi’s own teachers Four figures played prominent roles in Rumi’s spiritual tutelage: Burhan ad-Din, Salah ad-Din, Shams ad-Din of Tabriz and Husam ad-Din, credited with persuading Rumi to compose his Mathnawi. After Rumi’s father, arguably the earliest other major influence on Rumi’s own spiritual formation, was Burhan ad-Din Muhaqqiq. He was Rumi’s shaykh from shortly after Baha Walad’s death in 1231 until Burhan’s passing, around 1241. Rumi credits Burhan for teaching him the art of detailed argumentation in processing the works of major Sufi masters. Burhan was known for his promotion of fasting as the primary and most efficacious of spiritual exercises, at least through much of his life. Despite his considerable impact on Rumi, Aflaki tells his story in the briefest of his nine main chapters, and Burhan appears in only two images – our next and Fig. 5.16.20 Fig. 4.9 is one of only three images in our manuscripts in which women play a significant role. According to a strikingly unusual narrative from Aflaki’s chapter on Burhan, an otherwise unnamed female follower of Burhan’s steps up boldly from among a group of disciples listening to him teach. In a particularly lofty compliment Aflaki identifies the lady as ‘the Asiya of her age’, referring to one of Islamic tradition’s earliest martyrs for the faith. She was a wife of the pharaoh in the time of Moses who believed in the Prophet’s message. When she refused to repudiate Moses’ teaching, Pharaoh had her gruesomely executed. The secondary symbolism here is, of course, that Burhan’s authority was considerable, even prophet-like. Aware of Burhan’s great fame as a teacher of ascetical discipline and inner jihad, this high-spirited ‘great lady’ nonetheless addresses what she sees as a possible inconsistency in the teacher’s own spiritual history. She stands conspicuously and bravely before Burhan, who is seated on a small hill surrounded by ten listeners, as two latecomers peer over the hill. None of the attendees merit specific mention by name in Aflaki and none wear the distinctive Mawlawi headgear. As if to underscore the solitary lady’s unusually bold behaviour, the painter inserts a character seated at her feet, with a gesture that could mean either approval of her pluck or condemnation of her presumptuousness. A gilded sky and blue hillock provide an otherworldly, elevated atmosphere for the interaction. According to Aflaki the lady addresses Burhan in jest: ‘As a young man you were dedicated to serious ascetical discipline and selfdenial. Why, then, now that you are old, do you eschew fasting and even dispense with required ritual prayer?’ The Persian text on the image supplies Burhan’s rejoinder: ‘Young one, we are like overburdened camels, so exhausted by protracted and arduous travel with

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Figure 4.9  Burhan and a female disciple. O Nova 94, Uppsala University Library, photo: Uppsala U.L., 30b.

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endless stops and starts, that the hair of our very being has grown thin.’ On the page after the image the text continues: ‘Emaciated and gaunt, we have failed to attain our goal. In these last days, we have been fattened on barley to be butchered to feed crowds gathered for a sultan’s feast.’ Aflaki extends the metaphor, noting that the suffering beasts of burden at least receive decent provender, only to be fattened for the slaughter. He then cites a quatrain that reinforces the opening allusion to Moses: ‘Think of me as Moses’ cow, slaughtered in order to provide food to revive a dead man­– ­[who would then disclose the identity of his murderer]/. In every fibre of me hides the resurrection of all liberated persons./ If the cow receives fodder while it rests,/ it is for the purpose of plumping it up for butchering and the festival meal.’ Moved to tears, the lady asks forgiveness as she kisses Burhan’s feet. Here the artist captures the moment of her spunky opening remarks.21 In the following paragraph, Aflaki notes that Salah ad-Din, the next of Rumi’s own teachers, was among Burhan’s most prominent disciples. Fig. 4.10 visualises the tale of how Rumi was (according to Mawlawi lore) inspired to incorporate dance into the order’s ritual practice. Our artist depicts the moment in which Mawlana, while walking through a marketplace, stops outside a goldsmith’s shop attracted by the sound. The depiction of the two spaces suggests a covered suq (traditional bazaar). Entranced by the rhythmic tapping of the artisans, Rumi begins to spin to the cadence. At that moment, a spiritual communication urges Salah ad-Din to emerge from the shop and lay his head at Mawlana’s feet. Watching from outside are eight Mawlawi disciples (though the text indicates that ‘reciters’ arrived only at the afternoon prayer hour), while a similar number of non-Mawlawis watch in rapt curiosity from within. Depicting two moments in the event, the artist shows Salah both inside the shop and emerging to do homage to Rumi. As people form a circle around Rumi, and moments after the painter’s snapshot, Salah quickly becomes fatigued. He nevertheless orders his smiths to continue to pound gold leaf while Rumi whirls, even though he knows that excessive hammering typically renders gold leaf unusable and worthless. Not only was the leaf miraculously preserved intact, and even multiplied, but the smiths’ tools themselves had turned to gold­– ­as the painter indicates clearly. Salah ad-Din Zarkub then ‘abandons the shop of the two realms of existence’, becomes a disciple and surrenders his property to plunderers. The Turkish text picks up only this last detail, as Rumi gazes into the shop, and Salah emerges to express his ‘conversion’. Salah would later become a khalifa of Rumi, taking the leadership (which he held for ten years) after Shams ad-Din of Tabriz and before Husam ad-Din.22 Salah appears in no other pictures in our three manuscripts, although the scene appears in at least one other unrelated manuscript, an illustrated text of the Majalis al-Ushshaq.

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Figure 4.10  Rumi whirls at Salah ad-Din’s goldsmith shop. Presidency of the Republic of Turkey, the Directorate of National Palaces. TSMK. Revan 1479, fol. 219b.

Shams ad-Din, ‘Sun of the Religion’, is the visual and metaphorical focus of Fig. 4.11. The painter locates Rumi and Shams, along with three subordinate figures, in an outdoor setting with both formal and informal elements. At the centre of the formal side is a small

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Figure 4.11  Rumi’s ‘Sun’ (Shams) gazes on the sun’s reflection in a pool. The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911. 89b.

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reflecting pool set within a rectangle and linked to a flowing stream. A brown-clad Shams, holding a book, sits and leans to look at a tiny reflection of the sun in the pool, while Rumi points to the actual but inverted sun as it peers down at its own mirror image. To the left of Shams stands a younger disciple of Rumi presenting a book; to the right of Rumi a bareheaded disciple holds a book to his cheek. Shams’ brown robe and turban suggests the garb of a solitary dervish, while the disciple’s bare head may betoken the onset of an ecstatic state. A fourth book sits on the ground at Shams’ knees. It is tempting to imagine that these represent Rumi’s own main works: his 25,000 verse Spiritual Couplets and the hefty tome of some 60,000 lines of lyric poetry known as the Divan-i Shams (named after Shams so as to suggest that Shams is the actual author). Just above the reflecting pool is a cypress embraced by a flowering fruit tree, standard symbols of a loving relationship. In addition, the pool itself alludes to a key feature in Qur’anic descriptions of Paradise: there God will provide for believers kawthar (‘abundance’, Sura 108 and passim), variously interpreted as a pool or a river. Muhammad himself evidently understood it in this sense, as a feature marking the zenith of his Ascension. In greater Mediterranean symbolism more broadly speaking, kawthar connoted the source of life-giving water. Further Paradise imagery on the right margin shows a gardener tending trees in a ‘garden beneath which rivers flow’ (Qur’an 61: 12 and passim, as indicated here by oxidised silver). Here it is particularly significant that the sun looks at its own reflection in the pool. Rachel Milstein suggests interpreting the image in light of a text from Rumi’s collection of lyric poetry, the Diwan: ‘The face of Shams al-Din, Tabriz’s glory, is the sun/ In whose track the cloud-like hearts are moving.’ She alludes to two important concepts in medieval Sufi thought that provide wider context for the imagery in this picture. In particular, the notion of the ‘complete person’ (al-insan al-kamil), a lofty index of spiritual attainment, was a topic developed in depth by a major Sufi thinker, Ibn Arabi (d. 1240), whose influence permeated Sufi circles in Konya especially through Ibn Arabi’s principal disciple, Sadr ad-Din of Konya (1210–74). Mentioned often by Aflaki, this exact contemporary and friend of Rumi will reappear shortly below because of his prominent role around Rumi’s death and obsequies. An ideal spiritual guide (shaykh) might be identified as a ‘complete/ perfect person’, one who stands astride the line between the seen and unseen worlds.23 Second, a correlative metaphor is that of the human heart (qalb) as a mirror in need of constant polishing so as to reflect faithfully the light of revelation God casts upon it.24 Aflaki includes another curious anecdote that seems to provide the essential context of the scene in this picture, but here Aflaki refers to him as Shams ‘the teacher’. It discusses the underlying meanings of gazing on another’s face: Rumi notices that during sama` Shams

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is clearly fixed on Mawlana’s countenance. When Rumi asks why Shams continues to stare at him, Shams replies somewhat sheepishly that there is truly no other face in the world worth looking at intently and with delight. Mawlana expresses his hope that it will benefit Shams, but reminds him that Rumi possesses another face invisible to the eye. Shams should take care to seek that hidden face with his inward eye so that when Rumi is gone he can still gaze on his inner presence. Mawlana recites a distich about learning to see the actual light directly, as though there were no filter (i.e. curtain), acclimatising the eyes so that when the curtain disappears Shams will not suffer blindness. Rumi continues by cautioning Shams to avoid looking directly at the ‘disk of the sun’ lest it overwhelm his eyes and leave Shams sightless.25 The Turkish text on the image makes a rather oblique allusion to the more obvious metaphorical language of the image. It indicates that those with access to the certainty of the hidden realm ‘see the Light of God in whatever they look at’, and suggests that ‘beardless’ youths are superior to those with beards. Aflaki also provides further insight elsewhere as to the metaphor’s extended meaning. In the context of Shams’ disappearance, Rumi says ‘the Sun of Tabriz has been extinguished’. Elsewhere Shams reports a dream in which he says to Rumi, quoting the Qur’an concerning God, ‘everything perishes but His face’, adding that the face of the friend remains and ‘that friend is you’ (Rumi). Here the concept of imagination (khiyal) is the foil for actual seeing. Shams explains that ‘the face of the sun is always toward Mawlana because his face faces the sun’, and the back of the sun itself faces heaven. And, in that same context, Rumi refers to the famed mystic Bayazid’s seeing ‘the face of my Lord in the face of a beardless youth’, meaning possibly that God actually took the form of a beardless youth, thereby linking the light imagery and the on-image text.26 Shams of Tabriz has attracted considerably more interest from artists and patrons than either Burhan or Salah ad-Din, not least because of his very colourful life and outsized influence on Rumi, as well as the controversies that attended his relationships with the Family Rumi.27 There are several variants of the moment at which Rumi and Shams first met, but sources generally agree that Rumi was still a professor of religious studies at four madrasas in Konya. Our three manuscripts do not include images of the meeting, but a contemporaneous Ottoman text, the Jami as-Siyar illustrates the scene in an essential comparative image (Fig. 4.12). Their initial encounter is said to have occurred in 1244, just after Mawlana had left the cotton-sellers’ madrasa on his mule, though Lewis says they may have met in Damascus in 1232–3. As Rumi passed the caravanserai of the sugar confectioners where Shams resided, Shams grabbed the reins and engaged him in a probing and inherently vexed question: was Bayazid al-Bistami (d. c. 875) greater than Muhammad? They continued to debate the issue, but at length Shams passed

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Figure 4.12  Rumi meets Shams. Presidency of the Republic of Turkey, the Directorate of National Palaces. Hazine 1230, fol. 121a.

out, overwhelmed by Rumi’s erudition and spiritual stature. Rumi carried him to the madrasa and thus commenced a long, complicated relationship. Here the setting is not a city street, but apparently just outside of town. The artist emphasises Rumi’s scholarly authority with an oversized turban but includes among onlookers several in Mawlawi garb; even Shams appears predictively in the attire worn in sama` participation, but he has let go of the bridle and gestures in conversational posture.28

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That the designer of this image chose to open the text above it with a Qur’anic citation of great importance to Rumi in his understanding of God’s communication to the Prophet Muhammad offers an important insight into Rumi’s complex relationship with Shams. Sura 94 begins as God asks the Prophet, ‘Have we not expanded your spiritual center (sadr)?’ thereby lightening his daunting task of fighting evil and ignorance alone. None other than Moses had sought that very gift from God as he embarked on his prophetic mission, asking that He might send his brother Aaron to share his appointed responsibility (Qur’an 20: 25–36). The word ‘expand’ here also connotes ‘writing a commentary on’, as with a sacred text; and other allusions in Rumi’s own writings may offer a hint as to the role of Shams in fostering Mawlana’s own spiritual growth.29 Husam ad-Din’s relationship to Rumi and son Sultan Walad were complex and controversial. A major complicating factor was Husam’s claim on Rumi’s affections and the controversy arose when Rumi expressed his preference for Husam over his son as successor to the leadership of the Mawlawi community. Chalabi Husam is the subject of dozens of stories throughout Aflaki’s work. It is noteworthy that both M466 and O Nova 94 include interpretations of the same episode highlighting Rumi’s relationship with Husam. A fine example of a genre-theme that appears in a number of variations in Aflaki is that of the large formal gathering hosted by the Sultan’s chief minister, the Parwana (Fig. 4.13). Many feature the presence of Rumi and several also turn the occasion into a venue for describing his relationship to Husam. Seated among dignitaries of the capital city at one such soirée, an uncharacteristically taciturn Rumi sits apart, as Aflaki describes the scene. It seems his friend Óusam ad-Din (d. 1284) has not yet been invited in, though he is just outside in the adjacent garden. When the minister rectifies the oversight, Rumi’s spirits lift dramatically. The painter depicts Rumi and Husam in the garden while the minister (in orange and blue) awaits inside, although Aflaki’s text says that Husam is brought in as Rumi greets him: ‘Welcome my soul, my faith, my Junayd, my light, my master, the favourite of God and the prophets.’ When the Parwana hears such an extraordinary accolade he thinks to himself that Rumi must surely be exaggerating. Husam discerns his doubts and interjects that even if he has actually been unworthy before Rumi has spoken his praise, the mere fact of Rumi’s articulation would have thus elevated his moral and spiritual stature. The Turkish text on the image focuses on the Parwana’s inability to believe that any mere mortal could embody the qualities that Rumi attributes to him and the power of Rumi’s simple affirmation to make it so. Here the artist has created a seamless amalgam of interior and exterior spaces, the latter wrapping around the reception room to the lower left. Key visual metaphors, as Milstein suggests, are the entwined cypress and flowering tree; the gardener tending the plot

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Figure 4.13  Husam and Rumi at the Parwana’s reception, Morgan Interpretation. The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911. 151b.

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with the watercourse flowing beneath the feet of the principal; and a young man plucking what might be taken as roses. The imagery fits perfectly with the notion that the nightingale (here, Rumi) sings only in the presence of the rose­– ­played here by Husam. After Husam encouraged Rumi to compose the Mathnawi the initial result was the opening eighteen couplets, known as the ‘Song of the ReedFlute’, whose plaintive sound arises from its longing to return to its source. Husam went on to serve as Rumi’s secretary. Rachel Milstein notes further that the ‘gaze’ of the main figures reinforces the sense of ecstatic states. She alludes to a ghazal in which Rumi likens Husam to the Prophet Yusuf, whose attractiveness was such that all the shaykhs wanted him as their murid (aspiring pupil), and cites another distich describing the love of the ‘master’ (khwaja) for God the Gardner who is present in brook-side gardens. Here the stream flows from beneath Husam’s feet towards a corner where a youth plucks corsages.30 Two pictures in the Uppsala manuscript feature Husam­– a­ surprising presence, given that there are only nine images in all. Here (Fig. 4.14) is that manuscript’s visual twist on the story illustrated in Fig. 4.13. Aflaki’s fairly extended narrative (here in the abridged Persian, not Turkish, text) begins at the bottom two pages before the image. On the page immediately before the image, where Husam enters the hall, this text leaves out of Rumi’s list of accolades ‘my faith, my Junayd’, and the last line on that same page begins [in brackets here] the segment continued on the image: [Parwana had the thought­– I­ wonder if Rumi’s effusive praise is actually true, or merely flattery. (Reading Parwana’s thoughts), Revered Chalabi grasped] (here beginning the text above the image) [the hand of the Parwana firmly and said ‘Mu`in ad-Din Parwana, even if it were not true, when the revered Mawlana utters something, it is as he says and a hundred times more! He has the capability’] (continued on following folio:) [‘to elevate the non-existent to a reality, increase it in an aspirant’s soul so that but a single uplifting glance brings what he has instructed to perfection (in the aspirant).’] Then it quotes a distich reinforcing this thought and Aflaki’s text goes on describing eloquently the metaphysical intricacies of how contact with the spiritually accomplished elevates the lowly instantly.31 Most noteworthy in this image’s composition is that it dispenses entirely with the kind of interior space one would naturally associate with a grand reception hosted by a high official but doubles up on the mystical metaphor of intertwining cypress and flowering tree. Most of the figures wear Mawlawi headgear and, absent of any furniture or accoutrements suggesting rank, it is unclear which is the Parwana; but the man on the carpet is likely Rumi (given the sikke). The gesture of the turbaned man in blue and brown (lower right) looking intently at Rumi suggests that this is Husam, but the image leaves one guessing as to identities. Husam’s ability to discern another’s

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Figure 4.14  Husam and Rumi at the Parwana’s reception, second interpretation. O Nova 94, Uppsala University Library, photo: Uppsala U.L., 151b.

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thoughts, as prominently featured in this last narrative, provides a fine example of the variety of preternatural capabilities of Rumi and his inner circle, to be explored in Chapter Six. Here a useful example of the dynamics of abridgement that eventuated in the Persian Thawaqib-manaqib is that the Uppsala text then skips over a significant continuation of this story, along with another brief story in which the lady Kiraka (Fatima Khatun, daughter of Salah ad-Din, and Sultan Walad’s mother) objects to Husam’s accession to leadership and tells Sultan Walad that he should instead take his father’s place of authority. Sultan Walad declines and defends Husam’s legitimacy as Rumi’s caliph.32 The text picks up at the next story recounted by the Mathnawi-reciter Siraj ad-Din, about a loyal companion of Rumi, Muhammad-i Haydari, who had become Husam’s gardener.33 After Husam offended Muhammad, he left his garden in a huff. He then ‘saw’ Rumi approaching, instructing an axe man with him to behead Muhammad because Husam had become angry with him. After Rumi had picked up Muhammad’s head and re-affixed it, Husam came to console him, explaining that Rumi had done him a favour by allowing him to become a true Muslim now purified of rebelliousness. The story ends with a quatrain about death and restoration of life, after skipping two more anecdotes, but including a quatrain near the end of the second about the importance of intermediary assistance and guidance.34 The text then picks up with an anecdote about Husam’s role as Rumi’s caliph, stopping short of its conclusion with a quatrain on the need for self-discipline.35 It then skips over the final four anecdotes on Husam and begins what was originally Aflaki’s seventh chapter, dedicated to Rumi’s son Sultan Walad.36 Teachable moments and symbols of community Scenes describing the role of public baths rank towards the top of the most common venues of narratives in Aflaki. Of the dozens of hammam-related social/spiritual contexts on which he reports, slightly variant settings merit depiction in only two manuscript images. Virtually all bath-centred narratives relate directly to core Mawlawi membership in relation to their leaders. In addition to these and other scenes describing intra-Mawlawi relationships, our sources include numerous insights into Rumi’s connections with a wider circle of characters, and Chapter Five will delve in greater detail into Rumi’s connections with religious and political institutions. One story tells how Rumi once sat in the hot water reservoir of the Zirva bathhouse for seven days and nights, causing his disciples to wonder at this unusual ascetical behaviour and thinking that he was lost. At the end of that period, he thrust his head into an adjacent room and commenced to teach from the depths of ‘the reservoir of

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Figure 4.15  Rumi and disciples in a hammam. The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911. 90b.

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his heart’. A prominent disciple functioning as a secretary reported that when Rumi then began to recite new ghazals he quickly wrote them down on multiple sheets, but they remained dry as his own pores miraculously shut down amid the heat and humidity.37 As Barbara Schmitz notes, in this image (Fig. 4.15) Rumi sits alone in one of the two pools in the main room of the hammam (the largest of the figures at upper left), not sequestered in the reservoir room. He seeks remedy for a cold caused by ‘contact with vain individuals’.38 The Turkish text on the image summarises Rumi’s withdrawal and return to interaction with his disciples.39 Bathhouse symbolism figures prominently in Rumi’s own writings as well. In his Discourses Rumi offers a helpful extended metaphor of the bath, the individual and the spiritual life. He describes how when seekers enter a bathhouse they experience the warmth of a fire even without actually seeing it. Upon leaving they pass by the furnace and see the flames and thus become aware of the source of the heat. A human body is a bathhouse that encloses the heat of mind, spirit and soul, and only when departing it does one actually experience the essential spiritual reality of those inner faculties. That brings the realisation that one’s ‘cleverness was due to the heat of the mind, that temptations and deceits were due to the lower soul, and that your vitality was due to the spirit.’ Only then does one realise the essences of all three faculties.40 In the narrative behind Revan’s bathhouse episode (Fig. 4.16), Mawlana advises his followers to enlighten their hearts instead of embellishing their outward appearance. Here the artist has paired seven bathers with seven Mawlawi sikkes (without vertical stripe) including two with wraps denoting higher rank, along with clothing arrayed in the changing room. Rumi’s clothing and hat top the column of garments. Directly illustrated in this picture is a scene related by Aflaki in which Rumi sits cross-legged (a detail not included here) in the bath while elaborating on the spiritual implications of the setting. Three times he shouts, ‘Who among you is a disciple of Mawlana?’ Hearing no reply, he explains that if a stranger entering the premises noticed the clothing of Mawlawis in the changing room he would naturally infer the presence of Mawlana’s disciples. Getting more specific (and here the Turkish text picks up the story) he adds that just as their garb and headgear announced their physical presence, the followers must also adorn their inner selves with intimate knowledge of spiritual realities. He then quotes the hadith that ‘God does not scrutinise your outward appearance and deeds, but observes your hearts and intentions.’41 Aflaki makes many additional clarifying references to the extended metaphorical meanings of the bath. For instance, Rumi one day likened the perfect shaykh to a bathhouse: ‘Entering the bath, you cannot become clean and be rid of impurities until you first remove your clothing. Likewise, unless you free yourself from embodiment

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Figure 4.16  Scene in a hammam with dervish clothes in the changing room. Presidency of the Republic of Turkey, the Directorate of National Palaces. TSMK. Revan 1479, fol. 132b.

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and egocentricity, you will not experience renewal and escape the wiles of the lower self (nafs).’42 Rumi did not exempt his own children from tutelage even in small matters, as illustrated in Fig. 4.17, which happens to be the very next image in Revan and carries forward the prior one’s ethical implications. Aflaki records a first-person narrative in which Sultan Walad describes a stressful encounter with his father. During the sama`, Rumi senses a problem with his son’s spiritual condition. Sultan Walad had confessed to one or two minor sins (a ‘single lapse’ in the Turkish) as a child but had asked forgiveness only once. From Rumi’s perspective, that did not measure up; so he grabbed Sultan Walad’s collar, shook his finger at him and insisted that he repent three times. Turkish text on the image ends with Rumi’s admonishing his listeners to be scrupulously vigilant. He then suggests by indirect allusion that even the smallest transgression would have made so lofty a figure as the Qur’anic prophet Joseph unfit to become the king’s minister. Sultan Walad must continue to be on guard for any failure in personal demeanor. Rumi’s gesture in the image comes very close to convincingly ‘grabbing a collar’, though the ‘finger shaking’ digit remains concealed in his dervish-style sleeve. The artist depicts fifteen other dervishes, including five observing from above along with one woman (at far left), to emphasise the ritual context of this unusual intervention by Rumi. But the artist has cleared the space of Rumi’s rebuke by omitting any obvious visual reference to the ritual setting described in Aflaki’s text.43 Another scene set in the context of mystical ritual elicited from Rumi a still more trenchant critique of self-centred behaviour. Rumi and his family encountered a wide range of special interest groups and mediated more than a few conflicts, not always peacefully. The text on the page immediately prior to this Revan image (Fig. 4.18) tells the story of how Hajji Mubarak Haydari (d. 1221), founder of the Haydari group of ascetics and a supporter of Rumi, has been appointed shaykh of an organisation sponsored by a government minister. A gathering to celebrate his installation in that position has attracted a bevy of religious and civic leaders. Rumi begins an ecstatic circle-dance, as reflected in the distich that appears just prior to this image: ‘O firmament that turns wheel-like above us, in your love for the sun, you wear the same patched frock (khirqah) as I.’44 Here the on-image text picks up: At that moment, an influential man named Sayyid Sharaf ad-Din­– ­who, according to Aflaki was very knowledgeable but lacked any mystical sensibilities­– i­ncites quiet criticism of Rumi among the observers. Rumi is immediately aware of their poisonous thoughts through clairvoyance. In a shocking response, Rumi shouts ‘Your sister is a harlot!’ [a comment omitted from the Turkish translation]45 and adds ‘Haven’t you read the Qur’anic text?’ [a phrase also absent from the Turkish] ‘Would

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Figure 4.17  Rumi reprimands Sultan Walad’s unconcern over minor faults. Presidency of the Republic of Turkey, the Directorate of National Palaces. TSMK. Revan 1479, fol. 125a.

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Figure 4.18  Rumi reprimands observers at sama`. Presidency of the Republic of Turkey, the Directorate of National Palaces. TSMK. Revan 1479, fol. 110a.

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any of you like to eat the flesh of his dead brother?’ (Q 49: 12, written in Arabic at the bottom of the picture at the left end of the panel of text in blue ink). In its Qur’anic context, this verse concludes a longer text that offers details of the concern that prompted such a starkly hyperbolic question. Calling for irenic social interaction, the text admonishes those ‘who believe’ to avoid the sins of suspicion, backbiting, sarcasm and mocking others, all in the wider context of a sura entirely devoted to establishing norms of communal comportment. It warns against self-promotion and raising one’s voice at another. It counsels patient search for the truth when gossip threatens unity, calls for mediation amid disputes, and reminds that God created humankind in diversity so that they might ‘know each other’ amicably. After the Parwana and other notables here join Rumi in his denunciation of such unacceptable behaviour, a duly chastised Sharaf ad-Din slinks off to his house and goes blind.46 Aflaki notes elsewhere that Sharaf ad-Din was conceited and arrogant, and determined to cast Rumi in a negative light by continually slandering him before persons of influence, including the Parwana. He also provides further details of Rumi’s contentious relationship with Sharaf ad-Din, including the latter’s own description of how his disagreement with Rumi caused his blindness.47 This painting presents an unusual arrangement of diverse groups. On the left, a cluster of nine Mawlawis in animated conversation stand in an open space behind a major figure at a threshold­– ­who, given his size, must be Rumi, here in the brown garb common in sama` sessions. A tenth Mawlawi and a woman observe from above left. On the right, six seated non-Mawlawis, apparently representing the disaffected element, comment among themselves on Rumi’s behaviour, and six more non-Mawlawis including a woman observe from a rooftop pavilion. The artist has effectively set off the feuding parties in two discrete spaces, the left credibly suggesting the sort of open room needed for sama`, and the right an area whose decor seems appropriate to a social gathering or discussion. Though the text features both the disruptive citizen and the Parwana prominently among the interlocutors, the artist offers no visual clues as to which­– i­ f any­– ­of the participants they might be. In Fig. 4.19 a very lively image depicts a veritable melange of ordinary ritual practices of the Mawlawi community, by then under the governance of Rumi’s first caliph (successor) Óusam ad-Din Chalabi (d. 1284). The scene takes place in a Mawlawi madrasa, a frequent venue for sama`, with that action here occupying the centre/lower half of the image. This episode’s description begins on the previous page: ‘It is reported thus that after the death of Khudawandigar [Rumi], Husam Chalabi did all that is required of the position of successorship, and the office of religious leadership [sajjada, referring to the carpet of authority on which the leader sat]. He acted in

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Figure 4.19  Another Mawlawi ritual sama` set in a learning context. The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911. 159a.

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accordance with the will of Mawlana and carried out his wishes.’ Above the image the text continues: [Husam ad-Din] served completely and without neglect Mawlana’s household and children as well as his inner circle. Likewise, on Fridays, Mondays, and Thursdays, after reciting the Qur’an and reading Mathnawi, they observed Mawlana’s customary practice of sama and enjoyment. Singers sang ghazals, and rabab-players drew their bows across their instruments [cousin to the violin] and ˚udum players beat their drums.48 The artist includes two principal types of common musical instruments­– ­ percussion (daf) and a lute-like string instrument played with a plectrum (oud). The text in the lower panel refers to the recitation of the Mathnawi and ghazal (lyric poetry) and the lowest line refers to qawwalan (devotional singers) and names specific musical instruments: the rebab ( ‘rebec’, a string/bowed fiddle not depicted here) and qudum (percussion). As for the ritual movements, the text uses the terms charkh (wheel/circle) and raqs (a type of dance).49 Above the ecstatic whirling dancers sit disciples reading and/or praying. An iwan (vaulted hall) at upper left opens onto a larger space, but here it appears to be a central all-purpose covered room rather than an open courtyard.50 There is no specific visual hint as to whether Husam himself is among the participants. In a very different, much simpler composition (Fig. 4.20), a painting that may have originally belonged to the Morgan manuscript depicts Rumi dancing outdoors with three disciples (plus an unidentified elderly onlooker).51 Rumi’s right hand grasps prayer beads and his elongated sleeves extend well beyond his hands­– ­a feature commonly included in images of dancing. The two young disciples gesture (perhaps in rhythm with the dance) and the painter has included a fine depiction of the kind of bowed instrument (rebab) mentioned in the text (but not shown) in Fig. 4.19. Rachel Milstein notes that in the process of separating this image from the Morgan manuscript, the folio number became illegible and an ‘illuminated unwan [introduction/foreword] from another text was later inserted above’ the image. The Persian text that seems puzzlingly out of place here reads: ‘The “palm” refers to an explanation of the excellences/ virtues of love, and the “branch” refers to the reason for the composition of the book.’ It nevertheless provides yet another clue to the puzzle of the ‘Jami connection’ with our manuscripts. As part of an introduction to Yusuf and Zulaykha, one of the three ‘allegorical romances’ in Jami’s Seven Thrones, the text appears to allude to the structure of the poem, with ‘palm’ referring to a ‘chapter’ to come and the ‘branch’ referring to a ‘section’ of that chapter. Jami’s Seven Thrones may have used this organisational structure.52 In its new context, this now ‘orphaned’ verse may function as a reminder of the

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Figure 4.20  Mayer 58–96. Rumi whirls outside with disciples. Separated, text from Jami unwan. L.A. Mayer Museum for Islamic Art, Jerusalem, Israel. Photo: Avshalom Avital.

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theme of a human lover’s all-out quest for the Divine Beloved that suffuses Sufi mystical romances and of which Mawlawi paraliturgical ritual (sama`) is a metaphor.53 One of the most elaborately depicted images of the whirling dance for which the Mawlawis are most widely known appears in the Beatty manuscript of Jami’s Warm Breaths of Intimacy (Fig. 4.21). At the centre of the upper line is the slightly larger image of Rumi, with exaggeratedly prominent head and turbaned headgear­– ­features shared with our three chief manuscripts. Here the artist makes the blue vertical centre stripe in the sikke a prominent feature, along with the white wraps that indicate dervishes of higher rank. Two instrumentalists play percussion (daf), and this image adds explicit depiction of the instrument most characteristic of Mawlawi spirituality and musical ritual, the ney (played by two figures above the percussionists), a double-reed flute alluded to in connection with Fig. 4.19. Unlike other images in this Jami manuscript, the artist has not chosen to inscribe names on turbans­– l­ ikely because this is a rather generic assemblage (apart from the presence of Rumi) while the narratives of Junayd preaching (Fig. 5.8) and Hallaj’s execution (Figs 4.5 and 4.6) suppose gatherings of Sufis either known to have been in attendance or deemed likely to have been there. Although this manuscript clearly avoids depicting women, the present scene displays some interest in diversity, including variations of skin colour and age. The non-Mawlawis seated in the gallery above may represent members of the sultan’s retinue observing the ritual and commenting among themselves. The figure at the right end of the balcony appears to be a Janissary.54 An unusual image featuring Arif (Fig. 4.22) presents a considerable challenge: the text that describes the scene actually appears four folios earlier (269b–270a). Text nearer the image (271b ff.) might lead one to believe that the episode centres on clarifying that Arif’s intoxication results not from ordinary wine, but a mystical source, but it does not.55 It is clear that this picture has been mislocated, but I am unable to offer further explanation. The unusual scene illustrates a story in Aflaki that describes the strange journey of an elegantly wrought white marble basin. It had become a symbolically important fixture in Mawlawi life after being transferred from Kutahya (around 200 miles northwest of Konya) to the khanaqah in Konya’s ancestral mausoleum, where Arif lived. During a period of political upheaval in Konya, while Arif was away, a military leader managed to abscond with the basin to Laranda (about 60 miles southeast of Konya), where he set it into his own residence. After the dust settles, Arif returns to Konya and discovers with profound consternation and mental anguish that the basin is missing. His retainers set out to find it, punish the miscreant soldier, and return it to Konya where they reinstall it in its original location. Aflaki describes in almost allegorical profusion the depths of Arif’s

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Figure 4.21  Sama` with Rumi at centre. Jami, Nafahat al-Uns (Ottoman 1003/1595), © The Trustees of the Chester Beatty Library, Dublin. CBL T474:248b.

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Figure 4.22  Arif Chalabi sits in the newly returned marble basin. Presidency of the Republic of Turkey, the Directorate of National Palaces. TSMK. Revan 1479, fol. 275b.

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distress and the uplifting effect of the basin’s return, for the basin symbolised the presence of Arif’s ancestors in that august shrine. Aflaki suggests that the inanimate basin possesses a kind of spiritual presence as a result of its role as servant to the Family Rumi. His text says nothing about Arif’s entering the pool, indicating only that he spread his cloak over it as it arrived and was reinstalled. The episode ends with a quatrain of Rumi celebrating access to the divine presence symbolised by the return of the basin: ‘Every door but yours is shut/so that a stranger has no recourse but you. For beneficence, glory, and light resplendent/sun, moon, and stars are at your command’ (bottom 270a). This painting shows a gathering of eleven Mawlawis looking down from a gallery over Arif, in a pool of water, with two more dervishes and three others peering over the crenellations on the roof, though the text says the whole community rejoiced with a sama`. The artist has in effect summarised the narrative by depicting something not described in the text: Arif sitting in the water-filled basin fully clothed, as though floating on the surface. From the text we learn that the basin, though made of marble, must have been relatively movable, given its trajectory from Kutahya to Konya to Laranda and back to Konya. But the painter depicts it as quite capacious and hardly an ordinary­– ­let alone mobile­– ­piece of furniture. The scant two lines on the image appear to be a reference to Arif’s perceived withdrawal from the Community in his disconsolate state, ending with a metaphor reinforcing the symbolic role of the basin: ‘They said, “Do not deny those perplexed ones your sweet union” and uttered all sorts of oaths. God almighty helped him and he came to the shore.’56 Loss tests the Community’s faith and fortitude Rumi’s love for Shams became increasingly a source of envy among his disciples and family members. Eventually Shams vanishes permanently, the suspected victim of murder. Aflaki describes Rumi’s frantic return to Damascus in search of Shams. Shams makes his sole appearance in Revan in Fig. 4.23, an image that is unusual for several reasons. First, Aflaki provides two contradictory versions of the event, one of which suggests that he realises that because neither Shams’s body nor a weapon was ever found, murder was probably not the cause. Virtually all associated references in Aflaki relate only the protracted search and grief over Shams’s final disappearance and speculation as to his ultimate resting place. Second, Aflaki’s sole reference to the scene depicted here is very brief and sketchy on actual details of the ‘murder’ itself. Aflaki says that when Shams and Rumi were alone, a knock at the door led Shams to announce that ‘they summon me to kill me’. When Shams surrenders to the ‘seven’ assailants, they fall upon him; Shams wails so loudly that they all faint, and when they recover they find only

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Figure 4.23  Assassins arrive to take Shams. Presidency of the Republic of Turkey, the Directorate of National Palaces. TSMK. Revan 1479, fol. 215a.

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drops of blood.57 The Turkish text on the picture provides only that barebones summary. Departing from Aflaki’s text, the image includes six other Mawlawis and eight armed assailants. Shams appears in his brown robe, with no headgear, approaching the door as the assassins gather outside the building. Rumi and disciples gesture in dismay as the grim scene unfolds, with an image of a cypress and entwined blossoming tree appearing through a window and extending outside the interior space. Two miscellaneous onlookers, a man and a woman, comment from the roof.58 Rumi’s last days and death Aflaki reports numerous vignettes about Rumi’s behaviour and interaction with his innermost circle as he became aware of his impending demise. He tells of visits by prominent figures of Konya during Mawlana’s terminal illness and of their intense discussions about mortality and life hereafter. Among the more important matters Rumi’s distinguished visitors discussed were whom he would designate as his successor to leadership of the Mawlawi community. He chose Husam ad-Din, in spite of widespread opinion that son Sultan Walad seemed the most obvious candidate.59 All the eminent religious figures, Aflaki notes, wanted the honour of performing the funeral prayer; but Sadr ad-Din of Konya (major student of Ibn Arabi) was deemed most worthy of that role.60 Atop this image (Fig. 4.24) begins a text in which Rumi consoles his closest friends and relatives with an analogy: just as, even many years after Hallaj’s death, his ‘light’ was manifest to the poet Farid ad-Din Attar (d. 1221) in such a way that Hallaj became his shaykh and guide, Rumi would remain present in that way, whatever ‘spiritual form’ he might take in the hereafter.61 In another ‘last day’ entry, Aflaki reports Husam’s description of how Rumi stood to greet a handsome young man who appeared mysteriously, identifying himself as Azrael, angel of ‘resolution and decision’ (death). Rumi tells the angel to approach and deliver his message, citing a Qur’anic passage: ‘Do as you have been commanded. God willing, you will see that I am one of the patient ones.’ (Q 37: 102).62 The Turkish text picks up here: Do not worry. The divine light of Mansur [Hallaj] guided even after his death and reached a hundred and fifty years later to [Farid ad-Din] Attar. He [Attar] attained lofty status [due to Mansur’s guidance]. Now, the inevitable [death] may come soon; you will be with me, and remember me so that I will show myself to you, to my companions and to my followers in whatever guise I may be, whether in death or in life, in [bodily] form, or in spiritual meaning . . .

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Figure 4.24  Rumi’s last meeting, final spiritual counsel. The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911. 121a.

In this image, Rumi sits upright on a kind of chaise longue, surrounded by a dozen grief-stricken Mawlawis as three women observe from a balcony and an upper rear window and a fourth enters through a curtained doorway carrying a tray and refreshments. On the left,

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a young man not wearing Mawlawi headgear carries in a ewer in a bowl, likely in keeping with Aflaki’s report of Rumi’s request that he be given a basin full of water in which he would wash his feet and moisten his brow. Rumi died at sundown on 17 December 1273.63 Many images of end-of-life themes from contemporaneous manuscripts of the Baghdad school offer useful comparative material. Shi`i illustrated hagiographies produced for Ottoman patrons are particularly instructive in this regard. Scenes of ‘last encounters’ or moment of death depict Ali and Hasan in particular, reclining on the same sort of chaise longue shown in the present scene of Morgan 466. They employ nearly identical compositional devices. Central figures are likewise surrounded by mourners, particular key family members­– s­ ons Hasan and Husayn in scenes of Ali’s death, brother Husayn with the dying Hasan­– ­and typically in slightly fewer numbers. Prime example are scenes depicting the last hours of Ali and his son Hasan in major manuscripts of the Shi`i Garden of the Felicitous, the Resting Place of the Martyrs and the Killing of the Family of the Prophet. They depict similar arrangements of animated and grief-stricken witnesses surrounding the main figure, both in the room and looking on from nearby spaces.64 Aflaki’s description of events (Fig. 4.25) that followed immediately on Rumi’s death includes details of the preparation of his body in accord with Islamic tradition. He reports that as water used for washing his corpse dripped onto the floor, bystanders would drink it, as mourners at Muhammad’s departure had done. After the preparation, a socially and religiously diverse group of mourners processed and gathered expressing grief in various ways, from tearing and even stripping off their clothes to raising their sacred texts over their heads as they recited from the Psalms, the Torah and the Gospels. Although Muslims tried, even by force, to keep non-Muslims at a distance they persisted in their desire to attend. They explained that it had been Rumi who had elucidated for them the full meaning of Moses, Jesus and all the prophets by modelling the best of their behaviour and values: he was the Jesus and the Moses of the Age for them.65 In this picture the artist has managed to include a remarkably diverse gathering of the bereaved, indicating that most were barefoot out of respect. Except for the behaviour of the small group at the lower edge, the attendees are much more reserved than Aflaki suggests. The text at the top mentions both Sadr ad-Din of Konya and Sharaf ad-Din Kaysari, likely the two larger figures beside the coffin: Sadr ad-Din had been chosen to deliver the prayer and, in another location entirely, Aflaki describes Sharaf ad-Din’s stepping forward to say the prayer over the bier then departing as he weeps tears of blood.66 The Turkish text reads: When the funeral prayer was about to be performed as Rumi had wished, Shaykh Sadr ad-Din of Konya began the prayer by ­declaring

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Figure 4.25  Rumi’s obsequies. The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911. 124a.

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his intention (to so pray). Sharaf ad-Din of Kaysari reports that then, at that moment, he (Sadr ad-Din) let out a cry and collapsed, unconscious. Shortly thereafter, he let out another great cry and again collapsed. The third time, he performed the funeral prayer . . . Rumi’s turban-wrapped sikke perches atop the bier in long-standing Turkish funeral practice. As Rachel Milstein points out, the presence of standard-bearers and a small grey incense burner on a pole at lower left suggest that the funeral procession is imminent. Two men hold Qur’an cases on their heads in a common expression of grief. Aflaki also describes the vocal contribution of both Qur’an-reciters and muezzins, the former suggesting that the venue was a mosque or perhaps a madrasa, but the setting pictured includes none of the standard iconographic clues of a formal religious venue, leaving the viewer to wonder what notable might have made his residence available. Three grieving women look down from a gallery window, four men from small upper openings.67 Among the more frequently illustrated departures of the great ones are scenes of Iskandar’s death and obsequies. A contemporaneous (c. 1590) Ottoman image in Shahnama depicts Iskandar’s funeral. Like the Morgan funeral of Rumi, it centres around a decorated coffin surmounted by a royal crown and surrounded by a diverse assemblage of individuals, including two women on the lower level and three more discreetly peeking from an elevated window. What is perhaps most unusual here is that the painter seems to have constructed a wall around a burial crypt, in the foreground of which is a curious group, one of whom seems to be reaching up to touch the coffin.68 Finally, comes the illustration (Fig. 4.26) of a story that scholars have previously identified as the death of Rumi’s grandson Chalabi Amir Abid. This does seem the obvious choice, since Amir Abid was far more important than his brother Amir Zahid. However, the arrangement of the text here seems to tilt in the direction of the latter. Aflaki’s text in his chapter on Amir Abid indicates that he died in Muharram in 739/1338, but the abridged Persian text on the picture then jumps to Aflaki’s tenth chapter with its summary retrospective of Rumi’s whole genealogy.69 The text immediately ahead of the image reads: ‘And similarly, four children were born to one wife of Chalabi Abid­– ­three sons and a daughter. The first was Chalabi Mohammad, the second Chalabi Amir Alim, and the third Chalabi Shah Malik­– ­may God prosper them . . .’ Then, in the panel above the image, Aflaki’s text continues: ‘in what He loves and what delights Him. And during the lifetime of Chalabi Abid, his brother, offspring of the Friends of God, Salah ad-Din Amir Zahid’ died during the month of Sha`ban in the year 734/1334.70 If the intent is to memorialise Amir Abid, the prominence of data concerning Amir Zahid on the image gives one pause.

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Figure 4.26  Chalabi Amir Abid (or Zahid?) death scene. O Nova 94, Uppsala University Library, photo: Uppsala U.L., 170b.

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The scene is one of dramatic lamentation on the part of a small group of distraught Mawlawis gathered to place the body of the decedent into a coffin, with a single woman wailing from a window above. Amid the mourners are two men not dressed in Mawlawi garb. Outside the room a fruit tree rises over the building, perhaps alluding to a description in the previous segment in which Aflaki celebrates how the marvels of the prophets and Friends of God result from the divine outpouring like fruit on a celestial tree that is proof of divine presence in the world.71 Several features stand out when one compares this image to the Rumi dying/death images just discussed and that of Rumi’s marvel of resuscitation of Hamza (Fig. 6.19). The scene of Amir Abid’s/Zahid’s death combines elements of the final moments with the immediate preparation for placing the body in the decorated coffin below, apparently a unique image. When Rumi is moved to resuscitate the ney-player Hamza he intervenes just after the moment of death, with Hamza enshrouded; and although the mourners below are engaged in activities nearly identical to those of attendees as Rumi was about to be carried in procession­– ­Qur’an boxes on their heads and two men carrying processional standards­– ­there is no indication of a coffin. Notes  1. Alternative renderings in Thackston, Signs of the Unseen: The Discourses of Jalaluddin Rumi, pp. 183, 189.  2. S¸ Küçükhüseyin, ‘Some Reflections on Hagiology with Reference to the Early Mawlawı-Christian Relations in the Light of the Manaqib al-Arifın’, p. 241.  3. Zargar, ‘Virtue in the Narrative Poetry of Rumi’, in The Polished Mirror: Storytelling and the Pursuit of Virtue in Islamic Philosophy and Sufism.  4. Thackston, Tales of the Prophets of al-Kisa`i and Tha`labi, Ara’is alMajalis fi Qisas al-Anbiya, Or: Lives of the Prophets.  5. Ghiasian, Lives of the Prophets: The Illustrations to Hafiz-i Abru’s ‘Assembly of Chronicles’, pp. 182–90 and 262–5, with illustrations from four related texts/mss. See Gutman, ‘More about the Giant Og in Muslim Miniatures’, in Shorter Notices, Bulletin of the Asia Institute; Gutman and Moreen, ‘The Combat Between Moses and Og in Muslim Miniatures’, in Bulletin of the Asia Institute; Milstein, ‘The Stories and their Illustrations’, in Stories of the Prophets: Illustrated Manuscripts of the Qißaß al-Anbiyå`.   6. MA 367–71; Og is also mentioned MA 377 [529]; MDA 13.   7. Revan 176a; on Moses striking Og, see MA 462 [69].  8. Mathnawi II: 910–11.   9. M76b. MA to 367 [521]–371 [522]. MPOB 33–4. See Thackston, Tales of the Prophets, pp. 72–87. 10. MPOB, 33–4. 11. MA 462–3 [70] 12. See Marie-Rose Séguy, The Miraculous Journey of Mahomet: Mi`raj Nameh–Bib. Nat. Paris MSTurc 190, fol. 55r, 57v, 65r; and Gruber, The

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Timurid ‘Book Of Ascension’(Miʻrajnama): A Study Of Text And Image In A Pan-Asian Context. Other comparable demons appear among the unusual Siyah Kalam manuscript images, such as Freer Gallery, 37.25. See also MDA 15. 13. Further on this theme, Aflaki also attributes to Rumi a reply to a disciple’s query about the meaning of the tradition that, although Iblis did not shrink from tempting Muhammad, he would run from Umar’s mere shadow: Muhammad was an ocean, Umar a cup of water, and whereas a dog’s tongue cannot pollute an ocean, a cup of water needs to be protected (MA 411 [590]). 14. M 99b. Rumi’s interpretation in MA 197–8 [199] picks up on an anecdote in the previous report (197 [198]) in which Rumi clarifies any claim to being perfect (‘The Truth’); elsewhere Aflaki provides a variety of additional perspectives: Sultan Walad raises the issue again in MA 322 [438]; and Shams ad-Din recalls the unbelief of which the later Sufi martyr Suhrawardi Maqtul (Martyred One) was accused, and explains his connection with Hallaj on similar grounds (MA 467 [75]). Aflaki mentions the martyr-mystic in yet another context in MA 101 [57]. 15. MPOB 31–2. 16. CBL T474: 79a; MPOB 31–2. 17. Revan 146b; MA 257–8 [301]. Aflaki positions this story immediately prior to the story of the physician bleeding the king, Fig. 4.8. 18. MA 258 [302]. My thanks to Himmet Taskomur for translating both the text on this miniature and the text just preceding it as found on 181 of Revan 1479. 19. SMC 86. For similarly expansive natural landscape, see Figs 5.17, 6.4, 6.5, 6.6, 6.7, 6.8, 6.9. 20. MA 42–54; further on Burhan, see RPP Ch. 2, 96–119. 21. O Nova 94, 30b; MA 48 [12]. The story of Moses’ cow is from Qur’an 2: 67–74. 22. Revan 219b. MA 494–5 [7], RF 170–1, variant 321–2. 23. M 89b. Here I draw on observations of MPOB 30: quoting from Nicholson (trans.), Selected Poems from Divani Shamsi Tabriz (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1952), VII 7. It is also of interest that just before Aflaki describes the meeting of Rumi and Shams in Konya he narrates an episode in which Shams met the mystical poet Awhad ad-Din of Kerman in a caravanserai in Baghdad. Shams asks Awhad what he is doing. ‘Looking at the moon in a bowl of water,’ he replies. Shams responds that Awhad should look at the moon in the sky, directly, unless he had a boil on his neck­– ­in which case he should seek a physician’s help, enabling him to see the ‘real object of [spiritual] vision’, God. MA 423–4 [4]. 24. Further on this metaphor see Renard, ‘In the Mirror of Creation: A Muslim Mystic’s View of the Individual in the Cosmos’, in Horizons. 25. MA 129–30 [99]. 26. See MA 476 [92]; MA 219–20 [241], MA 439 [38–9]. Rumi’s second Discourse (among others) discusses light/vision/solar imagery further (see also Discourses 3, 9, 64). 27. For a more complete background on Shams, see RPP 134–202. 28. TKS, Jami` as-Siyar, Hazine 1230, fol. 121a; MA 425–6 [8]. At the time, Shams stayed in a caravanserai posing as a famous merchant. In reality, he lived in a poorly appointed chamber, with only a broken water ewer, a worn mat and a pillow of clay. There he fasted at regular intervals.

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Aflaki provides additional accounts of Rumi’s early relationship with Shams in MA 61[9]–67 [14]. 29. Renard, All the King’s Falcons: Rumi on Prophets and Revelation, pp. 130–3. Chapters Five and Six will discuss further revealing typological pairings, both implied and explicit, including: Mathnawi/Qur’an, Rumi/Muhammad, Rumi/Moses, Shams/Khidr. See also Lewisohn, ‘From the “Moses of Reason” to the “Khidr of the Resurrection”: The Oxymoronic Transcendent in ShahrastånÈ’s Majlis-i maktËb . . . dar Khwårazm’, in Fortresses of the Intellect. 30. M 151b; MA 536–8 [20]; variants of similar scene: MA 73 [19]; 73–4 [21]; 84–6 [38]; 108 [71]; MPOB 29–30. 31. O Nova 94 151b. MA 536–8 [20]. 32. MA 538–9 [21]. 33. MA 539 [22]. 34. MA 540–1 [23, 24]. 35. MA 542 [25]. 36. MA 547 [1]­– ­575 [34]. 37. MA 312–13 [421]; MA 385–6 [544]. 38. SMC 88. 39. M 90b; MA 159 [143]. In a related account, Mawlana suddenly went missing and all searched for him. When the custodian of the Davali Bathhouse investigated the cause of a leakage, he found Rumi standing in the cauldron but enraptured and completely dry. After coming to his senses he returned to his madrasa. 40. Thackston, Signs of the Unseen: The Discourses of Jalaluddin Rumi, p. 180. 41. Revan 132a; MA 155 [136], hadith on 133a. Aflaki cites that hadith also at MA 279 [340] in the context of another extended clothing ­metaphor. 42. MA 223–4 [247]. Here, too, he cites the same hadith in the anecdote just prior to this bath scene, at the end of which he cites the hadith appearing in Revan 52a: ‘Anyone who searches for a brother free of failings will have no brothers.’ In other words, accept the fact of human frailty. 43. Revan 135a; MA 562 [19]. 44. From Rumi’s Diwan 2997: 1. 45. An expression repeated in a different story MA 201 [204]. 46. Revan 110a; MA 149–50 [124] 47. MA 90–1 [45], 234–5 [266]. 48. I have been unable to locate this text in Aflaki. 49. See further Uyar and Be∞iro©lu, ‘Recent representations of the music of the Mevlevi Order of Sufism’ and Binba∞, ‘Music and Sama` of the Mavlaviyya in the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries: Origins, Ritual and Formation’, in Sufism, Music, and Society in Turkey and the Middle East. 50. M 159a. The contentious subject of whether use of musical instruments comports with Islamic Law will return in connection with Fig. 5.11. 51. According to the Morgan online catalogue of M466: ‘To judge from offsets of pigments on text pages, as many as a dozen miniatures are missing from the Morgan manuscript . . . This miniature, now in the collection of the L. A. Mayer Museum for Islamic Art in Jerusalem, may be one of them. Unfortunately the text at the top of the miniature has been cut away and replaced by another heading.’ https://www.themorgan.org/collection/treasures-of-islamic-manuscript-painting/58.

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52. M466/ possibly 31 (separated): L. A. Mayer Museum for Islamic Art, Jerusalem; (Ms. 58–69). MPOB 98. I am indebted to Himmet Ta∞kömür for the initial suggestion that ‘The nakhl is generally a palm tree and it is also a word used for decorative trees that were prepared for wedding ceremonies. In the first line, the helping verb bastan is used in two senses as nakhl bastan and ishq bastan, and paywastan refers to shakhcha (branch) as being attached to the palm’, and that the metaphor referred to an organisational feature somewhere in the Jami masterpiece. I thank Rachel Milstein and her colleague Julia Rubanovich for further identifying the verse with Jami’s Yusuf and Zulaykha: ‘nakhl-i bayån-i fa‰Èlat-i `ishq bastan wa shakhcha-yi åghåz-i sabab-i naΩm-i kitåb ba-ån paywastan’ (Haft Awrang, p. 36). 53. Further clues to the meaning of the image include an ‘undated calligraphy’ in the Freer Jami that begins: ‘The palm tree in this garden of well-being is in its autumnal phase/In the garden of the soul, it is exactly like an elegant cyprus’, in Simpson, Sultan Ibrahim Mirza’s Haft Aurang: A Princely Manuscript from Sixteenth- Century Iran, p. 418. I also thank Fatemeh Keshavarz of the University of Maryland for her suggestion in separate correspondence that, in his Diwan, Rumi often comments on how jealous the trees are when he dances, wishing that they were not earthbound and could join him­– ­as they attempt to do in limited movement when the wind blows. And on the date palm as an ‘archetypal tree’, see Lewis, ‘One Chaste Muslim Maiden and a Persian in a Pear Tree: Analogues of Boccaccio and Chaucer in Four Earlier Arabic and Persian Tales’, in Metaphor and Imagery in Persian Poetry. Could the man with the book be Jami? 54. CBL T474: 248b. For further on symbolic garb and instruments, see Gündüsöz, ‘Some Symbolic Elements in the Mawlawi Order’, in The Journal of Kırıkkale Islamic Sciences Faculty 3:5. See also Majalis alUshshaq, Ouseley-Add-24 fol.119a for comparable scene; also image of Shaykh Safi whirling in circle of disciples: Safwat as-Safa 1582, Aga Khan Museum, Toronto, AKM 264, fol. 280a. 55. Revan includes a story based on a report transmitted by Chalabi PuladBeg, a courtier of Mongol leader Ghazan Khan and a disciple of Rumi, about a night in which several people were drinking fine wine with Arif [271b bot]. After a while, Arif criticises ‘those common cattle-like folk’ (Q 7: 179) who accuse him of drinking the wine of ordinary people, whereas in reality he drinks a much finer vintage. In a relatively rare injection of himself into the scene, Aflaki tells how Arif summons him to approach and discern whether the drink is wine or something altogether different. Aflaki notices that the ‘well-wisher’s’ cup that Arif has taken up appears to hold honey­– w ­ ine reduced to a viscous substance. Arif commands Aflaki to drink, so he dips his finger in, tastes and utters a distich about how this lofty shaykh has rendered all the wine into honey. As Aflaki enters a state of ecstasy, falling down unconscious, Arif says ‘that is our kind of drink’, and clarifies that his critics drink something entirely other and not religiously acceptable. Revan 272a cites two distichs about the wine: ‘The wine that you imbibe is forbidden, whereas the wine we drink is permitted’ and ‘the wine becomes inebriated because of us, not the other way around/ our bodies begin with us, not we with them.’ This, Aflaki observes, is one of Arif’s more wondrous marvels. A second follow-up anecdote expands on these themes, with Arif departing from a gathering, instructing them not to

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follow him. After some time, they become concerned and go looking for him, fearing some harm has befallen him. MA 619–21 [38–40]. 56. Revan 273b; MA 633–5 [52]. 57. MA 474 [91]; RPP chapters on Shams, esp. ‘Murder most foul?’ 185–7, and ‘No weapon, no body, no murder’ (187–91) and ‘anatomy of a murder legend’ (191–3). 58. Revan 215a: Further on the aftermath of Shams’s disappearance in MA 484 [107]–489 [112]. 59. MA 402 [578]. 60. MA 406 [581]. MA 398 [569] tells of Shaykh Sadr ad-Din (Qunawi) visiting Rumi in his final illness. 61. MA 399 [570]. 62. MA 402–3 [579]. 63. M 121a. MA 398ff. 402–4. 64. Examples in: Raw∂at al-Shuhada, Staatsbibliothek, Berlin, MS Diez A fol. 5, fol. 109a; several from the Hadiqat as-Su`ada include: Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris, Supp. Turc 1088, fol. 122b; Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, 1979.211, dispersed leaf; British Library, London, Or. 12009, fol. 24b; Brooklyn Museum of Art, Brooklyn, 70.143, fol. 260a; British Museum, London, 1949, 1210,0.8, dispersed leaf; Etnografya Müzesi, Ankara, Besim Atalay Env. 7294, fol. 121a; and in the Maqtal-i Al-i Rasul, Museum of Turkish and Islamic Art, Òstanbul, T1967, fol. 129b. 65. MA 405–6 [580]. 66. MA 244–5 [285], also mentioning (MA 127–8 [97]) that although Sharaf ad-Din was a Shafi`i jurist, a patron who had built a madrasa in Aksaray asked Rumi to let the Shafi`i scholar be its professor and Rumi agreed, calling him the ‘king of professors’. 67. M 124a. MA 404–6 [580]. Aflaki offers intriguing comment on what befell the world’s mighty within the year after Rumi’s departure in MA 78 [28]. See also Elias ‘Mevlevi Sufis and the Representation of Emotion in the Arts of the Ottoman World’. 68. Ottoman Shahnama, c. 1590, Topkapı Hazine 1486, 346b. See also Uluç, ‘The Shahnama of Firdausi in the Lands of Rum’, in Shahnama Studies II: the Reception of Firdausi’s Shahnama. 69. MA 695 [11]. 70. Image O Nova 94 170b; MA 698 [6]. The Persian abridgement continues skipping segments: the text on the page immediately after the image picks up with MA 699[7] without finishing the previous section: ‘Likewise, Sultan Wajid had two children, a son and a daughter. The older was named Ahmad Saljuk, the daughter Jahan Malik.’ It adds [8] mention of Sultan Walad’s two grandsons. 71. MA 695 [10].

CHAPTER FIVE

In a Muslim Society

In keeping with the dictum that ‘Kings rule over the people and Religious Scholars rule over the Kings’, Aflaki describes numerous encounters between members of the Family Rumi and representatives of Islamic religious institutions, political authorities and wellconnected fellow citizens­– s­ ociety’s movers and shakers. We begin with images of three episodes that function as testimonials to the authority of the Virtuous Community in the context of Muslim history and tradition. A core symbol here will be the madrasa as the locus of so much of Mawlawi activity, a major context and symbol of epistemic authority, as well as the most important beneficiary of funding by patrons of both political and social rank. Resul Ay offers insights into the various modalities with which Sufi leaders exercised their spiritual authority within ‘later Medieval’ Anatolian society. Mawlawi (and other) shaykhs sometimes acted as ‘mediators between people and the state’ and even occasionally wielded their influence in the choice of individuals for administrative posts. Since shaykhs sometimes weighed in on behalf of their constituents in opposition to rulers, the latter often had reason to mollify them with decisions favourable to the confraternities, including donations of land and financial aid.1 I begin this chapter with episodes in which Aflaki describes the ancient roots of Rumi’s authority amid Anatolian Muslim society. Against that backdrop, reports of Rumi’s relationships with religious/legal and political authorities as well as Mawlawi relationships with other social groups will broaden the picture. Foundations and hierarchies of spiritual authority and Islamic legitimacy Most often it is Muhammad or one of his earliest Companions who anchors a Sufi lineage, as in this story (Fig. 5.1) of Rumi’s response

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Figure 5.1  The story of Muhammad revealing secrets of the Mi`raj to Ali. The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911. 96a.

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to a disciple’s question about what secrets God shared with the Prophet on his Ascension. Here the painter seems to be conflating two stories that Aflaki includes on this topic. In one, God vouchsafed some seventy (or alternatively one hundred) thousand secrets to Muhammad on his Ascension (Mi`raj). God allowed him to reveal half of those to his choice of the best Companions and keep thirty-five thousand for himself. Muhammad gave some to various Companions and ten thousand to Ali, then kept the rest. But one day the Prophet heard some other Companions gathered in a room of the ‘Pure Brethren’ divulging secrets and asked them from whom they had heard them. They replied that God had revealed the secrets to them without an intermediary. Muhammad was duly impressed with their spiritual acumen and, in an ecstatic state, gave thanks to God for bestowing on ‘us’ the very arcane wisdom for which the Brethren of Purity had longed. Fortified with these additional insights, Ali heads off by himself, finds a well and divulges his secrets into its depths. The ‘Secrets of the Pure (or Sincere) Brethren’ are mentioned conspicuously in the first line of the lower text panel. These Ikhwan as-Safa were the Isma`ili-Shi`i authors of a set of ‘letters’ (or treatises) written in southern Iraq (Basra) in the mid-tenth century. They rate mention in this context arguably because of their penchant for exploring arcane questions of self-knowledge and the conviction that a higher authority alone could provide definitive answers to the very kinds of ‘secrets’ imparted in this story.2 Here the Turkish text summarises the story from the division of the secrets down to the Brethren divulging the arcane revelations. Aflaki also records another version of the story, which he explicitly relates to the seminal symbolism of the reed flute for the Mawlawis and is helpful in understanding that key symbol. The context is a report from some learned religious scholars among Rumi’s followers who tell of a time when Rumi was expounding the meaning of the plaintive reed flute and the related metaphor of the first thing God created, the ‘reed pen’. Constructing an etiology as to how the reed flute (ney) came to be so spiritually eloquent, Rumi explains how the divine mysteries divulged to Ali became more public. After Muhammad entrusts this immense burden to Ali, the recipient cannot contain himself and, after forty days, he shouts his share of the secrets (as though vomiting) into a well. After a reed grows rapidly from the well, a passing shepherd carves it into a flute and becomes a virtuoso in producing a sound that enraptures every being within earshot, including animals. At this point, Milstein observes that in this ‘sixteenth-century version’ of the story Muhammad invites the shepherd to perform and recognises the tune as a ‘commentary’ on the very secrets he has disclosed to Ali. This ending of the tale of secrets becomes the etiology for Mawlawi use of the ney for their para-liturgical dance

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(sama`), and the inspiration for the opening lines of Rumi’s Spiritual Couplets: ‘Listen to the tale of the reed-flute, how it complains of separation from its bed of rushes.’ This may derive from an ancient tale of a barber who cannot contain the ‘secret’ of king Midas’s donkey ears and blurts it out into a hole. When reeds later grow from the hole, the wind wafting over the ‘reed flute’ spreads the secret abroad. Milstein also suggests that the image’s mosque setting (signalled by the muezzin on the roof, with a second character hunkered down in the minaret’s gallery) ‘emphasizes the point that the mystical message was transmitted through Ali to the whole community.’3 Both Muhammad and Ali wear flame-halos, but only the Prophet is veiled. A unique feature here is that the Persian-style tile-mosaic dome has burst into flames, marking the place as the site of a particularly potent and auspicious event. All of Islam’s many Sufi orders trace the authority of their major figures through lengthy lineages (silsilas) reaching back to Muhammad himself and often, by extension, even acknowledging pre-Islamic prophets as their spiritual forebears. Here are illustrations of two anecdotes that link Rumi and the Mawlawis to diverse ancient wellsprings of authority. Another scene (Fig. 5.2) visualises a pre-Islamic wisdom/prophetic figure’s affirmation and validation of a major spiritual authority, a role Khidr often plays in Sufi lore. Aflaki tells how one day the still young Rumi was preaching a sermon from the minbar of a mosque on the topic of Moses and his own spiritual guide, the mysteriously ubiquitous Khidr. Departing from the details of Aflaki’s description, the artist portrays Rumi as a grey-beard seated on the floor­– ­not in a pulpit­– ­at the centre of a group of disciples, in front of what appears to be the mihrab. Two figures, perhaps muezzins, appear on the roof near the minaret at upper left. A group of five listeners sit to Rumi’s right and left, all communicating by various hand gestures that they are responding attentively. Headgear marks six attendees as Mawlawis, with three (lower right) engaged in animated discussion, their hand gestures suggesting that they are aware of something unusual happening to their left. Two listeners hold books, perhaps as an acknowledgement that Rumi is elucidating a Qur’anic topic. The Turkish text on the painting summarises the incident as follows: One day Mawlana was preaching from the minbar, and his topic turned to [the relationship] between the Prophet Moses and Khidr. Shams ad-Din the Pharmacist, and the other disciples, noticed a man sitting in a corner of the mosque and absorbing Rumi’s message enthusiastically, adding that Rumi might as well have been there with him and Moses. Recognising the figure as Khidr, Shams ad-Din grabs the hem of his garment and says, ‘You are Khidr! Be generous and grant our wish [for deeper understanding].’ Khidr replies, ‘Mawlana can respond to that request.’ Aflaki locates Shams ad-Din the Pharmacist as seated ‘in absolute

in a muslim society

Figure 5.2  Khidr listens to Rumi preach. The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911. 15a.

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concentration in a corner’ of the mosque. Here Shams (whose name appears in both the upper and lower panels of text) is instead on the move after spotting Khidr. Aflaki situates the visitor in another corner of the mosque, and the artist suggests a separate space on the periphery. Khidr sports a fiery halo and wears the symbolic green of a prophet. As Aflaki describes the scene, Khidr listens calmly but attentively, and begins nodding his head in approval. He then addresses Rumi, claiming that his discourse is so lofty that Rumi seems almost to have been privy to Khidr’s own conversations with Moses. Suddenly Shams ad-Din realises that this is indeed Khidr and (says the text) clutches the prophet’s tunic as if to beseech his help with an interjection of his authoritative wisdom into the proceedings. In reply, Khidr turns the tables. On the contrary, he insists, it is we (prophets) who seek Rumi’s counsel for he stands at the pinnacle of all spiritual paradigms. Shams ad-Din should rather hold on to Rumi’s cloak, says Khidr as he breaks free and vanishes. When the pharmacist approaches to kiss Rumi’s hand, the teacher tells him that he counts Khidr among those who love him. Shams the Pharmacist immediately becomes a disciple. It is of symbolic importance that in Rumi’s own life, Shams of Tabriz filled the role Khidr had played in the life of Moses. Rachel Milstein notes that the composition centres on a diagonal line linking Khidr to Rumi via the arch.4 Another charming story (Fig. 5.3) featuring the Prophet becomes the content of a dream of Husam ad-Din, one of Rumi’s most influential muses. Husam recounts the basic details included in the Turkish text on the painting: Chalabi Husam ad-Din reported seeing in a dream that Bilal the Abyssinian [and the first muezzin] held ‘God’s Word’ (the Qur’an) over his head, as the Messenger, refuge of prophethood, held the Mathnawi and was reading it. He found the book excellent and approved of it, saying ‘May God’s blessings be upon you.’ Aflaki adds that Muhammad was clasping Rumi’s Mathnawi to his chest as he read to a group of the Companions (first generation Muslims very close to the Prophet). Apart from mentioning Bilal, Aflaki does not specify which Companions were in attendance, but the two veiled figures next to Muhammad may be Hasan and Husayn, or Ali and one of his two sons. Here the Prophet lauds the poetry as the ultimate spiritual wisdom. According to Aflaki, Rumi interprets Husam’s dream as an authentic vision of the unseen world, likening the Mathnawi to the Qur’an: both are brides who remain hidden except to the most worthy; both are sequestered gardens accessible only to the elect.5 At the very end of the lower text panel is a hadith that Aflaki mentions elsewhere but not in the text attached to this picture: ‘One who has seen me has seen truly [lit. the Truth, al-Haqq].’ Its inclusion on this painting evidently

in a muslim society

Figure 5.3  Husam’s dream of Muhammad reading Mathnawi before Ali’s sons. The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911. 156a.

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reflects Aflaki’s extended metaphor punning on various meanings of the Persian words for ‘to see/vision’. Gruber provides a most intriguing analysis of the image’s evocation of a dreamscape-become-real, an indication of the chief Morgan illustrator’s rare gift for suggesting another plane of existence even in a two-dimensional image. Islamic traditions about dreams also feature ‘veridical dreams’ as authentically revelatory.6 Gruber argues that the Aflaki text’s use of a dense cluster of sight-imagery suggests that this image crosses over into the realm of the visionary. She explains that while the realism of the central scene implies the concrete presence of the characters with Muhammad, ‘the vision proper must be separated visually from the nondream world, which in this example is insinuated by the balcony and tree’ on the upper left. In that slice of real life, the older man with a Mawlawi turban on the balcony is likely Rumi himself. If, as Gruber suggests, the rose-offering figure peering from off-stage is the younger Husam, who is prominently associated with the rose, I suggest that the ranking dervish to Rumi’s left may be an older Husam whose right hand appears to ‘reveal’ the dream and without whose encouragement Rumi would never have completed the Mathnawi. Thus does the artist tidily sequester dream from reality. Gruber concludes that ‘dream and image thus act as thresholds between the real and the imagined worlds as well as contact zones between the realm of the sensible and the intelligible.’7 A thematically related image appears in the Agha Khan Museum’s unique illustrated manuscript of the life of Shaykh Safi ad-Din, Safwat as-Safa.8 A curious anachronism is that five of the figures in the main grouping appear to wear Mawlawi headgear, implying that (again Gruber’s lead) they are disciples at a majlis (assembly, teaching session) with Muhammad sitting in for Rumi. Even though Bilal­– ­a dark-skinned Ethiopian and the young Muslim community’s first muezzin­– ­has made appearances in several illustrated manuscripts, this artist has surprisingly opted not to include him in the group despite the fact that both Aflaki and the Turkish text credit him with the signature role of hoisting the Qur’an on his head. Bilal’s absence here is all the more noticeable given the obvious presence of people of colour in many of the M466 images as well as in other contemporaneous manuscript illustrations.9 And Christiane Gruber has called attention to several images in which Bilal appears both among the Prophet’s Companions and as the subject of images in which he was tortured.10 But perhaps the most attention-getting feature in the story and its illustration is that the Mathnawi is accorded revelatory power and access to all the subtle secrets of divine disclosure. Many later Sufi authors would acknowledge the Mathnawi as highly authoritative, the loftiest accolade coming from fifteenth century poet and author of various works in philosophical theology, Jami (d. 1492), who famously dubbed the Spiritual Couplets ‘the Persian Qur’an’.11

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Epistemic (religious/legal) authority and Muslim institutions Aflaki’s axiom ‘the sultan of scholars outranks the sultan of soldiers’ sets the tone here. One of the most obvious visual representations of religious authority is that of a notable figure preaching on a minbar, a theme described as a ‘case study’ in Chapter Three. A total of four images in our manuscripts illustrate the genre scene. Only one scene has merited inclusion in all three of our manuscripts: Baha Walad (d. 1231) preaching from an outdoor minbar. Known already to his fellow citizens for his wonder-working capabilities, Baha Walad’s legendary renown as an orator had, at least according to Aflaki and other hagiographical sources, actually ­preceded his arrival in Konya. The inspiration for this thrice illustrated genre scene is Aflaki’s narrative: Saljuk Sultan Ala ad-Din Kaykubad (r. 1219–37) ordered Baha Walad to have a minbar constructed in a place of prayer (musalla) at Konya’s main cemetery.12 As for setting, M466 alone depicts Baha Walad’s minbar as situated clearly outside city walls, while Revan seems to suggest a hybrid indoor-outdoor space. By contrast, O Nova 94 divides distinctly outdoor space clearly from a partially indoor space. Baha Walad’s sermon on central eschatological themes (the ‘last things’­– ­death, judgement, heaven, hell) was so trenchant that the minds and hearts of his audience were ‘shackled in bewilderment’ as they wept uncontrollably. The three images depict the effect of Baha Walad’s oratory on his listeners in similar ways by including some of the same character types. All three show listeners weeping profusely, in animated conversation, appearing to turn inward meditatively, with M466’s characters displaying noticeably heightened animation. Revan suggests the greatest variety of garb, body shapes and ethnic types, while M466 alone includes explicit allusion to membership in the Mawlawi order as indicated anachronistically by distinctive felt headgear on four figures in addition to Baha Walad. It also includes a brown-skinned dervish (lower left) whose only distinguishing feature appears to be several burn scars­– ­perhaps from harsh ascetical practice, perhaps to suggest spiritual ardour­– a ­ nd a second rough-clad ascetic just to the left above the blue-draped cenotaph.13 That character is similar to the figure at lower right in Revan. Although Aflaki’s text refers to both men and women, only the Revan image seems to include one woman. Relative visual agreement among the living personages in all three manuscripts contrasts markedly with their presentation of the deceased resurrected, however briefly, as a result of the preacher’s eloquence. Easily the most intriguing visual feature is the variety of ways in which the artists account for key details relating to another central element of the narrative: the effect of the sermon on those

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Figure 5.4  Baha Walad preaching. O Nova 94, Uppsala University Library, photo: Uppsala U.L., 21a.

entombed in the cemetery. O Nova 94 alone (Fig. 5.4) is faithful to Aflaki’s description of one risen body who recites the Shahada before ­slipping back into the grave. The Persian text on the image says that there came [top]

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a sigh of sorrow from among the souls of them all and suddenly a grave opened . . . [bottom] and one in a winding sheet rose up and said ‘I confess that there is no deity but Allah’ [continuing after the image] and I confess that Muhammad is His Messenger.’14 The artist has chosen a combination of outdoor space in the left half and covered space on the right to suggest that the cemetery is just outside the city walls. Among his listeners are twelve (including the lone figure peering down from above the wall) living and one deceased; the characters are less diversified than our other examples of the genre and do not include women. Unlike the next two images, this one sets the minbar on the left. According to the Turkish text on the Revan image (Fig. 5.5): When two graves opened, those interred came to life and arose with their shrouds wrapped around their necks. They began to speak and said, ‘We testify that there is no God but God and we testify that Muhammad is his messenger and his servant. We bear witness to the veracity of your teaching (about life and death). Here, we [were] resurrected, and testified.’ [After the picture the text adds ‘Having said that, they re-entered the grave and it closed over them’.] As in O Nova 94, the dead proclaim the Shahada, but with a variation indicated in italics here: [top panel with the first words in red] ‘I confess that there is no deity but Allah, and I confess that Muhammad is his servant and his Messenger.’ O Nova’s artist shows little interest in the details of the burial itself, while Revan depicts six cenotaphs.15 Here the minbar is located near the right edge and of the sixteen listeners only two appear to be women. Several are evidently of different ethnic or tribal background, as skin tone and clothing suggest. At the lower right sits a figure who seems to represent a qalandar style of ascetic. Morgan (Fig. 5.6) departs most markedly from Aflaki’s account, as dictated by a variant Turkish text, which picks up just after the main action and reads (somewhat confusedly): The graves then closed over them. The people of Konya still recognise these as ‘graves of witnesses’ and hold the place in high regard. When the assembly came close to an end, at the time of supplication, two hands came out of the graves and loudly said ‘Amen’. Elite and commoner alike saw this and heard the voice of the hands. Many [from among the congregants] lost their minds, and [after the picture: many of those who were denying the resurrection confessed that (the resurrection is true)]. The painter accordingly depicts only two pairs of hands floating up from the cenotaphs in a gesture of supplication as the voices of

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Figure 5.5  Baha Walad preaching – Revan interpretation. Presidency of the Republic of Turkey, the Directorate of National Palaces. TSMK. Revan 1479, fol.14b.

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Figure 5.6  Baha Walad preaching – Morgan interpretation. The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911. 13a.

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the deceased assent to Baha Walad’s message with a simple ‘Amen’ [lowest line of the upper text panel]. Rachel Milstein suggests that the background of this marvel in Rumi’s poetry is the concept that when the soul experiences ultimate truths, it rises out of the body.16 The truncated minbar, reduced to a slightly elevated chair, remains on the right. Here the crowd of the living is not only by far the largest (at twenty-two in addition to Baha Walad), but also the most diverse. In attendance are five people wearing Mawlawi headgear (including Baha Walad), as well as two figures in the minimal fashions of hardcore ascetics. As in the Revan image, Morgan indicates (with coloured drapery) the location of four cenotaphs (two fewer than Revan). The depictions of actual gravesites here and in Revan are very similar to an unusual image that shows Muhammad and Ali visiting their own graves in Medina accompanied by their Companions.17 The Collected Life Stories was produced in Baghdad around 1598–1603 and includes nine images, one of particular interest here. This image (Fig. 5.7) depicts Rumi’s father preaching his last Friday sermon before leaving Balkh.18 According to tradition, Baha Walad had spoken out forcefully against the theologically unacceptable ‘innovations’ of the sultan. When the ruler offered him wealth and power in exchange for his support he repudiated the sultan one last time in a khutba (Friday address) attended by the ruler, and denounced him while predicting that a Mongol invasion would be the sultan’s comeuppance. One is left to wonder whether the isolated figure at left may be the insulted ruler. Aflaki notes that Baha Walad ‘left Balkh as the Prophet had left Mecca’, comparing this departure to Muhammad’s Hijra from Mecca to Medina in 622. Aflaki also includes stories about Muhammad’s appearance in many people’s dreams to promote Baha Walad’s authority as he approached Baghdad on his long journey.19 This image is noteworthy for its inclusion of a number of women listening from the upper gallery. One of the nine remarkable images (Fig. 5.8) in a text of Jami’s hagiographical anthology, Warm Breaths of Intimacy, depicts Junayd, a major ninth-century Sufi leader mentioned in the story behind Figs 4.13 and 4.14.20 In a composition mirror-reverse of the Hazine Baha Walad image, Junayd addresses a gathering of important Sufis of Baghdad. A charming back-story summarised in Jami’s very brief bio-sketch informs us that the Prophet Muhammad had appeared to Junayd in a dream and commanded him to preach to the people. Junayd demurred on the grounds that he was too young to have anything to offer. Muhammad did not back down. Next day, Junayd encountered his uncle Sari the Greengrocer on a Baghdad street. Sari’s first words were, ‘You are going to preach, aren’t you?’ When Junayd expressed his astonishment, Uncle Sari explained that the Prophet had appeared to him as well and reinforced his message to Junayd. Sari is the diminutive figure peering directly at the viewer from the niche to Junayd’s left.

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Figure 5.7  Baha Walad’s last sermon in Balkh. Presidency of the Republic of Turkey, the Directorate of National Palaces. Hazine 1230, fol. 112a.

An unusual feature of images in this manuscript is that the painter here, and in several other paintings, has taken the liberty of supplying the names of individuals he assumes must have attended the sermon, usually inscribing their turbans. Sari, whose name appears

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Figure 5.8  Sufi leader Junayd preaching. Jami, Nafahat al-Uns (Ottoman 1003/1595), © The Trustees of the Chester Beatty Library, Dublin. CBL T474:42a.

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on the wall above him, is one of some twelve characters so identified. On the left side of the preacher’s scarf is the title ‘Shaykh Junayd of Baghdad’. Both comparative ‘minbar’ images include a diverse and numerous assembly of characters listening intently and reacting with varying emotions to the preacher. Multiple ages and ethnicities are in evidence, and the Jami image features the stock figure of a young Christian (upper right in red) rending his garments as a symbol of his immediate conversion. Unlike the Hazine image, the Beatty manuscript is unusual for its resolute refusal to include women­– s­ trikingly evidenced by one image in which a major character described in the text as the main figure’s mother appears as a very old man.21 Carrying on the tradition of his grandfather, Sultan Walad accepted the invitation of Mu`in ad-Din Parwana to speak at the dedication of a new madrasa in Kaysari in eastern Anatolia (Fig. 5.9). The sultan’s minister had selected as invitees the most worthy dignitaries, shaykhs and sages after searching far and wide across Saljuk Rum. Sultan Walad looked forward especially to meeting the famed jurist Qutb ad-Din Shirazi (d. 1311), whom the Parwana had decided to appoint as the new college’s professor. After all had gathered, Sultan Walad sat in a place of honour and discoursed so learnedly on matters of the spirit that those present sought to persuade him to give a sermon. Sultan Walad begged off, insisting that what he would say was in the realm of truths too subtle for the typically diverse attendees at a sermon; but when they persisted, he ascended the minbar. After he praised his father, a murmur of disapproval arose as ‘listening’ (seeking to hear) turned to ‘sama’ (‘audition’­– a­ complex pun on this technical term for a mystical session), indicating an intolerable state of affairs had come about. Roused to envy of the young man’s capabilities, some uppity shaykhs began to denounce Sultan Walad for uttering realities unsuited to a sermon, let alone in the company of listeners not capable of absorbing the message. As Sultan Walad descended from the minbar the minister kissed his hand and declared that, even though his lofty spiritual state had put his teaching out of reach of the ordinary person, all should acknowledge Sultan Walad as the scion of a much-revered family. When the envious continued their scornful commentary, a seeker of higher truths, Muhammad-i Salmasti, spoke in defence of Sultan Walad, reminding the audience that he had initially refused precisely because he knew that what he had to say would be beyond the spiritual capacity of most. Sultan Walad had, indeed, signalled as much when he had turned his turban akimbo as he spoke. When the crowd understood what a marvel they had beheld, they fell silent. Here the artist shows Sultan Walad still addressing an assembly that includes three Mawlawis (not specifically mentioned by Aflaki, but signalled by their headgear) along with three listeners who fit the description of socially important attendees. He has also added three curious characters of more marginal social status.

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Figure 5.9  Sultan Walad preaching in Kaysari. O Nova 94, Uppsala University Library, photo: Uppsala U.L., 158b.

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The story in Aflaki’s text begins two pages prior to this image, and the text on the image picks up with Sultan Walad’s words at the end of his sermon: [prior page:] I was told by my shaykh, my imam, my qibla, my strength, my Lord, my buttress, my foundation, and the residence of the spirit in my body, the sustenance of my today and my tomorrow, the sovereign of those who fully realise the truth . . . [continuing on the manuscript page after the image:] and my teacher, my safety, my father Jalal al-Haqq wa’d-Din. At that point a clamor arose . . .22 This Nova image is alone in its depiction of a second member of Rumi’s family as preacher extraordinaire. Our next cluster of images offers glimpses into Rumi’s relationships with religious authorities of various stations and functions within the Muslim Society. A story from Rumi’s youth offers a glimpse into the place of the madrasa in his own intellectual history. According to Aflaki, Rumi left Konya for the first time and journeyed to Aleppo after his father had died (c. 1231). Rumi was still a young man of about twentyfour, though here the artist depicts him as very old and in need of a walking staff (Fig. 5.10). He was a student in the Halawiyya madrasa, where some of his fellow residents envied the privilege they felt Rumi enjoyed at the school as a result of his access to several of his father’s disciples in residence there. They complained to Kamal ad-Din, the ‘ruler of Aleppo’ (and a kind of head teacher, it appears, perhaps a ‘prince’ and the author of a classic history of Aleppo) that Rumi was in the suspicious habit of taking midnight jaunts away from the residence in the madrasa bound for who knew where and bent on who knew what. They pointed out that his actions were the more suspect since the madrasa was securely locked at night. On the other hand, the leader did indeed give Rumi considerable attention because of his parentage. The Turkish text on the image provides only a small snippet of the story, concerning the teacher’s hiding in the gatekeeper’s room so as to be ready to follow Rumi as he departs. Aflaki recounts that one night, after both madrasa door and city gates open miraculously for Rumi (here the one portal apparently does double duty), the teacher resolves to follow his prize student stealthily. As he departs, he instructs the gatekeeper not to tell Rumi he is under surveillance and the artist depicts the teacher turning here with a gesture that effectively communicates ‘not a word from you’. An architectural detail of interest is the clever suggestion of arcaded classrooms (iwans) opening onto an interior courtyard just beyond the gate. Another startling design feature is the way the landscape seems virtually painted on the outer walls of the madrasa, making the

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Figure 5.10  Rumi leaves Aleppo madrasa at midnight. The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911. 34b.

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departing figures seem almost projected onto an already decorated picture screen.23 In a scene that appears illuminated as if by day, only the crescent moon and stars above the building suggest a night-time setting. Here Aflaki includes details that again redound to Rumi’s authority by virtue of his connection with a major Qur’anic prophet. Rumi leads the teacher on a most unlikely (read miraculous) chase that ends at the tomb of Abraham in Hebron some 350 miles away and the site of Nimrod’s attempt to destroy Abraham by catapulting him into a bonfire. Witnessing Rumi being greeted by green-clad angels, the teacher repents of his suspicion and resolves to return to Aleppo but is overcome by exhaustion and confusion. Once the citizens of Aleppo had realised the ruler was absent, as informed by the gatekeeper, they had sent out a military search party. When they encounter Rumi on his way back, Rumi informs the soldiers where to look for the ruler. At length they find him bedraggled and near death. Safely accompanied back to Aleppo, the teacher recovers, becomes a disciple of Rumi and spreads the young shaykh’s fame. Shunning his resulting notoriety, Rumi departs for Damascus.24 Mawlana’s institutional relationships naturally put him in frequent contact with legal scholars and judges. Rumi both enjoyed their support and balked at some of their legal opinions, as exemplified in this episode (Fig. 5.11), which is actually a conflation of two distinct reports in Aflaki. On the one hand, Qadi Izz ad-Din of Sivas was a notable patron of Konya’s religious institutions, constructing a Friday mosque there, and Aflaki lists him among Rumi’s disciples.25 On the other, as depicted in this image, Rumi took offense at a fatwa of Qadi Izz ad-Din. The judge was staunchly opposed to Mawlana’s use of music in the paraliturgical ritual of sama` and Aflaki makes note of Rumi’s equally energetic refusal to abide by the judge’s legal advisories in several other accounts. The text associated with this picture picks up the narrative, slightly abbreviating Aflaki: [Previous page: One day, Mawlana wrote a rejoinder to a fatwa [about music]. Qadi Izz al-din of Sivas [in his arrogance] did not accept it. Mawlana knew immediately by clairvoyance [about the judge’s rejection], and [appearing suddenly before the judge] pointed out that this precise legal matter had already been dealt with [definitively] in such and such a book. When he said this, the qadi let out a loud cry and collapsed [at Rumi’s presumptuousness]. [On the painting, upper register:] He became unconscious. When he regained his consciousness, he brought that noble book, and found the legal matter exactly as described. Immediately he repented of his opposition, came to Mawlana, and became a disciple and devotee.26 [Lower register continues with a story about another judge:] It is similarly narrated that Qadi Qutb ad-din

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Figure 5.11  Dispute with a judge concerning the use of music in ritual. The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911. 38a.

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Shirazi declared in the gathering of the virtuous scholars of Tabriz that he had gone to Konya with twelve friends . . . Here Aflaki continues with an episode in the second renowned judge’s unfolding discipleship to Rumi, expressing in the first person his admiration for Mawlana’s meta-legal erudition.27 This image thus becomes an occasion to bring yet another converted jurist along as evidence of Mawlana’s considerable influence on the wider religious establishment. Aflaki calls Shirazi the ‘Sultan of Judges’ and has him describe in his own words the experience of affiliation with Rumi. He was a multi-disciplinary scholar and a student of Siraj ad-Din of Urumiya and figures prominently in the episode of Sultan Walad’s preaching described above (Fig. 5.6).28 These and similar relationships of Rumi with influential scholars speak to the breadth of his connectedness in important circles of Konya. Resul Ay argues that Mawlawi success in neutralising other such legal complaints and entanglements was essential to the Order’s spread under the Saljuks.29 Here the painter depicts the gathering, not in a court setting or a judge’s office: the apparent presence of Mawlawis in the doorway, to Rumi’s left and on an upper level looking down, suggest that the setting is a madrasa. Rumi, decked out in brocaded blue cloak over an orange tunic, is the largest figure depicted. He engages the judge (in brown robes), on whose right side a young aide (perhaps) gestures his contribution to the interchange (or is this someone arguing against the lenient ruling?). The open book on the floor between the two main figures may be the source of the correct legal advisory to which Rumi has directed the judge­– ­the ‘noble book’ of the caption. Half a dozen sikke-wearing characters populate the scene to the right and observe from windows above; and the elderly dervish at the lower left may be the official doorkeeper. In the foreground two non-Mawlawis appear to be misbehaving playfully. Rachel Milstein notes that Rumi is depicted as more glorious, almost regal, and more centrally located than the qadi. With respect to the overall composition, she comments that ‘games of entries and exits in space’ lie beneath the image’s subtle architectural geometry, while on the left border the ‘gold illuminations­– ­ordinarily separate decoration­– ­become integrated into the composition’. On the latter point, Schmitz likens the marginal decorations to those of Persian manuscripts, ‘but here they extend the setting of the p ­ainting, ­suggesting the garden’ of the building.30 Given the prominence of Rumi’s relationships with religious-legal authorities and his own stature as a religious scholar, some additional background will provide wider context. Aflaki relates several very different narratives featuring Qadi Siraj ad-Din of Urumiya with reference to his legal advisories (fatwas), two on the acceptability of using musical instruments­– s­pecifically, the bowed stringed

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i­nstrument called the rabab (or rebec)­– i­n Mawlawi paraliturgical prayer ritual.31 In the first scenario, the judge has expressed a favourable opinion of the Mawlawi practice of extensive use of music and dancing in their ritual life. When several Konya scholars raise objections concerning his defence of these dervish practices, Siraj reaffirms his position, insisting that Rumi’s qualifications both scholarly and spiritual are beyond reproach. The plaintiffs then register their objections with another judge and, when he supports their position, they instruct him to deliver his negative verdict directly to Rumi. After searching far and wide, this second judge eventually finds Mawlana at the Sultan Gate, reading a book. Embarrassed to be saddled with having to confront so exalted a defendant with the accusations, the judge nonetheless serves Rumi with the complaint listing sundry strictures against music. Without even looking at the document Rumi asks for pen and ink and writes down detailed responses to all of its charges. Once again the judge returns to court, and when those in attendance hear of Rumi’s erudite replies all concerned shamefully recant their foolish accusations and many become Mawlana’s disciples.32 An indication of Rumi’s high repute among major legal scholars across the board is that Aflaki praises this judge as ‘second only to Shafi`i’, not an adherent of Rumi’s own jurisprudential school of choice, the Hanafi.33 Aflaki includes dozens of reports that feature some of Rumi’s wealthiest fellow citizens as patrons and sponsors eager to provide material support to the Community by funding a variety of facilities, from residences to libraries to hospitals. A major ingredient in the Virtuous Community’s engagement in Muslim Society is the phenomenon of the ‘pious endowment’. A Morgan image (Fig. 5.12) illustrates events surrounding a wealthy patron’s establishment of a madrasa. Ethel Sarah Wolper makes an observation pertinent here: endowments for the often large and complex institution of the madrasa were less common than funding for much less expensive dervish residences. Aflaki nonetheless identifies the madrasa as the single most important setting of a considerable majority of his reports. It is of particular interest here that the designer/patron of the Morgan manuscript opted to illustrate a story associated with motivation of one of the wealthiest members of Anatolian society rather than of the more common endowment of smaller dervishrelated foundations.34 In this picture, the artist seems to be conflating two stories in Aflaki. In the first, the sultan visits Rumi in his madrasa (thus suggesting this image directly). In the following episode, a disciple of Rumi describes how someone mentions to Rumi that a dignitary has endowed a large madrasa. In other words, the actual donor of the endowment never explained that to Rumi in person. In the first story, recounted by ‘that cream of disciples’ Shaykh

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Figure 5.12  Rumi and the madrasa waqf of Atabek Arslan Toghmosh. The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911.83b.

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Jamal ad-Din al-Qamari, Sultan Kaykawus visits Rumi in his madrasa but Rumi ignores him and refuses to offer any teaching or counsel. When the sultan explicitly requests advice, Rumi asks ‘About what? You’ve failed in the office God bestowed upon you by failing to protect your people, stealing, and acting under Satan’s impulses like a wolf instead of a shepherd.’ The sultan then leaves feeling quite downcast, but outside the madrasa he realises that he deserved Rumi’s criticism and tearfully asks God’s forgiveness. The text above this image picks up and concludes that story just at the moment Rumi emerges and tells the sultan that God Most High has forgiven him. It is noteworthy, for present purposes, that Aflaki ends the first story with an admonition: ‘Now it is befitting to Kings and Sultans, Rulers and Governors to draw lessons from this story.’35 Here begins the next episode in the Morgan text on the image (though appearing much earlier in Aflaki), as signalled by the red ink on the upper panel of text, ‘As was likewise transmitted . . .’: Shaykh Jamal ad-Din related that someone said in Rumi’s presence, that Atabek Arslan Toghmosh built a large madrasa whose deed of endowment stipulated [continuing in the lower panel] that its ‘professor must be a Sufi of the Hanafi school of jurisprudence, instructing in fiqh (jurisprudence) and forbidding participation of members of the Shafi`i school.’ Aflaki then adds a comment by Rumi, not included on the picture, that such restrictions in pious endowments are unacceptable since all endowments must be purely ‘for the sake of God’ and thus unconditional. It is important here that Rumi’s dear friend Shams ad-Din of Tabriz was himself a specialist in the Shafi`i brand of jurisprudence, as was Qadi Izz ad-Din who ruled in favour of Mawlawi ritual use of music and dancing (Fig. 5.11). Rumi then goes on to tell a story about a man who gave a gift to a dervish but tried to impose his requirements on the way the gift could be used, because a genuine bequest is meant to help the recipient, not the giver.36 Aflaki offers further background for the episode of this Atabek’s endowment many pages earlier, in the context of several anecdotes related to genuine wealth and generosity. The setting is the opening festivities for the Atabek’s madrasa, featuring an act of servanthood by the benefactor himself toward visiting religious and civic dignitaries, including most prominently Qadi Siraj ad-Din, Shaykh Sadr ad-Din of Konya (who was in attendance at Rumi’s funeral), the Parwana and Rumi.37 In the present painting the artist situates the scene in a madrasa whose main iwan with mosaic-tiled dome opens onto an interior courtyard. There sit Rumi and, apparently, Atabek Arslan Toghmosh, in the company of three Mawlawi students, two holding books, who seem to be paying little attention to the teacher and his eminent guest. In a small alcove to the left sit two other students, one of whom seems to be more earnest about studying. His study buddy

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is clearly taking it all far less seriously as he looks directly at the viewer (much as Uncle Sari does in Fig. 5.8). Another unidentified figure­– ­quite possibly Shaykh Jamal ad-Din, the one who narrated the story to begin with­– ­enters through a doorway to the right. Meanwhile two of the three characters on the roof appear to intone the call to prayer while another plays hide-and-seek in the minaret’s gallery. Political authorities and social relations Baha Walad’s connections with the who’s who of Saljuk royalty and nobility gave Rumi a running start toward knowing how and when to engage directly with the wealthy and influential. Rumi’s growing social and cultural influence occasionally, and not unexpectedly, cast him in a role of perceived competition with the well-connected of Konya. Five images illustrate some of the vagaries and challenges of these complex relationships. Though Rumi personally enjoyed a positive connection with the sultan and prime minister some of the ruler’s staff evidently did not share their sovereign’s respect and admiration for the shaykh. One day, as Rumi prayed near his father’s tomb, a royal courtier, Walad-i Fakhr ad-Din Shahid, bedecked in princely attire, raised a ruckus by storming through the cemetery on his black charger. Rumi makes his displeasure at this behaviour crystal clear, causing the rider to tumble headlong over the runaway steed. Just comeuppance for so defiling holy ground results in a serious injury for the reckless cavalryman. The painter (Fig. 5.13) adeptly suggests a site just outside the guarded city walls where the cemetery was situated. Rumi, with a grey beard and blue tunic, is at the upper right, surrounded by students in a space at the periphery of an open courtyard, but there is no specific indication of Baha Walad’s ancestral mausoleum. Rachel Milstein calls attention to the rich variety of figure types, including Mawlawis in characteristic headgear and the uniformed police­– ­all of which she cites as evidence of thematic enmity between royalty and dervish.38 A colourful Turkish text reads: When he [Mawlana] said this, immediately that young fellow was bucked off the horse with his feet entangled in the stirrups. The horse dragged him through the entire city until he was dismembered. Even today, it is famous in the city of Konya. [The Turkish adds here an enigmatic comment not mentioned in Aflaki:] Those who go to the horsemanship spectacles do not go to the Plain of Filubad [site of the mishap]. If they should find themselves there by happenstance, occasionally either a horse or a human being perishes. They remain vigilant.

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Figure 5.13  A courtier disrupts Rumi’s visit to the mausoleum of his father. The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911. 14a.

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This is doubly relevant in that the text on Fig. 6.22, illustrating a siege of Konya during Rumi’s lifetime, also refers to the Plain of Filubad as the site where citizens of Konya made their tribute to the conquering Mongol general. Rumi’s sometimes strained relationships with political powers occasionally entailed more dramatic implications. Saljuk Sultan Rukn al-Din Kilich Arslan IV (r. 1248–65), pro-Mongol in his political leanings, was one of the young sons of Sultan Kaykhusraw II (d. 1246), sharing power in the eastern reaches of Anatolia as vassals to the Mongols. When his younger brother fled to Byzantium, Kilich took the reins, but his situation deteriorated suddenly when a new threat arose on the eastern frontier. Kilich asked Rumi’s advice as to whether he should go with his troops to Aksaray to attend a Mongol kurultay conference to address the Tatar advance. Rumi advised against it but the sultan rejected his counsel, preferring the advice of another shaykh. A few days later some of the ruler’s own emirs strangled him at Aksaray. It was the Parwana, Sultan Kilich Arslan’s own prime minister, who had promoted the plot to assassinate the sultan, then installed Arslan’s infant son and made himself the de facto sovereign.39 In a rare fit of jealousy, Rumi repudiated the sultan and refused to help him in his hour of need. The text on this image (Fig. 5.14) begins with the sultan being throttled and calling out ‘Mawlana! Mawlana’ (shown at right). At that moment, Rumi was participating in a sama` in his madrasa. Rumi initially plugs his ears with his fingers then asks for musical instruments (sorna [oboe] and besharat [wind instrument]) the better to muffle the sound of the sultan’s cries. Then Rumi begins to recite two ghazals, the opening of the first appearing at the bottom of the image: ‘Did I not warn you, as a friend, against going there?/In this mirage of annihilation (fana) I am the Spring of Life.’40 Incorporating the mystical language of ‘passing away’, this allusion to the story of Alexander the Great’s fruitless quest for immortality and failure to arrive at the Water of Life is the only example of a text of poetry to appear on a picture in the Morgan manuscript. After completing his recitation of both lyrics, Rumi begins a prayer for the dead. Aflaki says that the sultan has been taken to a deserted place where the assailants strangle him with a bowstring, but here the painter shows that action as though occurring immediately outside the madrasa. Rumi later explains, in response to a question of Sultan Walad, that the sultan would enjoy happiness in the next life. In the image dervishes dance to the accompaniment of ney and tambourine as the noose is tightened around the sultan’s neck. The painter thus compresses time and space, locating, in a single image, actions far distant from each other. Aflaki follows with another story describing a dream of Husam ad-Din concerning the gruesome fate of Sultan Kilich Arslan.41 Aflaki includes many stories featuring Rumi’s proclivity for hiding

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Figure 5.14  Rumi and the murder of Sultan Rukn ad-Din Kilich Arslan IV. The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911. 121b.

from visitors who want time with him. Dignitaries who knock on his door include a variety of political and religious authorities. Even the highest-ranking officials are among those Rumi keeps waiting, as in this image (Fig. 5.15). Here a government official­– ­apparently

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Figure 5.15  Rumi keeps the visiting minister Parwana waiting. Presidency of the Republic of Turkey, the Directorate of National Palaces. TSMK. Revan 1479, fol.166b.

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the Parwana himself­– ­arrives at Rumi’s madrasa with several of his entourage, only to be left expressing their frustration by their animated gestures and apparent conversation amongst themselves. The Parwana (dressed in orange at the doorway) is speaking to his coterie about his puzzlement at being put off this way: ‘Are not just rulers expected to pay their respects to and seek spiritual sustenance from important shaykhs? Why, then, does Mawlana flee from us (and other religious scholars and teachers) as a person destined for the Gardens of Heaven runs from Hell?’ The Turkish text adds another twist to Aflaki’s account by way of explaining Rumi’s making visitors wait: Another meaning is that if an ugly person comes for a particular business, they immediately grant his wish and send him away. But if a person with a bright and beautiful face comes, with some excuses they delay him, if even for an hour, and take advantage of his beauty. He [Rumi] also explained, ‘The reason for my delay is that while you are in waiting, those who are in your service take great pleasure and gain many benefits.’ By saying this, he showed much compassion. Aflaki supplies further context: At that moment, Rumi emerges from an inner room ‘fierce as a lion’, and appears in the painting addressing the minister and his retinue. The minister’s gesture is ambiguous and could suggest either his wonderment at why Rumi has not yet appeared or an acknowledgment that he has just now materialised before the visiting group. According to Aflaki, Mawlana tells them a story to teach a lesson about relationships between religious and political figures: former Sultan Mahmud Sabuktegin (970–1030), third Ghaznawid ruler in Afghanistan/Pakistan (who will reappear in the story behind Fig. 5.18), once visited the revered shaykh Hasan al-Kharaqani (d. 1033). Informed of the sultan’s impending arrival, Hasan said nothing until the ruler had come to the garden gate of his khanaqah, when one of the shaykh’s followers pleaded with him to receive the sultan lest his majesty take offence. It was only as the ruler had reached the very threshold of the shaykh’s residence that his minister cited a Qur’anic passage enjoining obedience towards God, his Messenger, and all with duly constituted authority (4: 58). To the minister’s implied critique the shaykh responded: ‘I have scarcely achieved obedience to God, still unable to get to obedience to Muhammad, let alone “duly constituted authorities”!’ That was enough to make the sultan a disciple of Hasan, and the royal retinue withdrew, regretting they had so importuned the shaykh.42 Here the artist shows a remarkable twenty-four participants and observers of the scene. Eight Mawlawis stand behind Rumi as the minister and four courtiers wait at the door. Two other Mawlawis look down from a second-storey window. Another man and a woman appear a level above that, while two more Mawlawis join two other

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men and two women observing the scene from a pavilion on the roof. Once again, the artist has conflated indoor and outdoor spaces in a way that suggests that the main action may be occurring in an inner courtyard visible from multiple perspectives. Kaysari (the ancient Caesarea in the province of Cappadocia) provides a useful window into the present topic. It was as important culturally and politically for the Saljuks of Rum as their capital Konya. Sultan Ala ad-Din Kaykubad built a palace there and funded many religious institutions­– ­ especially madrasas and mosques, solidifying his bona fides with religious officialdom. Rumi’s mentor Burhan ad-Din (featured in Fig. 4.9) moved there from Konya the year that Rumi travelled to Aleppo (c. 1232; see Fig. 5.10). Mawlana then left Aleppo for Kaysari (c. 1237) after a brief meeting with Shams in the maydan of Damascus, where Shams taunted Rumi to catch him before vanishing into the crowd. Arriving in Kaysari, according to Lewis, Rumi ‘undertook a period of hermitage and ascetic exercises’.43 Such is the context of the story behind this image (Fig. 5.16), depicting eminent scholars, mystics and other grandees of Kaysari. Among them was the famed madrasa-building princely patron from Persia, Sahib-i Isfahani, who wanted to take Rumi to his home. Burhan stepped in and insisted that Rumi should stay in a madrasa, in line with his father’s own preference for lodging. Once there, Burhan encouraged Rumi to delve into interior disciplines and asked him to make a retreat under his direction. Though Burhan recommended seven days, Rumi insisted on forty. Burhan put Rumi in a small room and sealed it with clay, leaving him with some water and bread. Forty days later, Rumi was totally absorbed in meditation. Burhan closed the door for another forty days, after which he found Rumi standing in tearful prayer. Another forty days on, Burhan broke in and found Rumi smiling in mystical intoxication. Burhan then acknowledged Rumi’s pre-eminence not only in exoteric learning but in experiential knowledge of God. He then commissioned Rumi to be an emissary of divine knowledge and love. Hence began Rumi’s departure for Konya where his career teaching law and theology in a madrasa commenced. Years later, Burhan died in Kaysari, after which Shams also returned to Konya.44 Persian text on the image reads: [the dignitaries] ‘accorded [Rumi] high deference. Sahib of Isfahan was eager to show him hospitality, but Sayyid Burhan ad-Din ruled that out, saying “The Great Teacher (Baha Walad) preferred to stay in a madrasa.” [Lower panel continues]: when Mawlana was alone after the crowd had finished greeting him . . .’ The following page continues with its description of Burhan’s recommendation that Rumi sequester himself and the extensive spiritual exercises that followed. Overall composition and setting of the image are noticeably different from those more commonly seen in Morgan and Revan: here

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Figure 5.16  Notables of Kaysari vie for the honour of hosting Rumi. O Nova 94, Uppsala University Library, photo: Uppsala U.L., 37b.

the scene is crisply contained within a four-sided border, with only the architectural superstructure (roof and cupolas) and hints of the intertwining trees escaping the frame. Within the solid borders the notables of Kaysari surround Rumi in a hybrid indoor/outdoor space,

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the garden in the foreground balancing the trees showing above the roofline. Rumi alone is clearly identifiable, but the man at lower right in brown, wearing Mawlawi headgear, is very likely Burhan. The bareheaded figure next to him could be Sahib of Isfahan, given his bearing and gesture of reverence. Unusual headgear at the upper right edge of the gathering signals the presence of distinctly different characters representing fringe elements­– ­possibly independent dervishes of some stripe often seen in Morgan. As a genre scene, this is not unlike other gatherings in which Aflaki describes in detail the eagerness of the socially and politically powerful to seek Rumi’s company and offer their services. Further implications of this state of affairs will unfold in discussion of the next picture. In a story of complicated interaction between Rumi’s offspring and a family of local movers and shakers, Sultan Walad again plays a starring role (Fig. 5.17). At the birth of a descendant of this Akhi brotherhood, shortly after the birth of Rumi’s grandson Arif Chalabi, Rumi had the honour of naming baby Akhi Mustafa. Once-irenic inter-family relations gradually deteriorated as Akhi Mustafa and his minions extended their reach and began to flex their muscles, imposing their social influence and horning in on ceremonies at the ancestral shrine of Baha Walad (and, by that time, also of Rumi). When Sultan Walad’s constituents complained of the group’s bullying tactics he confronted Akhi Mustafa, only to be rebuffed by the arrogant young thug: Walad, then leader of the Mawlawi order, should stick to his spiritual world and leave the rough-and-tumble outer world to the Akhis. Sultan Walad responded by foretelling Akhi Mustafa’s imminent demise, as it soon came to pass in this image. The painter has created an intricate set of spatio-temporal relationships in this image, featuring a garden pavilion in a composition that extends the interior space into the natural setting beyond the three-sided boundary. Sultan Walad sits inside on the right with Mawlawi disciples, looking out onto the garden. Akhi Mustafa (in a red tunic) approaches from the left as a young Mawlawi seems to be thrusting an arrow into Ahki’s chest. Here the painter employs a visual metaphor: Hajji Karim, a companion of Akhi Mustafa’s who wielded significant local authority in Konya had previously ‘seen’ a vision that Akhi would be shot with an arrow. Given the ‘seer’s’ relationship with Akhi, it is curious that the painter dresses the arrow-wielder in Mawlawi garb, possibly as a way of acknowledging Aflaki’s comment that Hajji Karim was a believer who had habitually associated with spiritually advanced companions. Sultan Walad laments that Akhi Mustafa’s refusal to repent of his arrogant ways will leave him dead within a week. The Turkish text reads: ‘They tell the story that Akhi Mustafa had a beloved (yar, friend) who was called Óaji Karim. He [Óaji Karim] was among the devotees of Khudawandigar [Mawlana]. He reports that when Akhi Mustafa

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Figure 5.17  Sultan Walad and the Akhis of Konya. The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911. 166a.

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gave that answer to Sultan Walad, an arrow came and hit his chest with great force. In those days, someone invited Sultan Walad . . .’ Strangely enough, this ‘someone’ is the very man marked for death in the present story. The painting’s cast of characters includes the predictable group of five Mawlawis behind Sultan Walad. Another dervish sits near the artificial watercourse holding a book and looking into the house, and yet another sits washing his face at the end of the sluice. Three other Mawlawis surround Akhi Mustafa as he meets his presumptive and dreamt-of fate. In addition to the prominent Akhi, four other curious characters populate the margins of the image, distinguishable only by their diverse actions and garb: a squire manages an elegant mount (perhaps Akhi’s?) just around a corner to the left; a red-clad gent seems to be washing his feet as another sits near the pool in the watercourse; and a likely non-affiliated dervish-like figure stands at the edge of the group around Akhi Mustafa. In the story that follows this one, Aflaki introduces Sultan Walad’s son Arif Chalabi into the ongoing acrimony. Aflaki hints that this is a classic analogy to unbelievers’ rejection of the prophets God sends to every people.45 An unexpected ending: a textual/visual anomaly As Chapter Three mentioned, both O Nova and Revan conclude with somewhat unexpected material from the remarkable fifteenth-century Naqshbandi shaykh from Herat, Afghanistan, Abd ­ar-Rahman Jami (d. 1492). Chapter Six will discuss the O Nova material, while the final image in this chapter is also the last picture in Revan. The story behind the image includes both a Sufi sage revered by Rumi (Sana’i), and a Ghaznawid sultan who ruled in Sana’i’s home country (Afghanistan), all as described in the words of Jami. The relationship between a major Sufi shaykh and a sultan qualified this account for consideration in the present chapter. This finale to Revan (Fig. 5.18) presents a conundrum for several reasons that require additional comment. First, though the characters in the episode depicted here lived long before the Family Rumi, this story occurs nowhere in Aflaki’s original Persian text. Second, unlike the other episodes discussed in the present chapter, the story was not recounted by Rumi himself, but by a much beloved Sufi author (Jami) who lived some two centuries later. Third, it clearly interrupts Aflaki’s treatment of Rumi’s grandson Arif Chalabi­– ­his Chapter Eight (which resumes after this painting, thereby suggesting a mis-pagination of the manuscript). But for that, one might have interpreted this as a kind of appendix to the Aflaki text.46 Finally, and most importantly, the text associated with this picture was added by the Turkish translator of the Persian abridgement and is at best tangential to the larger Rumi narrative. It celebrates the repentance

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Figure 5.18  Saqi gives a drink to ‘madman’ who toasts the deaths of the sultan and Sana’i. Presidency of the Republic of Turkey, the Directorate of National Palaces. TSMK. Revan 1479, fol. 279b.

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of Hakim Sana’i (d. c. 1131), a Sufi and poet who was a major influence on Rumi and whose exalted spiritual status Aflaki explicitly mentions several times. Here is the back-story: Jami’s brief entry on Sana’i in Warm Breaths of Intimacy (c. 1476) focuses on Sana’i’s realisation that his dedication to praising the deeds of his royal patron, Sultan Mahmud, son of Subuktegin, has been misguided. He decides to reject his loyalty to a corrupt leader in favour of a life of asceticism and devotion. The image depicts a bedraggled, unkempt figure about to accept a draught of wine from a ‘cupbearer’. Text surrounding and on the picture itself depends heavily on Jami’s oft-repeated and highly stylised narrative of Sana’i.47 According to Jami, the story of Sana’i’s repentance unfolds this way: Sultan Mahmud, son of Subuktegin (970–1030, third Ghaznawid sultan, mentioned in connection with Fig. 5.15) sets out in the season of winter on a campaign to attack infidel strongholds. Sana’i has composed a qasida (panegyric verse) in praise of the sultan’s efforts and is headed to court to present it. As he nears the door of the dustbin of a bathhouse furnace, one of the local ecstatics has just emerged from that dismal refuge. Here Jami describes the man as majdhub, a technical term in the Sufi mystical lexicon for ‘one who is drawn [to God through no effort of one’s own]’. The Turkish text also uses the term ‘madman’ (diwana) to describe this mysterious figure who is also known by the less than laudatory moniker ‘dregdrinker’ (Lay Khar). As Sana’i passes by a garden, he hears Lay Khar singing a song (poem) to a cupbearer (who appears as if out of thin air): ‘Fill a goblet so that I can toast (to bring about) the blindness of Mahmud son of Subuktegin.’ The Saqi­– ­a standard supporting actor in classical mystical poetry who supplies a beverage prized for its liberating and enlightening properties­– r­eplies, ‘But Mahmud is a Ghazi (warrior) and supreme leader (padshah) of Islam!’ Lay Khar insists that he nevertheless deserves to be struck blind because he has deserted so lovely a city as Ghazni in the midst of winter to go on a fool’s mission. The dreg-drinker then hoists a goblet and again asks the cupbearer to ‘Pour me another cup full so I can drink to the blindness of Sana’i as well’, apparently taking no notice that the object of his evil intent seems to be listening nearby. In reply, the cupbearer insists that Sana’i is a noble man of high character. Lay Khar asks why the cupbearer speaks in defence of Sana’i when the poet is actually even more deserving of condemnation than the sultan, for his praise of the ruler clearly indicates that he does not merit the reputation for wisdom indicated by Sanai’s honorific title Hakim (‘sage’). Sana’i was, he went on, headed for a severe judgement before God for wasting his talents by praising an evil ruler. Sana’i is so impressed by the wise fool’s critique that he resolves to withdraw from society and live a radically simple life. Jami then quotes Q 27: 34: ‘When kings

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enter a land, they ruin it [leaving out: and make the best of its people the lowest].’ In the end, Lay Khar’s warnings move Sana’i to seek the tutelage of the renowned Sufi Shaykh Yusuf Hamadani.48 Picking up just moments after the action depicted, the Turkish text on the image comments on the essence of Sana’i’s ‘repentance’: He would not waste his life. Rather he would contemplate why he had been created. Hakim Sana’i listened to the speech of the mad person (diwana) and changed his behaviour and life circumstances. With the guidance and direction of the holy madman, he was awakened from the drunkenness of negligence.49 Helpful to a better understanding of the context in which Revan situates Jami’s take on Sana’i’s metanoia is that the story just prior to this image is also from Jami’s hagiography.50 Jami’s entry on Shaykh Sulayman Turkomani represents the first of several excerpts here from Nafahat al-Uns.51 It seems at first quite puzzling, given that Jami’s entry on Sulayman is one of the briefest in his hagiographical anthology. Ramadan and hunger are the theme of both the Sulayman entry and the pages immediately following this picture, also from Jami. There Jami pointedly emphasises Sulayman’s lowliness and social ‘invisibility’, offering a clue to the story’s placement here. Hints as to this peculiar choice of a relatively minor­– ­even ‘invisible’­ – ­Sufi (Sulayman) appear in the reports from Aflaki surrounding the material into which the translator places his nod to Jami. Aflaki sums up what he considers crucial attributes of Friends of God such as these paragons of sanctity from the Family Rumi. They are, he notes, far too numerous to honour in even a world full of works like his, because­– ­as the sacred hadith notes, God has many ‘hidden Friends under my domes whom none but I recognise’. There the translator cites the Qur’anic verses: Q 2: 26­– ‘­He leads astray many by it [i.e. the similitude of lowest/highest] and he guides many by it’; and Q 7: 155­– ­‘You lead astray by it [Your trial] whom You will and guide whom You will’. He then quotes God’s address to Muhammad, ‘When you threw it was not you who threw’ (Q 8: 17), a text that Rumi’s own writings frequently associate with Muhammad’s intimate relationship with God as entirely a divine gift and independent of any effort from the Prophet (consistent with the text’s describing the diwana as majdhub). As Rumi himself summed up the meaning of that text, ‘Ahmad is the Bow, God is the Archer’.52 Aflaki then reprises the saying that ‘God has hidden Friends . . .’ known only to God before concluding with further salutary advice on the spiritual life and preparation for death, punctuated by lines of Rumi’s poetry (here left in the original Persian) and concluding with assorted examples from Mawlana’s life. It seems reasonable to surmise that the translator has included Sulayman Turkomani here precisely because he, like Lay Khar, exemplifies God’s ‘hidden Friends’.

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Featured in the painting are two figures in an open space on the left, one clearly dishevelled and the other holding a large flagon and offering a cup to the ecstatic ragamuffin. On the right, apparently looking outward from an inner space, stand six figures. The major figure, in red, is likely Sana’i, flanked by three men making the same puzzling gesture. Behind them stand two others in rapt conversation. The lower text panel refers to Hakim Sana’i’s hearing the words of the ‘madman’ (diwana), with a description of his continued imbibing on the next page. The text around this image also refers several times to Ramadan, the month of fasting and hunger. And one of Aflaki’s more pointed segments on the benefits of hunger and gratitude includes several appreciative references to Sana’i’s thoughts on the subjects, along with Abu Talib al-Makki’s (d. 996, author of a monumental treatise on Sufi spirituality) saying that a flute makes a beautiful sound only on an empty stomach.53 These Ramadan themes thus close the circle with the translator’s reference to Jami’s entry on the ascetical Sulayman Turkomani. Just when the reader might reasonably expect the translator to bring his opus to a close, the text resumes with Aflaki’s Chapter Eight, on Arif Chalabi, almost as though this intriguing but entirely unexpected excursus had not intervened. Folio 281b begins an extensive but selective recounting of Arif’s last journey that continues through 283a, quoting portions of several poems of Rumi sprinkled among Aflaki’s work.54 At that point, Revan turns to Aflaki’s Chapter Nine, on Amir Abid, picking up with the Parwana asking Abid a question about the longevity of Genghis Khan’s dynasty.55 What might account for such a later addition? I suggest that it arises at least in part from the immense impact of Sana’i’s poetry and thought on Rumi’s work. Although Aflaki does not feature Sana’i as an actor in any specific scene on which he reports, he both praises the shaykh’s spiritual insights and refers to the opinion of some that Sana’i was not a true Muslim because of his penchant for turning Qur’anic verses into poetry. According to Aflaki, Rumi went out of his way to affirm that Sana’i was indeed authentically Muslim and underwent a genuine conversion by rejecting his allegiance to civil authority.56 One is left to speculate on whether the Turkish translator sees a parallel between Sana’i’s reconsideration of his loyalty to ‘legitimate authority’ and Rumi’s own (or perhaps that of the translator or his contemporary Mawlawis?) relationship to political powers that be. Notes  1. Ay, ‘Sufi Shayks and Society in Thirteenth and Fifteenth Century Anatolia: Spiritual Influence and Rivalry’, in Journal of Islamic Studies, pp.7–13.

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  2. M 96a; MA 410–11 [589].   3. MA 332–3 [456]; MPOB 28–9 numbers the secrets at a total of 90,000, of which Muhammad disclosed 30,000 to the whole community, 30,000 to chosen Companions, 10,000 to Ali alone, while keeping 20,000 in his own mind.   4. M 15a; MA 231 [258]. MDA 7.  5. See further Lynch, ‘A Persian Qur’an?: The Masnavi-e Masnavi as Scripture’.   6. See Felek and Knish, Dreams and Visions in Islamic Societies, especially articles in Part Two, ‘Dreams in Sufi Literature’.  7. Gruber, The Praiseworthy One: The Prophet Muhammad in Islamic Texts and Images, p. 175.  8. Erkmen, ‘The visualization of Shaykh Safi al-Din Ishaq Ardabili: A unique illustrated copy of the Safvat al-Safa at the Aga Khan Museum’, in Iranian Studies, pp. 51–3. Dream image is fol. 115b, p. 52. Erkmen goes on to discuss matters of eschatological and millennial interest in relation to Falnama manuscripts, especially pp. 53–62. See also Gruber, Praiseworthy, p. 178.   9. See, for example, ‘Muhammad and his Companions’ (including Bilal at the left) in Mir Ali Shir Nava’i, Hayrat al-Abrar, Bodleian Library, Ellliott p. 287, 7a., in Gruber, Praiseworthy, pp. 140, 148 (detail). 10. Gruber, Praiseworthy, Fig. 3.1; and ‘In Defence and Devotion: Affective Practices in Early Modern Turco-Persian Manuscript Paintings’, in Elias, Affect, Emotion, and Subjectivity in Early Modern Muslim Empires: New Studies in Ottoman, Safavid, and Mughal Art and Culture, pp. 95–123, especially pp. 88–9. 11. M 156a; MA 535–6 [19]. The saying appears at MA 339 [468]. Milstein notes that traditionally the setting of Muhammad’s meetings with friends is the mosque, but here a private residence replaces the mosque, with Mawlawis on the balcony (MDA 16). 12. MA 28–9 [31]. 13. SMC 86. 14. O Nova 94 21a. 15. Revan 14b. 16. MDA 6. 17. Fuzuli, Hadiqat as-Su`ada, BL Or. 12009 66b 18. Jami as-Siyar, TS Hazine 1230 fol. 112a. The second relevant image from Hazine 1230 appeared in Chapter Four Fig. 4.12. 19. MA 12–13 [6]; MA 14 [9]–17 [12] ; MA 9 [4] tells a story of Baha Walad’s youth. Aflaki also includes a story of muftis of Balkh who dreamed that Muhammad appeared and ordered them to call Baha Walad ‘Sultan of Religious Scholars’ (at which Baha Walad told them of their dream before they could reveal it). 20. Jami, Nafahat al-Uns, CBL T474, fol. 42a. 21. CBL T474: 276b. An image depicting another major Sufi preaching from a minbar with a story about Muhammad preaching from a minbar, appears in CBL 474, fol. 177b. On the subject of women, see further data from: Dahlén, ‘Female Sufi Saints and Disciples: Women in the life of Jalal al-din Rumi’, in Orientalia Suecana 57; Lewis, ‘Mawlånå RËmÈ, the Early Mevlevis and the Gendered Gaze: Prolegomenon to an Analysis of RËmÈ’s View of Women’ in Mawlana Rumi Review 8; De Nicola, ‘The Ladies of RËm: A Hagiographic View of Women in Thirteenth- and Fourteenth-Century Anatolia’ in Journal of Sufi

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Studies; Küçük, ‘Female Substitutes and Sheiks in the Mawlawiyya Sufi Order: From the Early Phase of the Order to the 12/18th Century’, in Mawlana Rumi Review 4. 22. O Nova 94 158b­– ­full narrative of the preaching episode MA 566–8 [24]. 23. The latter suggested by SMC 87. 24. M 34b; MA 57–9 [5]. Aflaki records another story of miraculously opening doors when Rumi was very young in MA19 [15]. 25. MA 75–6 [23–5]. 26. MA 291 [370]. 27. MA 291–2 [371]. 28. Shirazi also appears in MA 122 [92], 291–2 [371], 566–7 [24]. 29. Ay, ‘Sufi Shaykhs and Society’. 30. MDA 9; SMC 87. 31. RPP (313) provides this historical background on the jurist,who, even though a Shafi`i in law, sided enthusiastically with the Hanafi Rumi on the central issue in question here: Siraj al-Din Mahmud (1197–1283) ‘came from Lake Urumiya (Reza’iye) in northwestern Iran and settled in Konya in the latter part of his life. He authored a number of works, including a textbook on the principles of jurisprudence (Tahsil dar usul al-fiqh, being an abridgement of Fakhr al-Din Razi’s Mahsul), a book on theology (Mokhtasar al-arba`in) and two others on logic (Bayan al-haqq, Matale` al-anwar). But it seems he held Rumi and his spiritual praxis in respect.’ 32. MA 115–17 [84]. 33. MA 283 [350]. Here, too, Aflaki includes another story of a complex interaction between Rumi and Qadi Siraj in which Rumi miraculously demonstrates his superior knowledge of the law. Duly humbled, Siraj became a disciple. MA 531–4 [16–17] tells a thematically related story that occurs after Rumi’s death, in which the Qadi appears to rule in favour of those who complain that the rebec is forbidden and not to be used in sama`. Husam ad-Din argues to the contrary that just as Moses’ wooden staff was transformed to a higher purpose (a dragon to devour Pharaoh’s magicians), so the humble wooden rebec has been elevated by its use in religious ceremony. There follows a story of the qadi’s burial, at which Husam notices a black cloud of smoke emerging from the qadi’s grave. Sultan Walad affirmed that he, too, saw it, and together they lament the qadi’s continued refusal to support Rumi concerning music. Walad relates that Husam went on at the graveside to insist that Rumi would nonetheless intercede for the qadi, who three days later confirmed that in a dream in which he appeared to Husam as the judge walked peacefully in the ‘uppermost Paradise’ because he had become a disciple of Rumi. This judge also appears in MA 225–6 [250], in a complex interaction in a matter not specifically related to the music question but featuring Rumi’s clairvoyance about another matter. 34. Wolper, Cities and Saints: Sufism and the Transformation of Urban Space in Medieval Anatolia, p. 27; for considerably greater detail on endowments of dervish lodges, see further ibid., pp. 29–38. On the larger matter of related aspects of Mawlawi institutional developments, McGowan notes that ‘The transfer to Rumi and his followers of properties which were later to become [residential facilities called] tekkes and zaviyes is well attested by Aflaki and confirmed by Rumi’s own letters. He flattered wealthy donors who could help him to establish medreses and imarets in which he could accommodate his own nominees . . .’,

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in ‘On Mevlevi Organization,’ Osmanlı Ara∞tırmaları / The Journal of Ottoman Studies 40. 35. M 83b; MA 305–6 [407]. 36. MA 306 [text from end of section 407 to the start of 408]. See also a related story of princely endowment of a madrasa: MA 33–4 [45]: Amir Badr ad-Din Gowhar-tash, Commander of the Fortress, had been Sultan Ala ad-Din’s tutor in the ruler’s youth. He was a wealthy notable, steward of the palace, and gave generously to charitable causes. He became a disciple of Baha Walad because of his experience in the sultan’s mosque while Baha Walad was preaching and was utterly overwhelmed at the preacher’s serene insight. Suddenly Baha Walad commanded Badr ad-Din to recite ‘a unit of ten Qur’an verses’, and he began Sura 23: ‘The believers prosper . . .’ Baha Walad then announced that he would proceed to expound for the next few weeks extemporaneously on the meaning of the particle qad (in the verse qad afla˙a al-mu’minËn, a particle so obscure that one would not expect a preacher to find anything to say about it). At that point, amid sounds of consternation from the audience as they realised the unpleasant implications of Baha Walad’s boast, Badr ad-Din approached the minbar, kissed its bottom step and pledged himself loyal disciple of Baha Walad. Baha Walad responded, ‘Then in gratitude, build a madrasa for my descendants.’ After that, Badr built and endowed in perpetuity the Madrasa of Khodavandgar (Rumi), devoting the remainder of his life to Baha Walad’s progeny. Aflaki identifies Gowhar-tash explicitly as the builder of Rumi’s madrasa in MA 486 [111]. Lewis provides further information on Gowhar-tash, RPP 188–90. 37. MA 211 [222]. 38. M 14a; MA 29–30 [33–4]. MDA 6. 39. Wolper, Cities and Saints, p. 36. For further on Kilich Arslan, see Cahen, EI2 5: 103–4. On this Parwana, see C. Hillenbrand, ‘Mu`in al-Din Sulayman Parwana’, EI2 7: 479–80. It was the Mongol general Baju, who laid siege to Konya in Fig. 6.22, who appointed Mu`in ad-Din as Parwana. See also Lindner, ‘The Challenge of Qilich Arslan IV’, in Near Eastern Numismatics, Iconography, Epigraphy and History: Studies in Honour of George C. Miles, pp. 411–18. 40. A ghazal from Diwan-i Shams, number 1725. 41. M 21b; MA 103–4 [61]; 104–5 [62]. MDA 8. For more context on this and other Sufi/sultan relationships, see Peacock, ‘Sufis and the Seljuq court in Mongol Anatolia: politics and patronage in the works of Jalal al-Din Rumi and Sultan Walad’, in Peacock and Yıldız, The Saljuks of Anatolia: Court and Society in Medieval Middle East. 42. Revan 166b; MA 175–6 [165]; further series of similar accounts follow on MA 177–83 [166–73] and 207–8 [216]. 43. Lewis, RPP 273. 44. O Nova 94 37b; MA 61–3 [9]. 45. M 166a; MA 586 [16]. Following story 587 [17]: Akhi Mustafa invites Walad to a sama`, where the disciples behaved oddly. Akhi said he would no longer invite them for they commandeered all the whirling space. MDA 16–17: the artist chooses the story of the arrow as his focus, showing a story set in a countryside pavilion. The composition recalls that of Iskandar visiting a hermit, but reversing roles, with the Mawlawi leader shown as regal and powerful while the rich adversary loses his stature and clout. Ay, ‘Sufi Shaykhs’, pp. 22–3 refers to this and other episodes involving Akhi members as evidence of widespread

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enmity and competition between Mawlawis and other socio-religious groups. 46. A brief attempt to ‘reconstruct’ the order of the Aflaki material in Revan that stands between the image of Arif and the Purloined Basin (Fig. 4.22) and this final image may be useful to readers interested in the evident discontinuity in the Revan text. At the bottom of 274a the word ‘report’ signals a new anecdote that begins ‘The author of the Manaqib (Aflaki) reports . . . ’ and continues on 274b with the Marble Basin story (MA 633–5 [52]). Here begins an important, if unexpected, expansion of the larger context of these events in Arif’s life which occurs roughly twelve pages later in Aflaki but only one folio later in Revan (one of many concrete reminders that we are dealing here with abridgements and probably a discontinuous pagination). The episode that commences on Revan 274b describes Arif’s visit to the Monastery of Plato (top of page after gold ink). In mid-page we find one of Rumi’s quatrains related explicitly to relationships with ruling powers: ‘Do not make sovereignty your ally as you travel toward God/Do not take in other people’s failings with your two eyes. The hidden reaches of every servant’s heart God knows/ Search within yourself; do not concern yourself with other people’s business.’ The story continues to the top of Revan 275a­– ­explaining how the radiance of illustrious individuals sanctifies whatever/whomever it illuminates­– ­including even the Ka`ba, whose glory derived from Abraham’s pious deeds. It concludes with another quatrain: ‘A dervish’s spirit (rawan) exists outside body and soul (tan o jan)/A dervish outstrips heaven and earth. Creation was not God’s goal for this world/The dervish is God’s ultimate goal of this world.’ MA 632–3 [51].   At mid-page folio 275b the commentary on Aflaki’s own spiritual pedigree continues: he is among those sincere murids (spiritual seekers) of Arif Chalabi and a lover familiar with spiritual stations and saintly marvels. Finally, at mid-page (line 8) of folio 276a, the translator (presumably) interjects the unexpected but not incongruous story of Sana’i, taken from Jami’s Warm Breaths of Intimacy. One page later, folio 277b, a tradition in which God says that there are ‘Friends under my domes whom only I recognise’ begins and continues on folio 278a. 47. Further background on this story as well as the career and various accounts of Sana’i’s life in De Bruijn, Of Piety and Poetry: The Interaction of Religion and Literature in the Life and Works of Hakim Sana’i of Ghazna. 48. Jami printed text: Nafahat al-uns, ed. Mahdi Tawhidpur (Tehran: Kitabfurushi-yi Mahmdi, 1336/1957): Sana’i, 595–8; Attar, 599–600; Digital text of Jami, No. 572, pp. 372–4, followed by Attar. Yusuf Hamadani at No. 437, p. 245. Attar’s story of Mahmud’s visit to the stoker of the furnace bath may have been the source of the basic scenario of Jami’s narrative; see, for example, Darbandi-Davis (trans.), Conference of the Birds, pp. 146–7. 49. Revan 279b. 50. Aflaki’s most direct reference to Sana’i’s repentance (MA 286 [359]) says that the mystic’s last words were barely audible to his supporters. When they came closer to him they realised that he was reciting a distich: ‘I have repented of everything I said because/There is no meaning in words and no words in meaning’ (O’Kane’s translation). 51. Sulayman Turkomani, Tawhidpur ed., 579–80; Digital Jami text No. 562, p. 362.

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52. Further on this Qur’anic text in Rumi’s thought, see Renard, All the King’s Falcons, pp. 127–9. 53. MA 367–9 [521–2]. 54. MA 678–82 [101]: 282a quoting the first half of a quatrain at the end of that story – ‘The time is come’; then jumps to MA 677 ‘Every moment . . .’ quoting 1st half of another quatrain; 282b then quotes all of the quatrain on top of MA 680; further down that page he cites the Qur’anic verse ‘We are God’s and to God do we return’ and then picks up the narrative at the bottom of MA 680 about the coffin that was too short so that a miracle caused Arif’s feet to contract and fit. 283a then quotes two full quatrains from MA 681. 55. MA 687–8 [5], 283b. 56. Aflaki’s most fulsome report of Rumi’s validation of Sana’i is at MA 516 [3].

CHAPTER SIX

Under Divine Providence

A changing worldview in early fourteenth-century Anatolia Chapter One’s description of the ‘two epochs’ as essential historical contexts for an interpretation of our three manuscripts comes back into focus here. By the time Aflaki had embarked on his masterwork the dissolution of the Saljuk Empire had set the stage for a politically chaotic climate across Anatolia. A hallmark of the age in which Aflaki lived was a corresponding reinterpretation of mystical thought in the writings of Rumi, Sadr ad-Din of Konya and a host of other influential thirteenth-century religious authorities. Selim Kuru notes that a significant loss of political unity in Anatolia resulted from conflict among small contending entities that ruled the region as proxies of the Mongols. He argues that ‘dissatisfaction with the shape of things left them yearning for a parallel world beyond the vagaries of the life on earth.’ Their need to dream of a world beyond the grim living conditions appears to have had a strong grip on authors’ imaginations; in this context, the [mystical] author acting as a seer re-evaluated older sources in order to reveal descriptions of a world beyond that otherwise remains hidden.1 More than two centuries post-Aflaki the identification of patron Sultan Murad III’s historical role as divinely-promised ‘renewer’ at the turn of the millennium would inject yet another shot of cosmic import into artist-patron’s emphases in the manuscripts. Herein lies the central focus of the present chapter. While Chapter Five developed the theme of the religious and spiritual authority wielded directly by the protagonists in Aflaki’s master narrative, here the key is the role of those individuals in mediating God’s power in a spiritfilled cosmos, in response to a host of human needs and aspirations.

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It is not merely coincidental that all three manuscripts begin with illustrations of an episode in which the sultan orders Rumi’s father, Baha Walad, to preach in a cemetery on the subject of eschatological themes (as discussed in Chapter Five). Hüseyin Yılmaz offers an elegant summation of the multiple dimensions of Aflaki’s work that underscores key concerns to be discussed in the present chapter: [It is] written with the feel of an epic and a messianic voice where romance, dreams, prophecies, miracles and heroism are enmeshed with historical facts, juristic prescripts, theological dogmas and esoteric symbolism in an illustrious and epoch-making narrative. It lends meta-historical significance to the catastrophic breakdown of the caliphal order and offers a new path for appeasement of existential anxieties and reconstruction of the broken order.2 We begin here with a nod to a cast of characters who straddle the invisible boundary between the seen and unseen worlds, playing an active but typically undiscerned role in the maintenance and order of the cosmos: the ‘Substitutes’ (abdal) and the ‘Pivot’ (qutb), with a brief acknowledgement of the concept of the ‘Perfect Person’ (al-insan al-kamil) in Sufi thought and Mawlawi spiritual culture. It will be helpful also to recall here the notion that God has ‘Friends’ known to God alone, and that God can use even the most unlikely individuals as instruments of Providence. In Rumi’s view of an all-encompassing divine dispensation, God places among human beings spiritually advanced individuals who embody intimate knowledge of the ultimate truths and can assist others to rise above their flawed humanity. These exemplars include, along with all the prophets, Friends of God like Rumi and his descendants. Some among the latter further exemplify an ability to dwell simultaneously in the realms of transcendence and immanence. Some rise to the rank of Cosmic Axis or Substitutes. But in addition to these specialised roles, the most advanced among God’s Friends also merit the title Perfect Person, because of their ability to combat incessantly the basest tendencies of their ‘lower selves’ and thus bridge the ‘Two Worlds’. Only God is truly ‘perfect,’ of course; but some chosen few approach perfection by being as entirely conformed to God’s will as is humanly possible. Rumi himself did not elaborate on themes related to the Perfect Person but the concept had become part of Mawlawi terminology by Aflaki’s time.3 An overview of episodes of miraculous import will then consider saintly marvels under the headings of interaction with non-human subjects; control over the forces of nature; wonders of clairvoyance, precognition and bilocation; and marvels of healing, resuscitating and conversion. Finally, the miraculous battle scenes depicted in the last two paintings considered below effectively ‘bookend’ the three centuries between the nadir of the Saljuks of Rum and the zenith

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of the Ottoman dynasty, when our three manuscripts were created. Rumi himself provides a poetic metaphorical segue from Chapter Five: ‘Just as the [standard] madrasa’s curriculum is warranted by a licence in jurisprudence/Be aware that the madrasa that teaches love also requires discipline.’4 Ambassadors from the unseen world: Sufism’s cosmic hierarchy Aflaki often speaks of his subjects in the context of a traditional Sufi cosmological framework. Describing his commission to write his hagiography, he refers to his own ‘shaykh’, Arif Chalabi, as ‘the Sultan of the Knowers of God, proof of the Revealers, man of perfect state, cream of the perfect men, exemplar of the Tent Pegs (awtad) and Substitutes (abdal) . . .’5 Rumi’s entire lineage ranks among the ‘Perfect Friends of God’ in the company of no less than the prophets of old. And in every age God provides a supreme exemplar at the pinnacle of this hierarchy, the Pivot or Axis. Two images feature a visitation by abdal and one depicts the surprising discovery of the incognito ‘axis of the age’, and a youthful foreigner at that. In a variation on a theme of intervention by supra-human elements in the life of the Mawlawi community, Sultan Walad recounts an event in which a delegation of three representatives of the unseen world have come to visit Rumi in his madrasa (Fig. 6.1). According to the original Persian text, the three wore red, but they appear here in green (a colour typically associated with angels or prophets) as indicated in the Turkish translation. Aflaki identifies the three visitors as belonging to ‘the seven’, a cluster of perennial spiritual denizens of the cosmos called the ‘Substitutes’ (abdal, often also numbered at forty). When one of them dies, they seek out a replacement, hence a ‘substitute’. Aflaki recounts that they came in and sat down and implies that Rumi understood wordlessly that they wished to take the Mawlawis’ water carrier (shown with a water skin over his shoulder­– ­although Aflaki’s text avers that he has already left the scene). This newly recruited ‘Substitute’ would then assume the role of a liminal and clandestine representative of the unseen world while continuing to live in this one. Here the Turkish text on the image picks up the narrative: Rumi explains to his puzzled disciples that all is well and according to a higher design, all reflecting the advanced spiritual state of the humble water carrier. Later the water carrier appeared to Sultan Walad after Rumi’s death to explain the nature of his new status. That the abdal would select an individual of so humble a station in life underscores the concept that one should never underestimate anyone’s spiritual significance on the basis of appearance or social status alone. Barbara Schmitz notes the presence of four extra-textual ‘genre figures’ characteristic of the Baghdad school here ad-libbed by the artist: the aging doorkeeper and three youngsters, appearing at a

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Figure 6.1  Abdal come for the Mawlawi water carrier. The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911. 18a.

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window on the right and a balcony mid-height on the left.6 Our painter has created a clever architectural illusion, with a tiled iwan­ – ­a decorative facade on an vaulted hall typically used in madrasas as teaching spaces­– ­that opens onto a courtyard in the foreground, with another such space suggested above, the two separated by a garden area on the right and yet another courtyard-facing facade at the right edge. The juxtaposition of interior and exterior space is as ingenious as it is disorientating on first glance. Fig. 6.2 shows a variation on the theme of Fig. 6.1, bringing the intervention closer to home for Rumi. One day Mawlana was in the suffa (great hall) of his madrasa with his inner circle at some sort of important but otherwise unspecified gathering. Sultan Walad stood to his father’s right while his brother Ala ad-Din stood at Rumi’s left­– ­the image, however, shows them all seated. Two men dressed in green (symbolic of a spiritual rank) appear at the door unexpectedly from the unseen world. After they greet Rumi he stands up (but not in this image). Without comment or warning they ‘grab Sultan Walad’s hand’ and vanish with the lad in tow. The pair soon return (bringing Walad back, according to the Turkish but not stipulated in Aflaki) and indicate that they must also take Rumi’s younger son, Ala ad-Din, as a guarantor of the continuation of Baha Walad’s lineage. As they lead the second son away Rumi says nothing, even as shocked on-looking ‘friends’ register their concern at the bizarre events and the enigmatic communication not to mention Rumi’s nonchalant consent to the interchange. Rumi explains that the captors ‘will see to Walad’s survival in this world long enough to guarantee the continuation of the family bloodline, but Ala ad-Din [seated to Rumi’s left] will leave this world sooner.’ Mysteriously, both sons continued to live their more or less normal lives; but during the later controversy about Rumi’s relationship with Shams ad-Din (one of Rumi’s teachers as discussed in Chapter Four), Ala ad-Din was wounded fatally after being implicated in the death of Shams. The Turkish translation then skips Aflaki’s references to the sons’ status after their abductions and includes the hadith, ‘The son is the father’s secret’, clearly punning on the double-meaning of walad as both ‘child’ and the elder son’s name. Here again the artist clusters Mawlawis around Rumi in the room and includes two women among the four observing the proceedings from above. Though the text has both interlopers in green, the painter dresses one in a red outer tunic for visual variety.7 Here again, the ‘visitors’ apparently represent the ranks of the ‘Substitutes’ in the cosmic spiritual hierarchy. A key theme in the saga of Rumi’s relationship to Shams is the quest for the latter at various moments in the story when Shams suddenly disappears, usually as a result of some misunderstanding with Rumi’s family members. After one such departure (Fig. 6.3) Rumi sends Sultan Walad to Damascus with a purse full of silver to find

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Figure 6.2  Abdal come to take Rumi’s sons away. Presidency of the Republic of Turkey, the Directorate of National Palaces. TSMK. Revan 1479, fol. 246b.

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Figure 6.3  Sultan Walad searches for the missing Shams, finding a hidden qutb. O Nova 94, Uppsala University Library, photo: Uppsala U.L., 134a.

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Shams and send him back to Rum. He tells Sultan Walad that he will find Shams in the Salihiya caravanserai playing backgammon with a Frankish youth who is unaware that he is a qutb. Rumi cautions that he foresees an interaction between Shams and the Frank to which Sultan Walad will be tempted to over-react. As Sultan Walad arrives on the scene, the youngster has just lost the game to Shams, who then takes his money. The Frank slaps Shams, angering Sultan Walad who has witnessed the event but has forgotten Rumi’s caveat. Shams tells Sultan Walad that he mustn’t be angry, for the boy is a qutb who has not yet become aware of his exalted status and needs tutelage from Shams. Because Sultan Walad has brought twenty companions with him and greeted Shams with great respect and love, the Frank immediately realises that he has behaved badly towards so venerable a person. Sultan Walad then gives Shams the silver and apologises for inciting Shams to leave Konya, explaining that all the disciples want him to return. After the Frank apologises and gives his possessions in repentance, Shams insists that the youth return to his homeland and honour the Franks with his presence as qutb. On the journey back to Konya, Shams asks Sultan Walad to ride a horse, but he declines, for a servant should not have the same conveyance as the master. Sultan Walad then runs all the way to Konya, where Rumi and the disciples welcome Shams with pageantry.8 The Persian text on the image describes how Rumi’s son and the Konya delegation stood reverentially at the door of the caravanserai room and realised that all was exactly as Rumi had described. They all showed such deference to Shams that the young Frank became alarmed. On the following manuscript page the text continues that the boy asked himself how he could possibly have so mistreated a man of Shams’s stature. The picture seems to conflate the arrival of the Konya delegation with the realisation of the cosmic mission of the young Frank, along with Shams ad-Din’s approval­– ­assuming that the man outside the door is Shams, who gestures affirmatively toward the incognito qutb thereby eliciting the abject reverence of the Mawlawis who had come in search of Shams. Still inside, the young Frank (wearing headgear that will reappear shortly) ‘bites the finger of astonishment’ in his amazement at suddenly becoming an object of admiration. Two additional Mawlawis appear to be watching from just over a hill, along with two other observers, one of whom wears a curious dervish cap seen in other images. The rectangles in front of the Frank may represent the gaming board at the centre of the contested interaction.9 Marvels of God’s Friends in a wonder-filled cosmos It will be useful to recall that the inaugural images in all three manuscripts are built on stories (though including variant details) of

under divine providence

a spectacular marvel of temporary resuscitation wrought by Rumi’s father Baha Walad (Figs 5.4, 5.5, 5.6). That the designers and artists of all three manuscripts chose to open with a considerable manifestation of preternatural potency signals a clear sense of the importance of marvels as mediated by Rumi’s family and disciples. In addition, elements of the miraculous have been ingredients in a number of other previously discussed images. In all, including scenes discussed in Chapters Four and Five with elements of the miraculous, nearly two thirds of our pictures allude to this intermediary role of God’s Friends. Interaction with non-human subjects Two marvels of this type have merited remarkably detailed images in both the Morgan and Revan manuscripts. Together the set of four images offers prime examples of how artist and translator have interpreted or even notably reinterpreted the original narratives. Both versions exemplify, in slightly varied ways, the frame-tale, nesting one story within another. They also display two different visual devices for overlapping inclusion of more than one time and place. One story begins with Rumi’s entourage en route on their accustomed regular trip to the steaming spring of Ilghin, outside Konya (Fig. 6.4). Rumi and his party make camp by a ‘fearful’ bridge near a meadow from which flows a ‘fearsome’ river at their campsite. Every year Su Essa, ‘the lord of the water’, drowns a person or animal from the countryside and brings its kill onto dry land. Rumi’s wife warns hubby to avoid getting anywhere near the bank, to which he responds how eager he has been to meet this creature again (for he has met him and his kind before) and impetuously dives in fully clothed. After Rumi has taken the plunge, he confronts the monster, who immediately resolves to change his ways. The Morgan image depicts the moment after that submerged encounter in which the creature decides it is best to get to Rumi through the intercession of his second wife, Kira Khatun. Here he approaches her tent. The Turkish text describes the monster with a human-like face: His feet were like those of bears. He threw himself into the tent of Mawlana, and greeted the family of Mawlana with clear, understandable, eloquent language. He said that it had been a while since his kind had become among Mawlana’s ‘poor ones’, for once Mawlana had honoured the bottom of this body of water and invited them to the faith, they had accepted the faith and given allegiance to his hand and repented before him. Off image, the continuing text has the monster admit that it had formerly agreed to harm no one, but confessed reverting to sin by killing a young man.

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Figure 6.4  Rumi and the river monster – Morgan interpretation. The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911. 63b.

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Though Aflaki’s text describes the monster similarly, the artist depicts what appears to be a small if misshapen child with very long locks and spiky nails on hands and feet. Kira Khatun, lauded as a second Virgin Mary in spiritual attainment, veils her face to confront the monster as she stands just at the opening of the tent with her daughter while the monster makes its pitch. At that moment, Rumi approaches from the right, gesturing as if to say, ‘Ladies, meet my friend the monster’. Seven dervishes look on from beyond the tent and a third woman does laundry in the lake at lower left. The artist has created a lively countryside, with diverse flora and fauna, and a lake-like water feature filled from a small stream and full of aquatic life. Look carefully at the rock formation at upper right and three forms suggestive of animal heads appear. A nip of sherry will no doubt facilitate the recognition.10 Revan’s version (Fig. 6.5) in effect picks up the action after Rumi has entered the scene (reciting ghazals while in an ecstatic state) and sits in front of the tent, at the opening of which Kira Khatun and daughter Malika Khatun sit awaiting the outcome of the encounter. The Turkish text indicates that Rumi accepts the entreaties of his household that he pardon the monster for its relapse into evil deeds. He does so and the monster ‘renews his repentance, produces a pearl of astonishing beauty, and kisses the ground.’ Here we see Rumi sternly enjoining a slightly more frightening ‘crocodile’ never again to engage in such horrors. Its bright golden eyes are a feature that appeared in the story of Umar and Iblis (Fig. 4.4). Here the creature gives Rumi a clutch of many precious translucent pearls, though Aflaki says the monster instead places them directly before Kira Khatun, who presents them to her daughter for her dowry. As is the case in the second pair of matching paintings immediately below (Rumi and the ox), the composition reverses the arrangement of campsite spaces, the position of the horses and camels, as well as the attendant Mawlawis (here numbering eight). In this instance, however, a major ingredient barely suggested in Figs 6.6 and 6.7­– ­the three-sided picture border as the dominant spatial frame­– a­ nnounces the compositional reversal more dramatically, with action spilling out into wild open spaces. Though both images, likely by the same artist, populate the ‘lake’ with nearly identical water creatures, this one waxes more creative by depicting a second delightfully active campsite on ‘this side’ of the lake.11 Both images’ detailed outdoor settings in general and camping scenes in particular are clearly reminiscent of a broad spectrum of Islamic illustrations and regional ‘schools’. Though the story is at least in part about Rumi’s own escape from a terror that threatened to kill local people, it is oddly placed in the midst of Aflaki’s reports of Rumi’s final illness and death, in the last few pages of his Rumi chapter. Our next image (Fig. 6.6) is based on an original narrative that

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Figure 6.5  Rumi and the river monster – Revan interpretation. Presidency of the Republic of Turkey, the Directorate of National Palaces. TSMK. Revan 1479, fol. 115a.

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Figure 6.6  Rumi frees the supplicant ox – Morgan interpretation. The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911. 107b.

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has Rumi and his retinue en route to the ancestral mausoleum of his father, Baha Walad. Although Aflaki makes no mention of any activity within the shrine, here we see Rumi and companions actively engaged near a red-draped cenotaph. The Turkish translator has modified the narrative, indicating clearly that Rumi has gone first to the mausoleum and has just left, when the ox spots him and approaches, rubbing its face on the ground. In a gesture of affectionate concern, Rumi strokes the ox’s face and back. Enter the two distraught butchers intent on reclaiming their purchase. As in Fig. 6.7, the artist makes use of a simple but effective compositional device to include two discrete spaces and moments in the story. Here a full-width horizontal line that suggests the floor of the mausoleum and the ground to its left and right boldly separates the two spaces. Above, Rumi reads from the Qur’an by candlelight in the presence of three dervishes (one seated next to Rumi and two touching the cenotaph), while a man draws water at the left and a porter greets a visitor on the right as one person looks down from a second-storey window. Here we have a fine example of how the Turkish translator has shifted the dynamic by essentially re-writing the narrative, explicitly indicating two separate moments in the episode. In the lower scene, the two butchers, one brandishing a knife, enter from the left as Rumi communes with the terrified ox via the ‘tongue of its spiritual state’. Rumi’s garb in the lower scene differs from his fashion statement above, though it appears the painter wants to communicate that he has come directly from the mausoleum. Heeding the animal’s sincere entreaty, Rumi requests that the butchers grant it a reprieve. As four of Rumi’s disciples join from the right, the shaykh explains that God’s grace to the beast reminds one of the need to escape the butchers of hell by asking aid of ‘people of heart and soul’. Immediately after the central event, and off-image, Aflaki has the grateful animal make a hasty and permanent getaway.12 Again the Turkish text on the next image (Fig. 6.7) begins as Rumi has completed his visit to the mausoleum. Showing a mirror-reverse composition in the main narrative space (by contrast with Fig. 6.6), the artist here employs a more subtle way of distinguishing two spaces and moments. A panel of text delineates the bottom of the mausoleum space, where Rumi and six (not all recognisably Mawlawi) disciples revere the memory of Baha Walad. This image implicitly minimises the scene in the mausoleum somewhat by shrinking its share of the space. A clever device at the left suggests the proximity of entry to the shrine by having the doorway intrude into, and thus made accessible to, the outdoor scene below. Just beneath that portal stands a Mawlawi holding what appears to be an open book. The artist has added a correspondingly more prominent space and finer detail to the outdoor scene of Rumi’s encounter with the animal. Also as in Fig. 6.6, although Aflaki’s text indicates that Rumi’s

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Figure 6.7  Rumi frees the supplicant ox – Revan interpretation. Presidency of the Republic of Turkey, the Directorate of National Palaces. TSMK. Revan 1479, fol. 171a.

disciples arrive on the scene after the beast’s deliverance, the artist collapses time so that they appear just as Rumi is at the critical point in the central interaction. Here eight dervishes­– ­a significantly larger coterie than in Fig. 6.6­– ­in addition to five outsiders,

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witness the marvel. That diversity below correlates to the presence of non-Mawlawi disciples among shrine visitors above. This suggests a significantly different message as to the wider religious appeal and welcoming social demeanour of the Mawlawis, a feature that might in turn make particular sense here if indeed the Revan image was made in Konya rather than Baghdad.13 What might have prompted both translator and artist to amplify the role of a visit of Rumi and disciples to the sepulchral shrine when Aflaki mentions that visit only in passing as occurring before the main action with the ox? Perhaps it was because the perfect occasion to give heightened attention to the spiritual authority of the Patriarch presented itself. This is, after all, the only explicit image of the interior of Baha Walad’s resting place in our three manuscripts­ – ­relatively meagre visual attention to so dominant a symbol of Mawlawi life. Not unlike St Francis of Assisi, Rumi’s spiritual connections include humbler members of the non-human realm (Fig. 6.8). According to Aflaki: One day Rumi was teaching a gathering crowd in a marketplace as t­­ime for evening prayer approached. At dusk the marketplace dogs circle around Rumi. As Rumi continues to deliver transcendent insights to them, they wag heads and tails and vocalise their approval. Rumi acknowledges aloud that these typically underestimated creatures clearly comprehend his message and should not be dismissed as mere ‘dogs’. Indeed, he adds, his canine listeners are no less than descendants of the dog of the Seven Sleepers of the Cave, long celebrated in Islamic tradition for his faithful connection with these Christians who had taken refuge from the persecution of Diocletian.14 Here the Turkish text on the painting does not describe these narrative details of the story but instead picks up after Rumi’s interaction with the gathered canines and people. The theme is access to the ‘world of ultimate reality’ and the essential affective-experiential dimensions of doing so: one achieves that higher level through the intuitive perception of ‘tasting’. ‘One who does not taste it has no knowledge of it . . . I [Rumi] embody that tasting and drown in authentic taste. Whatever exists in the present world is the opposite of that.’ The text ends with a hadith in which Muhammad said, ‘The whole of faith is tasting, craving, and desire’ (in gold ink at the lower left of the bottom panel). Though these concepts are not explicitly associated with any other images discussed here, they are central to Rumi’s approach to life and experience. Franklin Lewis notes that Rumi’s father used ‘taste’ as a metaphor for ‘direct experience of the spiritual world’, with an emphasis on awareness of, sensitivity to and delight in life and ‘the wonders of God’s Creation’. Rumi himself famously observed that ‘Those who do not “taste” do not know.’15 Through their association with so exalted a personage as Rumi even these stray mutts have been spiritually elevated, just as the Seven

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Figure 6.8  Rumi and the marketplace dogs. The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911. 66b.

Sleepers’ best friend gradually took on the exemplary ethical qualities of its owners in various Mediterranean traditions.16 Elsewhere Aflaki adds indirect references to their lofty ‘spiritual states’ in their capacity as cohorts of a dog who appears in several accounts about

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Arif Chalabi. Named after the companion of the Seven Sleepers, this latter-day Qitmir had achieved spiritual perfection and access to experiential knowledge of God. In one episode the dog’s owner insists that he loves his dog because it possesses ‘friendship with God’, and Arif goes so far as to credit the community’s dogs with the status of spiritual guides. Once Arif Chalabi even called Qitmir to follow him and from then on the dog was his companion, even joining in the circular rituals of sama`.17 I suggest that Aflaki’s clear association of dogs with these qualities, all fully consistent with the metaphorical meanings of belief, desire and taste, is a key to understanding the otherwise puzzling text on the image.18 Here, as the main group of four dogs model rapt attention to Rumi, a fifth (to the right of the lower text panel) appears tempted to join. Rumi gestures towards the dogs as he admonishes the crowd, made up of Mawlawis (to the right) and a more diverse group of townsfolk (on the left and upper right), and recites two verses of poetry about the arrival of the Beloved in the rose garden (Paradise). The architectural design, whose compositional frame opens to the right, suggests a covered marketplace.19 Rumi’s most important grandson, Arif Chalabi, appears in four images. He was the son of Sultan Walad’s wife, Fatima Khatun, and Aflaki notes that Arif’s two sisters were both Friends of God who enjoyed the gift of miraculous deeds and attracted as disciples ‘most of the noble ladies of Rum’.20 Aflaki’s chapter on Arif is second in size only to his enormous Rumi testimonial­– ­a bit surprising, perhaps, but for the fact that it was Arif who commissioned Aflaki to compose his monumental hagiography in the first place.21 Among the most visually engaging of our paintings one typically titled ‘Arif charming a falcon’ stands out (Fig. 6.9). Deciding to travel eastward from Konya to Persian Iraq to meet dignitaries there, Arif Chalabi makes camp near Erzurum in eastern Anatolia (the city featured in Fig. 6.20). A group of falconers camping nearby are led by the chief huntsman who serves the newly elevated Ilkhanid ruler Ghazan Khan (who figures in a miracle in Fig. 6.14) and is a ‘sincere believer and knower of God’. The huntsman perches a white falcon on his arm and pays a visit to Arif’s encampment. After discoursing on spiritual topics, Arif takes the falcon on his arm and releases him. As the prize bird disappears from sight the chief huntsman is beside himself with anxiety. He fears he has just lost the sultan’s treasure and that the sovereign will never forgive him, much less bestow on him the high courtly rank that he had ambitioned. Responding to the huntsman’s distress, Arif summons the bird, doffing his hat as a perch on which the falcon suddenly alights. When Arif returns the bird to the huntsman he gives Arif three prize horses in gratitude. Thus becoming a disciple of Arif, the huntsman himself becomes (as Aflaki notes) the prey of Arif, the ‘royal falcon’, an overarching metaphor for God’s prophets often mentioned in Rumi’s writings.

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Figure 6.9  Arif Chalabi and the royal falcon. O Nova 94, Uppsala University Library, photo: Uppsala U.L., 167b.

Like a prophet, the falcon’s attachment to the king causes him to respond obediently even as he stoops towards his target from afar to return to the king’s arm and nuzzle his head on the Lord’s cheek.22 The Persian text on the picture reads:

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Chalabi said (to the huntsman), ‘You definitely want this falcon to come back?’ ‘Yes, by God, I do,’ he replied, ‘and as a token of gratitude, I will surrender to the disciples any recompense I receive from both the seen and unseen worlds.’ Chalabi stood up immediately, removed his Mawlawi cap from his head and said, ‘O falcon, in honour of Mawlana’s renowned intimacy with God, return!’ [The text continues up on the following page: ‘and on his cap it sat. Chalabi handed the bird to the commander and put on his hat.’]23 The story immediately following this provides the background for the events described in Fig. 6.14, which presupposes Arif’s significant connection to the Mongol ruler whom the huntsman served. The present episode ends with Ghazan Khan’s hunstman telling the falcon story to the ruler, at which the latter resolves to meet Arif. Arif, however, declines the Khan’s invitation. Undeterred, the ruler has his wife invite Arif to come for a sama`. Arif accepts and, in short order, Ghazan Khan and his entourage become disciples.24 Control over the forces of nature Rumi’s authority over the ‘natural’ world includes non-sentient elements as well. In one of the most fantastic wonders depicted in our three manuscripts (Fig. 6.10), a prominent Konya dignitary, Qadi-yi Kurd, recounts his harrowing experience in a gathering of eminent citizens, all reputable merchants. As their ship carries them toward Alexandria it suddenly encounters a whirlpool that threatens to send it to the bottom. Each passenger shouts prayers to his own shaykh and weeps copiously, alas, to no avail. Qadi-yi Kurd, depicted as the only passenger in Mawlawi headgear, more wisely calls out to his shaykh, Mawlana. There ‘a bow-shot away’ (perhaps a reference to Qur’an 53: 9, implicitly likening Mawlana to Muhammad) stands Rumi directly on the water. He extends his hand, pulls the ship out of the whirlpool and sends it forward while pushing from behind. Our artist has chosen to depict alternative details, with Rumi on shore and pulling the ship toward him by the bow and inscribing the name Allah on the spinnaker to suggest that the favourable wind was the presence of God Himself. Turkish text on the image reads, quoting the qadi: I had gone to Alexandria to do business there. By chance, our ship fell into a whirlpool; our ship fell into a whirlpool [written twice]. Each one of the passengers pledged a sacrifice to their spiritual masters [pirs] and pleaded with them to come to their rescue. This humble one also pleaded for the intercession of Mawlana. I cried, ‘O Mawlana! Hurry and save us!’ Suddenly, the Revered Mawlana appeared.

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Figure 6.10  Rumi saves a ship from foundering. Presidency of the Republic of Turkey, the Directorate of National Palaces. TSMK. Revan 1479, fol. 101b.

When they disembark gratefully at Antalya all give alms to the needy. Returning to Konya, they visit Mawlana bearing gifts. Sultan Walad explains that Rumi has effected the rescue while remaining in Konya, clearly visible to all there. This wonder, therefore,

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combines bilocation with power over natural forces. Sultan Walad also later asks whether Mawlana will assist when they are caught in the whirlpool of final reckoning. He replies, ‘If the sheathed sword cuts like this, how will it cut unsheathed?’25 The roiling sea looks very much like a saltwater version of the monster’s lake in Figs 6.4 and 6.5. Scenes of Noah’s ark in several manuscripts of both Tales of the Prophets and major ‘universal histories’ populate the bounding waters similarly. This Revan image is among the most detailed and stylistically sophisticated in that manuscript. Aslihan Erkmen notes that a close parallel to this marvel merited a picture in the Safwat as-Safa, with Shaykh Safi saving disciples. She explains that ‘although there are different aspects of these stories, such as storm vs. whirlpool and dreaming vs. summoning, the main theme of being rescued from a maritime disaster by a holy being is common.’26 Another large-scale environmental scenario, depicted only in O Nova 94, stars Husam ad-Din in the role of rainmaker (Fig. 6.11). Important context here is that this narrative appears just after a brief reference to Rumi’s final hours and his comforting assurance to disciples that Husam will supply their needs after he is gone. As a fearsome drought besets Konya all the townsfolk go out to pray for rain, offering sacrifices, weeping and supplication­– ­all to no effect. With severe heat and drought causing terrible suffering, several people ask Husam to invoke God with his ‘Messiah-like breath’. This epithet occurs frequently in Rumi’s works and refers to the Qur’anic Jesus’s ability to heal and restore life, a reference to his breathing animation into clay birds that he had fashioned as a boy (Q 3: 45 and 5: 110). Husam tells the supplicants to resume their ordinary concerns while he and some disciples go to the ancestral shrine to ask Husam’s ‘sultan’ (Rumi) for aid. While they pray, dark clouds gather and produce heavy rain as tears rained from their eyes. Numerous people return to the fold of true belief, while unbelievers suffer much poverty and disease. Rain persists for twenty days, causing dangerous flooding and raising the spectre of a different kind of devastation. Again they beg Husam for help and again he asks for Rumi’s intercession. Immediately the clouds break and the muddy ground sprouts rose gardens and abundant grain.27 Persian text above the image says that ‘raining tears they cried “Amen” and shouted. Fast-scudding dense clouds formed above and heavy rain commenced.’ Then a quatrain of Rumi reads: ‘As they offered these intimate prayers (munajat), a splendid cloud materialised suddenly’ (leaving out ‘like an elephant carrying water’ as quoted in Aflaki). On the next page the third and fourth lines read: ‘Rain like buckets of tears fell/a rain that flooded low ground and swales.’

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Figure 6.11  Husam prays for rain for Konya and breaks a drought. O Nova 94, Uppsala University Library, photo: Uppsala U.L., 141a.

Wonders of clairvoyance, precognition and bilocation Aflaki tells a tale that combines a marvel of multiplication of food with long-distance communication between Rumi and the husband of a main story figure in direct contact with Mawlana (Fig. 6.12).

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Figure 6.12  Rumi multiplies sweetmeats – separated Morgan? Photograph © 2020, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, 07.692.

According to Aflaki, a noble lady gives Rumi an elegant bowl of sweetmeats, asking that in exchange he bless and pray for her husband, then away on a year’s journey of pilgrimage to Mecca. She makes her request and gift on the day known as Id al-adha (the Feast of Sacrifice on the tenth day of the month of Hajj). When Rumi passes the bowl around and his disciples partake happily, it remains filled to the brim even as they appear to empty it. Deciding that it was only fitting that the lady’s husband should share the goodies, Rumi carries the bowl to the roof and returns without it: he has, he explains, handed it to the absent husband. After the pilgrim

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returns from Mecca, his wife discovers the bowl in his baggage, to his considerable amazement. He then recalls that on the Day of Arafat (a pilgrimage camping station outside of Mecca) an arm had reached into the tent and deposited the full bowl before him. Even after enquiring among the pilgrims, no one could explain the origin of the gift. Putting two and two together, his wife realises that Rumi has caused the wondrous interaction, and the two pay a visit to Mawlana. He explains that the marvel has resulted from the couple’s faith and trust and that God has only made him the means for demonstrating His power.28 The artist depicts the disciples along with several invited guests­ – ­including the lady in the blue bonnet seated with her husband – ­sharing the food, suggesting overabundance by showing morsels scattered on the floor. On the right, a visitor shares with a man and his child, and a late-coming dervish peering around the gateway seems about to join the party. The indoor/outdoor combination suggests an amalgam of the party room and the roof from which Rumi accomplished the mystery of long-distance sharing. On a much smaller scale, Rumi brings attention to a teachable moment during a sama` convened by the Parwana (Fig. 6.13). Rumi’s clairvoyance is an essential ingredient here. Each attendee brings a large (five-pound) candle but Rumi asks his Mawlawi companions to provide a small candle. The various dignitaries consider that unacceptably stingy, but Rumi sits down in a corner and sets his candle before him. Commenting among themselves how embarrassingly tiny his candle seemed, the dignitaries even suspect Rumi of ‘madness and deceit’. Rumi blows out his candle and all the others are suddenly extinguished. He emits a sigh and all are instantly rekindled. Aflaki notes that the sama` continues until dawn and, although all the other candles flicker out, Rumi’s continues to burn.29 The Turkish text does not include Aflaki’s explicit mention that the Parwana had arranged a sama`, noting instead that it was a ‘gathering in honour of Mawlana inviting all of the city’s notables’. This may explain why, rather than composing the image as the active ritual one might have expected, the artist chose to portray the attendees in separate groups facing each other; six Mawlawis surrounding Rumi on the left and five seated notables on the right. Seated in front of them is likely the Parwana in blue and gold and gesturing his approval (or perhaps registering his puzzlement?). Eight additional non-Mawlawis observe from upper galleries and on the roof. Rumi’s candle, above his gesturing left hand, emits a somewhat more generous flame than the others. The moral of the story: the source of light need not be physically imposing. All present became disciples of Mawlana. Like his forebears, Arif Chalabi enjoys the marvel of clairvoyance, even of events unfolding at a great distance. As is often the case, his foreknowledge in this story relates to privileged access to the fates

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Figure 6.13  Rumi’s small candle outlasts candles of the guests of Parwana. Presidency of the Republic of Turkey, the Directorate of National Palaces. TSMK. Revan 1479, fol. 82b.

of the very powerful. The complex narrative behind Fig. 6.14 unfolds with Arif Chalabi just leaving the ancestral shrine after performing sama` there. A retinue of musicians, reciters and other disciples follows him. Arif wears his wolf-skin tunic inside out and, as they

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Figure 6.14  Arif discerns the distant death of Ghazan Khan. The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911. 170b.

come to the musalla where people pray for the deceased, he takes off his tunic and instructs his party to offer prayers for someone who has just departed this world. He has sensed the passing of the Mongol ruler Ghazan Khan, as it turns out­– ­the same ruler who figures in

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the story behind Fig. 6.9 by virtue of his interaction with Arif there. The Turkish text sums up the central points of the story, including Arif’s wearing an Arab-style turban and wolf fur coat then heading for the place of funeral prayers and placing his coat on a stone there. The painter has once again created a visualisation of an otherwise impossible spatio-temporal overlap, showing Arif still inside, though on his way out of, the ancestral mausoleum, while his wolf-skin cloak already lies on the ground outside. The story concludes with his return to the shrine, followed by a visit to his mother who intuits that he has experienced something important. She asks him to explain and he tells her about his intuition. Shortly thereafter a group of Konya merchants return from abroad and confirm that the event had occurred at exactly the moment Arif had called for a remembrance of someone who has just died.30 Interesting details in the image include two women observing from upper right and the presence of two men in the crowd who look curiously like Rumi himself (upper and lower edge of the crowd, wearing blue/gold, tall turban-wrapped hats and long beards). All but four in the crowd wear Mawlawi garb and, just outside the throng, stand a pair of unaffiliated ascetics at extreme lower right. The small round face with a red-top hat and staring directly at the viewer recalls the similar gaze of Junayd’s uncle Sari in the image of Junayd’s preaching to the Sufis of Baghdad in Fig. 5.8. In a wondrous example of bilocation and instantaneous travel (Fig. 6.15) a pilgrimage account again provides the larger context. One of many narratives of Rumi’s dealings with other Muslims, whose spiritual lives were due for an upgrade, it features a group of pilgrims returning to Konya via Syria after the Hajj. This account represents a particularly elaborate frame-tale. One of Rumi’s disciples tells how, shortly after he had begun to follow Rumi, a young man from a noble Konya family had come to visit Mawlana. This Shaykh Mahmud had told the disciples how, on the return trip from Hajj, he had been separated from his caravan, which had departed while he slept. Distraught, he had walked long and aimlessly, when a tent miraculously appeared before him. He approached and was received hospitably by the owner (a disciple of Rumi, as fortune would have it), who told him that Mawlana appeared there each day to break his fast. At that moment, Rumi entered the tent, learned that the pilgrim was from Konya, told him to close his eyes, and suddenly the youth was back with his caravan. When the caravan arrives eventually at Konya all become disciples. Here the artist deftly conflates aspects of two major moments in the narrative. First, he features the tent (with the youth still inside) in a scene surrounded by a crowd of Mawlawis (thus including Konya in the place setting indirectly). Rumi stands before them (rather than inside the tent) as the owner of the tent offers sweets to Rumi and the rescued youth does Mawlana homage. The artist thus ably

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Figure 6.15  Rumi and the pilgrim reunited with his caravan after being lost. Presidency of the Republic of Turkey, the Directorate of National Palaces. TSMK. Revan 1479, fol. 88a.

combines several moments and places in a single frame. All of this is told as a flashback in the youth’s story to Rumi’s disciples about his being rescued, and occurring just before Rumi instructs the youth to close his eyes, reopening them to find himself safely back among his

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caravan.31 The Turkish text on the image sums up the latter portion of the story, largely paraphrasing Aflaki. Another story features Rumi’s ability to arrive mysteriously from a great distance in response to a needy person’s cry for help (Fig. 6.16). One day at the gate of Aksaray, a blind beggar ‘with an enlightened heart’ has been asking for bread and calling on Rumi for spiritual assistance. Appearing on cue, Mawlana hands the poor man a belt, an item of little apparent value in itself, and disappears. A local notable named Akhi Chuban observes this and, concluding that the belt is useless to such a poor man, offers to buy it for the exorbitant sum of 100 gold coins. The beggar replies that this gift from Rumi is priceless and that he plans to keep it for the rest of his life. All night long the blind man importunes God to deliver him from his failing body­– t­ he text punning on embodiment and worldly existence: ‘the waist surrounded by the waistband [miyanband] and the bonds of his surrounding [miyan] world’. The line quotes Rumi’s Mathnawi (Book 5: 3173), in a story borrowed from Attar, in which a dervish from Herat berates God for allowing a ruler to clothe his own servants more richly than God clothes his faithful servants: ‘God gave the waist and the waist is better than the belt; if anyone has given you a crown, He has given the head.’ Then comes a disembodied voice announcing the beggar’s liberation to the next life, prompting Akhi Chuban to ‘gird his own soul’ for mortality by seeing to the beggar’s obsequies. He then serves as a pall-bearer after paying for all the expenses of a suitable funeral.32 The Turkish text does not locate the scene in Aksaray, leaves out the section that draws on imagery from the Mathnawi, and completes the story on the following page. Although the scene occurs in Aflaki well into his chapter on Rumi, it is the subject of only the second image in Revan. Along with the principals­– R ­ umi, the beggar and Akhi Chuban (perhaps the man in red at lower left conversing animatedly with a dervish, although a man on the right is also a possibility) – the artist includes a group of four Mawlawis on the left with another at lower right, as well as a man reading from a book in an upper left window, a coy female onlooker above-centre and half a face peeking over the parapet. Another item of interest not mentioned in Aflaki’s text is a small boy who is clearly attached to the beggar and assisting as the poor man’s eyes. Marvels of transformation: healing, restoring life, change of heart and conversion Chapter Five’s initial cluster of three images depicted variously a marvel in which the forcefulness of Baha Walad’s preaching temporarily raises the dead from their graves in Konya’s main ­ cemetery. In that instance, the marvel occurs less as a specifically intended effect than as a by-product that highlights the principal

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Figure 6.16  Rumi gives his belt to a blind beggar in Aksaray. Presidency of the Republic of Turkey, the Directorate of National Palaces. TSMK. Revan 1479, fol. 35a.

figure’s eloquence. The following five images illustrate stories of more pointed intent in dealing with illness, death or unbelief. Three pictures illustrate stories that focus on episodes of healing. The first depicts a healing that Rumi effects directly; the second comes about as a result of Mawlana’s intercession from a great distance at the

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request of a disciple who functions as an intermediary. In the third, Rumi resurrects an important member of the dervish community temporarily. Grandson Arif’s powers of spiritual/psychic healing and a religious conversion are the topics of the final two images. Sultan Walad narrates the story (Fig. 6.17): When Rumi’s grandson Arif was eight months old a tumour suddenly appeared on his throat and he stopped nursing for a week. As the child’s evident suffering becomes a cause for serious concern, Sultan Walad takes his infant son to the roof where Rumi paces while in a trance. Sultan Walad’s consternation prompts Rumi to call for a pen and inkwell. The two lines of Turkish text pick up with Rumi inscribing seven lines on Arif’s throat vertically and seven horizontally, and ends with Mawlana writing the Arabic proverb ‘A knowledgeable individual needs only a hint’ in order to infer the outcome. The tumour immediately ruptures and, though some assumed the numerical symbolism meant the boy would live until his seventh birthday, Arif would in fact see his forty-ninth, as presaged by the seven times seven lines. Here the artist suggests a credible enough rooftop setting, with intertwining cypresses and flowering trees in the background. Sultan Walad stands just to the right of Rumi, while fifteen disciples gather around to observe the event and four more look down from a rooftop pavilion. The infant’s mother is nowhere in sight. This image employs a common compositional technique with a threesided border on the left opening on the right to accommodate a larger crowd that has gathered to witness the event. The wall behind Sultan Walad seems to be the lower segment of a small elevated room a storey above the main roof level and, in a garden behind Rumi, a cypress and a blooming bush intertwine.33 In our next episode, Aflaki recounts how a young merchant disciple of Rumi disregards the shaykh’s advice not to travel to Egypt (Fig. 6.18). Sailing from Antakya in Syria, he arrives in Frankish territory where Crusaders board the ship and capture the youth. Languishing in a dungeon for forty days, the merchant bitterly regrets disregarding Rumi’s warning. Soon Mawlana appears to him in a dream, instructing him enigmatically enough to answer ‘Yes, I do’ to any questions posed by his interrogators. The next day, his captors ask whether he knows how to heal illness. When he replies in the affirmative, his captors unchain him forthwith, bathe and clothe him, and take him to the king. ‘Divine inspiration’ leads the merchant to ask for seven kinds of fruit, which he then feeds to the king while thrice invoking Mawlana’s name. After several iterations of this ritual, his majesty is cured, and the Franks henceforth celebrate the youth as a wonderworking physician. In gratitude, the king grants the man a wish for whatever he desires: he wants only to return home to be with his shaykh. Seeing his commitment, all of the king’s Frankish subjects profess their allegiance to Rumi. After returning to Konya, the young man vows to stay put thenceforth.

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Figure 6.17  Rumi miraculously heals a tumour on baby Arif’s neck. Presidency of the Republic of Turkey, the Directorate of National Palaces. TSMK. Revan 1479, fol. 24b.

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Figure 6.18  Rumi’s intercessory healing of Frankish king at a distance. The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911. 58a.

The Turkish text sums up the ‘doctor’s’ formulating the medicament: ‘He mixed it and remembering the name of the Sultan of the Poor [Mawlana], and keeping good faith in him, had the King eat it. At that hour, the King was cured. The King then said “Ask whatever

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you wish for and I will fulfill it”.’ The young man replied that he would like to go to his homeland, and then recounted the dream that he had after being captured. In the painting the artist has taken care to distinguish the merchant’s garb from that of the other figures who wear Frankish clothing and caps. Barbara Schmitz observes that next to the red-haired and bearded man to the left of the ‘physician’ is a man ‘wearing a black head cover that extends to his shoulders, similar to the one worn beneath the crown of the monarch’. As the ailing Frankish king takes the cup offered by the ‘physician’ a woman (perhaps a wife of the king) peers out discreetly from a curtained doorway at the rear. Assorted medicaments rest on the floor in the foreground.34 The king’s half-reclining posture on a chaise longue is very similar to that of Rumi in his final meeting with the Mawlawi community (Fig. 4.24) as well as to the many comparable scenes of end-of-life themes suggested in that context. The dominant compositional device is a three-sided frame that opens to the left, integrating interior and exterior spaces, including a small domed side alcove on the left. At upper left, just right of the blue-tiled dome, a hunter aims his bow and arrow at a bird in the tree above him. The double reed flute called the ney became an essential musical accompaniment for Mawlawi ritual early on. When Óamza, the order’s pre-eminent flute player, died suddenly, Rumi asked to be informed when the preparation and shrouding were complete (Fig. 6.19). He then entered the room, raised the head of the corpse and miraculously restored him to life, saying, ‘Arise, beloved friend Hamza!’ ‘At your service,’ Hamza replies, then picks up his flute and plays for a three day sama`. As many as 100 unbelievers (Greeks?) convert upon witnessing the marvel. But the moment Rumi leaves the house Hamza resumes his transition to the unseen world. The artist illustrates Aflaki’s very brief anecdote by filling in with numerous crowd details not mentioned in the text. Most prominent are the twelve or so Mawlawis in their signature headgear­– ­two carrying religious banners (suggesting an imminent funeral procession), two with Qur’an boxes on their heads in a gesture of mourning and one whose sikke sits on the floor as he grieves. Another six figures represent ethnic and religious diversity as evidenced by skin tones and costume.35 Set in Sivas, the scene shown in Fig. 6.20 involves a combination of a medical ailment that resulted in such anxiety for Akhi Muhammad that Arif detected it clairvoyantly and healed it­– ­not through direct intervention as in other miracle accounts but by suggesting a change in Akhi’s own state of mind and behaviour. Aflaki introduces Akhi Muhammad as one of the ‘free men’ of Sivas, a veritable treasure house of wit and subtlety, who was among Arif Chalabi’s most eminent disciples in that city. Whenever Arif visited there, Akhi would arrange for a sama` with leading citizens. On one visit, Arif

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Figure 6.19  Rumi raises flutist Hamza temporarily. The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911. 29a.

learned that Akhi was afflicted with an embarrassing ailment that Aflaki calls bluntly ‘incontinence of the bladder’. Akhi’s anxiety had increased to the point of making him decline to participate actively in the sama` rituals he had arranged. On this occasion, however,

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Figure 6.20  Arif Chalabi heals Akhi Muhammad ‘the Madman’ in Sivas. Presidency of the Republic of Turkey, the Directorate of National Palaces. TSMK. Revan 1479, fol. 261a.

Arif notices Akhi standing aside and pulls him into make him feel included. As they spin, Akhi confesses and Arif reassures him that if he simply gives himself his ailment would no longer be a hindrance, and so

the circle to his reticence to the ritual, it happened.

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Aflaki ends his account with Akhi Muhammad praising Arif’s fixing a problem that no doctor could address.36 Departing noticeably from Aflaki, the picture and its Turkish text capture the denouement of the interaction (the story ends within the first few lines of the next folio), and implicitly soft-pedal and render generic Aflaki’s forthright diagnosis of the malady. In a significant revision of Aflaki, the Turkish text emphasises Arif’s foreknowledge of the problem and suggests that, rather than simply becoming aware of it during sama`, he knew of it in advance: He [Arif] came to see if he could heal the sickness and as he considered that, Chalabi became aware of [Akhi Muhammad’s] thoughts and commanded him, ‘Empty your heart and busy yourself with sama` so that you will be saved from sickness.’ This consoled him and Akhi Mu˙ammad immediately fell weeping and completely freed from that malady. Here the painter sets the scene indoors, the typical setting for sama`, with Arif Chalabi seated amid the whirlers, his turban-wrapped sikke indicating his leadership position. Akhi Muhammad, the lone non-Mawlawi on the floor, acknowledges the great blessing of Arif’s unorthodox ministrations while the ritual goes on around them. Since Akhi Muhammad ‘the Madman’ (along with various others among the Akhis) plays a surprisingly large role in Arif Chalabi’s function as a kind of Mawlawi ambassador to greater Anatolia, a bit of background on Arif’s connections to Sivas will provide useful context here. Occurring a few pages earlier in Aflaki, the episode suggests yet another preternatural skill of this grandson of Rumi. On one of his visits to Sivas, after leaving a sama` hosted by another prominent citizen there, Arif passes a crowd gathered around a man behaving very oddly and shouting in Armenian. Unkempt and disorientated, the man is coated with soot from a hammam furnace (a feature included in descriptions of other marginal characters, as in Fig. 5.18). After eating from bowls of food the onlookers have offered, he would throw the rest to the crowd. When Arif asks who this might be, a disciple of the disturbed man claims that he is the Master (Khwaja) of Erzurum and the qutb whose access to arcane knowledge has attracted followers. Aflaki cautions, however, that such ‘revelations’ are available even to the devil and frequently bamboozle the gullible and undiscerning. He cites the principle that only a Friend of God can recognise a Friend and only one Axis can identify another. Everyone else is susceptible to false teaching and the kind of ‘external’ miracles that even Satan can perform. Because Arif is by definition of exalted lineage he immediately detects a false claim to spiritual authority. He dismounts from his horse and wades into the throng in spite of threats to his safety, insisting that the demented man in their midst disperse the gather-

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ing. Arif slaps the man three times and orders him to dismiss his followers, further riling up the thugs among them who have come from as far as Konya and Kaysari. Abetting the riotous throng, the governor of Sivas, himself a devotee of Arif, is nonetheless bent on killing miscreants forthwith. Cooler heads prevail when a leader of one of the Akhi groups and lukewarm devotee of Arif, Akhi Muhammad ‘the Madman’, steps in to acclaim Arif as the prince of humankind and the true Axis. He explains to all present that though the local people have considered the obviously disorientated ‘Shaykh of Erzurum’ one of the abdal, Arif has arrived to set them straight. Akhi Muhammad ‘the Madman’, a fallen-away disciple, then renews his commitment to Arif. Arif then leaves town, but when he hears seven days later that the ‘Shaykh of Erzurum’ has died he returns to Sivas for a hero’s welcome. When Arif returns to Konya, his father, Sultan Walad, asks him to show the hand with which he had smacked the charlatan so that he can kiss it. Walad proclaims that even without miraculous powers Arif’s merely striking the impostor would have been sufficient to rid Sivas of that spiritual tyrant.37 Conversion stories abound in Aflaki and several episodes discussed in Chapters Four and Five include such transformations in characters from various walks of life and, in some instances, they become devotees of Rumi or of his successor-shaykhs. Aflaki includes numerous scenes of Rumi and his disciples interacting with Christians as well as other frequent references to Christianity. Although Aflaki reflects a generally critical attitude to what he regards as hypocrisy or weak faith, he also makes more positive statements. Küçükhüseyin suggests that an appropriate interpretation of Aflaki’s faint praise is that it amounts to ‘something like “even a Christian is more sincere in his faith than such a [half-hearted] Muslim.” Alternatively, Christians are thematised in the context of conversion successes by the Mawlawi masters.’ Küçükhüseyin also notes that whether the episodes in which Rumi meets Christians are historically factual is secondary to how they ‘indicate that the determining factor for the Mawlawiyya was not an individual’s social status or ethnic or religious origin but rather his attitude towards the community and its leaders.’38 Among the most intriguing episodes is a scene in which an erudite priest (keshish, or rahib in Aflaki’s Persian) travelled from Constantinople just to see Rumi, whose reputation for ‘learning, gentleness and humility’ attracted him (Fig. 6.21). As this ‘sincere monk’ entered Konya, the monks of the city welcomed him. Shortly thereafter, the monk just happened to encounter Mawlana, and, informed by his companions that he was now meeting ‘the Sultan’, immediately bowed to the ground three times in reverence. Although the Ottoman text does not mention this, Aflaki observes that, lest he be outdone, Rumi continued to do the same until he had prostrated

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Figure 6.21  Rumi meets a visiting priest from Constantinople. Presidency of the Republic of Turkey, the Directorate of National Palaces. TSMK. Revan 1479, fol. 54b.

himself thirty-three times. The monk was so stunned at Rumi’s behaviour that he cried and rent his garments, thinking himself unworthy. In reply, Rumi cited a hadith in which Muhammad blessed all who have surrendered wealth, beauty, praise and power,

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and behaved generously, chastely, humbly and justly. Had he not shown such respect, Rumi added, he would prove himself unworthy. Needless to say, the monk and his retinue converted and became followers of Mawlana. Rumi later boasted to Sultan Walad and disciples that he had outdone the Christian in humility and ‘prevailed in paltriness and self-abasement’, noting that such values are the patrimony of Muhammad.39 Relevant Turkish text begins on the page before the picture: There was a priest in Constantinople. In all the lands of Rum and the Franks, all of the priests gave their allegiance to him. He heard the echo of humility and dervish-hood of Mawlana and came to the city of Konya in hopes of seeking him. The priests of the city went to meet him [the renowned visitor]. While they were bringing him into the city with respect and honour, they chanced to encounter Mawlana. Those who were with [the priest] informed him, ‘The one coming towards us is the revered Mawlana, the Sultan [of religious figures].’ Since the priest had come only to see him [54b], when he met [Rumi], the priest showed him great respect, and Mawlana returned the favour. In short, during their meeting, the priest put his head to the ground thirty times. An unusual feature of the image is that, although it shows Rumi and the visiting monk meeting each other as they lead their respective retinues, it does not depict prostration by either of the main figures. Instead Rumi inclines just slightly forward while the monk doffs his black headgear, the same cap as worn by five of those behind him­– ­a gesture that Ottoman iconography displays as European etiquette for a show of respect. Another telling aspect of the composition is that, in spite of a nod to architectural place at the very top of the frame, the setting is clearly not meant to suggest a convincingly urban context. The vast majority of the image situates the central action in an attractive natural habitat but, as the architectural topframing suggests, the meeting occurs on the outskirts of Konya. Eight assorted townsfolk peer over the parapet of the city gates. A second revealing feature is the extraordinarily large number of Mawlawis (at least fourteen) standing behind Rumi, along with four additional figures at lower left and centre, one gesturing upwards at the curious looking Christians. What might account for these surprising apparent departures from this specific text? It is entirely possible that the artist may have been taking into additional consideration details from a cluster of two similarly themed narratives occurring earlier in Aflaki’s chapter dedicated to Mawlana. In one, Rumi and disciples travel from a mosque in Maram, a ‘suburb’ of Konya, as they return to the city. An elderly monk bows his head in respect, and Rumi engages him with the enigmatic question ‘Is your beard older than you? Or is it the other way around?’

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The beard was twenty years younger, the monk replied. How sad, Rumi observed, that your beard has overtaken you in maturity (i.e. in whiteness), while you remain in ruinous blackness (i.e. false faith). The monk immediately acknowledged the error of his ways and converted. Following up the theme of Christian ‘blackness’, the very next story describes how a group of black-clad people (‘and priests’) heading for Konya came across Rumi and disciples. Rumi’s entourage immediately began to comment acerbically about how dreary and homely these people were. Rumi countered their petty gossip by assuring his flock that these were the most generous of creatures, for in their misguided beliefs they have left for Muslims everything promised to believers both in this life and the next: ritual purity and the full range of opportunities to worship God here, and all the delights of Paradise­– ­including the vision of God. Rumi did, nevertheless, allow that there was still a chance for the Christians: the sun of uprightness might still brighten their otherwise impenetrable gloom. As the Christians approached, they paid homage to Mawlana and, in the ensuing conversation, they converted, to the delight of the Mawlawis. Rumi summed up the situation: God hides blackness within whiteness and makes room for light even in the midst of darkness.40 The details of the image­– ­simple gestures of respectful greeting on both sides, black Christian headgear and a predominantly ex-urban setting, accord credibly with the overall modality of the narrative image, as do the incidental figures observing from the rich natural scene below. Book-end miracles: Rumi and the two battles of Konya Among the many intriguing features of our manuscripts, one provides a fitting closure to this consideration of the combined set of scenes illustrated. Two battle scenes­– ­the only examples of that genre here­– ­depict episodes that suggest symbolic endings to the ‘two epochs’ described in Chapter One. Aflaki himself provides a narrative of a mid-thirteenth century Mongol attempt to take Konya as an eventual follow-on to their devastating defeat of the last Saljuk sultan at Köse Dagh (1243), a few miles beyond Sivas in eastern Anatolia. At a stroke, Genghis Khan’s descendants had reduced both the Saljuks and Armenia to the status of vassals. The historical record shows that (after being demoted and then put in command again) General Baju definitively trounced Sultan Kaykawus II at Aksaray in 1256 and forced him to seek refuge under Byzantine control. Baju then levelled Konya’s battlements and Kaykawus was given authority again, but as a vassal.41 Revan situates this scene just after the miracle of the lost pilgrim’s rescue and ahead of Rumi’s saving the imperilled ship. According to Aflaki, Mongol General Baju laid siege to Konya with

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an impressive force of equestrian archers. When the terrified citizens rushed to secure Rumi’s help, the shaykh calmly exited a city gate to the top of a hill where he prayed. At the base of that hill Baju’s troops had massed. But when Baju ordered them to fire, they were unable to draw a bow and his mounted troops found that their horses were frozen in place. An incredulous Baju emerged from his tent and fired an arrow at Rumi. It reversed itself in mid-flight, landing harmlessly among the Mongols. When Baju realised that he could not lift a foot to attack Rumi, he confessed he had met his match. For his part, Rumi announced that Baju was actually a Friend of God but was unaware of the purpose for which God was now using him. Konya’s notables gathered riches and offered them to Baju, who accepted, but still insisted that the city’s fortifications be demolished. Rumi explained that there was no need to fear, for even without battlements, God assured the safety of Konya by other means. Rumi then declared Konya ‘City of God’s Friends’, by whose virtuous presence the city would be invulnerable in perpetuity.42 Although Aflaki does admit that Baju managed to raze the city’s defences he has clearly put his stamp on his retelling of the event, insisting that Rumi’s protection made fortifications redundant in any case and according Baju the exalted status of Friend­– r­anking him in effect right along with Rumi. This may be the most remarkable and unexpected illustration of the hadith that ‘God has Friends known only to God’ anywhere in Aflaki’s work. The illustration (Fig. 6.22) departs considerably from the topographical details supplied by Aflaki and shows Rumi­– n ­ ot Baju­– i­n a small tent, praying, not at the top of a hill but at its base. The Turkish text further diverges from Aflaki, indicating that the people of Konya ‘pitched his [Rumi’s] tent next to a house’ (not pictured). A lone Mawlawi stands inexplicably behind Rumi in the tent. Only one military weapon is visible: Baju has just fired an arrow with his bow, but the thin white object on the ground in front of him suggests that his arrow (drawn from a quiver full of similar white shafts) has fallen short of its intended target. Oddly enough, a cadre of Mawlawis shares his surprise as they observe from behind a sizeable natural barrier. Looking down from what appears to be a suggestion of the town gate from which Rumi had exited Konya for his confrontation are six onlookers, including one woman. At the diagonally opposed lower corner a pair of armed hunters who have just stumbled upon the scene express their puzzlement with body language that asks, ‘What’s all this, then?’ But who might be the elegant, if slightly befuddled, equestrian looking on from beyond the boulder-line? His plumed and escutcheoned helmet indicating higher rank suggests that he is Batu, grandson of Hulegu and leader of the Golden Horde of Central Asia’s Mongols. Batu is mentioned in one of Rumi’s poems quoted by Aflaki (who calls it a qasida) at the very end of his much fuller account of

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Figure 6.22  Rumi (still living) wards off a Mongol siege of Konya. Presidency of the Republic of Turkey, the Directorate of National Palaces. TSMK. Revan 1479, fol. 95b.

the battle scene. In that poem, Rumi insists he ‘knows nothing’ of Baju and Batu, nor of Hulegu (destroyer of Baghdad in 1258 and grandson of Genghis Khan).43 Aflaki’s account of the city’s surrender includes a further interesting point of orientation and symbolism.

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He notes that the place in which Konya’s leadership gathered to surrender their wealth to Baju in tribute was the ‘plain of Filubad’, the site adjacent to the sepulchral shrine where a Saljuk courtier had once disrupted Rumi’s visitation to his father’s resting place (see Fig. 5.13). Baju expresses his curiosity as to the identity of the important person memorialised there and is then informed of Baha Walad’s prominence and provenance.44 The Turkish summary of Aflaki’s account begins on 95a, continuing after the image (95b) and ending in mid-96b by citing the first distich of a poem by Rumi, about how ‘lion-like men’ arise in response to pleas for aid from oppressed people. Then, in the nonchronological order so strikingly evident in both Morgan and Revan, the translation begins the story of Rumi’s midnight departure from the Aleppo madrasa (a scene illustrated in Morgan, Fig. 5.10), an event that Aflaki dates to more than ten years prior to this siege of Konya.45 Our second battle scene (Fig. 6.23) occurred nearly three centuries after the death of Rumi and the entire illustrated text was added by the Turkish translator to commemorate the victory of Sultan Sulayman I’s son Salim II over his own brother Bayazid. From the perspective of the Ottoman royal family, Rumi played an essential role in bringing about a miraculous outcome for Sulayman’s favoured son. The text on the image leaves little to the imagination as to the reason why the designers of the manuscript included the image: it addresses none other than Murad III (though not by name), son of Salim II and the patron of this set of visual hagiographies. It begins with a Qur’anic citation, ‘He [God] taught humankind what they knew not’ (96: 5), and continues extolling Murad III as the ‘Pole of the Poles (qutb-i aqtab) of both the Seen and Unseen Worlds [a title fit for one believed to be ‘Renewer of the Age’], who is the devotee and assistant on the path of Mawlana, the one who holds the crown and subdues the nations.’ It acknowledges that his late father, Salim II, has received God’s blessing and forgiveness and won the title ‘protector of the religion’ and, thanks to the ocean of God’s grace, was able to vanquish his brother Bayazid who had disobediently sought to grab Konya for himself. The image is composed of three spaces: the upper third depicting Mawlawis and several others in and around the mausoleum, with Rumi’s cenotaph draped in blue and topped by his headgear.46 Making no attempt to represent the conical cupola over the actual burial place, the painter opts for the more common onion dome featured in Iranian architecture (and paintings thereof). Below, in the left third of the active battle space, the overmatched and panicked troops of Bayazid try to make a run for it, finding their escape hampered by a storm of caustic salt-clouds emanating from the dome of the mausoleum. The right two-thirds of the battle space show a confident Salim calmly accompanying his disciplined, orderly troops,

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Figure 6.23  Rumi (posthumously) assists Salim II at the Ottoman Battle of Konya. The Morgan Library & Museum. MS M466. Purchased by J. Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913) in 1911. 131a.

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who seem entirely assured of their invincibility. Apart from two infantrymen (above and below Salim) who ram fresh loads down the barrels of their muskets, and one or two others, the troops scarcely seem to be engaged in combat. Indeed, as Milstein suggests, the invaders include courtly administrators along with military commanders and Janissaries­– ­more akin to a victory parade than an assault. After a sound trouncing Bayazid went into self-imposed exile in Safawid Persia, only to meet death at the strangling hands of Salim’s (r. 1566–74) paid assassins in 1561. Useful comparisons in this context might pair the Morgan image with ‘The entry of Prince Haydar Mirza’ from the Diwan of Baki, where the array of conquering troops recalls that of Salim’s cavalry marching leftwards with the city wall as backdrop.47 Another, from the Garden of the Felicitous, features Alid forces confronting those of Umayyad Ubaydallah ibn Ziyad before the wall and gate of a city.48 Chapter Seven: Conclusion will now suggest an approach to the larger questions of hermeneutics, purpose and the seemingly privileged relationship of Rumi’s Community to generations of Ottoman Sultans. Notes   1. Kuru, ‘Portrait of a Shaykh as Author in Fourteenth-Century Anatolia: Gül∞ehri and His Falaknåma’, in Islamic Literature and Intellectual Life in Fourteenth- and Fifteenth-Century Anatolia, pp. 175–7.  2. Yılmaz, Caliphate Redefined: The Mystical Turn in Ottoman Political Thought, p.114.   3. See further Chittick, ‘The Perfect Man as the Prototype of the Self in the Sufism of Jami’, Studia Islamica 49.   4. MA 285 [355].   5. MA 3 [2].   6. SMC 87.   7. Revan 246b; MA 561 [18]   8. O Nova 94, 134a; MA 482–4 [105].   9. RPP adds further background: A Friend of God could be considered a qutb or Perfect Person ‘depending upon the spiritual station attained and the particular school to which he belonged’ and on his perceived authority (26); Sultan Walad considered his grandfather a qutb, and both Rumi and Shams also merited the title (see: 61, 106, 408–10). 10. M 63b; MA 417–18 [598]. MDA 10 notes that this ‘follows long tradition of camp scenes in Islamic painting’, but adds the monster and animated dervishes and washer-woman ‘whose model is taken from a different repertoire: dervishes in countryside settings’. 11. Revan 115a. 12. M 107b; MA 121–2 [90]. 13. Revan 171a ; MA 121–2 [90] 14. Qur’an 18: 8–16, Surat al-Kahf (Sura of the Cave) recounts a story about figures often associated with the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus, who had been sealed into the cave by the Roman emperor: when the sleepers awoke after several generations their faithful Qitmir had evolved

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s­piritually merely by associating with persons of virtue. Milstein observes that Rumi often mentions dogs also as belonging to Majnun, unrequited lover of Layla, as well as in one story about Jesus and a dead dog­– ­an episode illustrated several times elsewhere in compositions similar to this image. She notes also Rumi’s use of metaphors of discovering hidden truths with loving heart and eyes (MDA 10). 15. RPP 87 and 59. 16. See also Tlili, ‘The Canine Companion of the Cave: The Place of the Dog in Qur’ånic Taxonomy’, Journal of Islamic and Muslim Studies and Grysa, ‘The Legend of the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus in Syriac and Arab Sources­– ­a Comparative Study’, Orientalia Christiana Cracoviensia. 17. MA 639–40 [60] and 658–9 [82–3]. 18. Lewisohn further elaborates on the primary connection of tasting with sama` in ‘The Sacred music of Islam: Sama` in the Persian Sufi tradition’, British Journal of Ethnomusicology 6, pp. 10–11, 17, concluding with a lyric of Rumi on the subject pp. 28–9. 19. M 66b; MA 112 [77]. 20. MA 698–9 [3]. 21. See also Jalali, ‘Children Characters in Rumi’s Masnavi’, in International Journal of Human Sciences. 22. See Renard, Flight of the Royal Falcons: Rumi on Prophets and Revelation. 23. O Nova 94 167b; MA 589–91 [19]. 24. MA 591–3 [20]. 25. Revan 101b; MA 326–7 [448]; variant retelling MA 664–5 [89]. 26. Erkmen, ‘The Visualization of Shaykh Safi al-Din Ishaq Ardabili: A unique illustrated copy of the Safvat al-Safa at the Aga Khan Museum’, in Iranian Studies 50:1, pp. 62–3. Here are two ship stories, one with the shaykh in the boat and other with him being summoned as in the Aflaki story. 27. O Nova 94 141a; MA 522–4 [8]­– ­further context supplied at MA 521–2 [6]. 28. M 31, Boston MFA, Acc. No. 07.692, dispersed leaf; MA 118–19 [86]. This image, now in the collection of Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts, may have once been part of the Morgan manuscript of Tarjuma-i Thawåqib-i manåqib, although no others have rectangular frames. 29. Revan 84b; MA 127 [96]. 30. M 170b; MA 599 [26]. 31. Revan 88a; MA 183–4 [174]. 32. Revan 35a; MA 384 [543]. 33. Revan 238a; MA 584–5 [14]. 34. M 58a; MA 92–4 [48]; SMC 87. 35. M 131a; MA 161 [145] is followed by three anecdotes concerning the deaths of two other dervishes and the ailment of another whom Rumi healed: the first was merely an anonymous dervish who died very suddenly, leading Rumi to wish he’d been informed closer to the moment of death so that he could have prolonged his life­– ­MA 161 [146]; one concerning an unnamed gifted Mathnawi-reciter who also played percussion and whose hunched back Mawlana straightened so that even the man’s wife did not recognise him­– ­MA 161 [147]; and a similarly anonymous ney player who died but was not resuscitated and whose death ‘in ecstatic intoxication’ Rumi pronounced a blessing much to be preferred to dying after returning to ‘sobriety’­– ­MA 162

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[148]. Millstein observes that the scene of Hamza’s temporary resurrection, although unlike the resuscitation of Lazarus, recalls death scenes of Buddha (in universal histories) and Siyavush and Iskandar (in Shahnama) (MDA 8). 36. MA 603–4 [29]. 37. Revan 261a; MA 595–8 [23–4]; MA 466 [74] mention that a mutakallim (theologian) named Asad ad-Din was the shaykh and teacher of Akhi Muhammad ‘the Madman’. Ay refers to this episode, including Sultan Walad’s praise of Arif’s resorting to physical violence, as more evidence of inter-sectarian conflict, in ‘Sufi Shaykhs and Society in Thirteenth and Fifteenth Century Anatolia: Spiritual Influence and Rivalry,’ Journal of Islamic Studies, p. 17. Arjomand, in ‘Unity of the Persianate World under Turko-Mongolian Domination and Divergent Development of Imperial Autocracies in the Sixteenth Century’, Journal of Persianate Studies, adds detail to the picture, noting that Sultan Walad had ties ‘not only with the Akhis of his own city but also with the chief Akhi of Sivas, Akhi Mohammad’ the Madman, suggesting that Mawlawi connections with this nettlesome character preceded this event by some years. 38. Küçükhüseyin, ‘Some Reflections on Hagiology’, Al-Masaq, pp. 248–9. For the image of Christians and Christianity in Rumi’s works, see Ridgeon, ‘Christianity Portrayed by Jalal al-Dın Rumı’, in Islamic Interpretations of Christianity and Renard, Flight of the Royal Falcons, pp. 87–96. 39. MA 249–50 [295]. Further see MA 418–19 [600] for monks and rabbis seeking Rumi in his madrasa and Rumi’s extensive response. 40. MA 97–8 [53–4]. 41. On Baju (or Bayju), see Jackson, ‘Bayju’, in Encyclopedia Iranica and Dashdondog, ‘Mongol Noyans in Greater Armenia (1220–1345)’, Chapter Two in his The Mongols and the Armenians (1220–1335), especially on Baiju, pp. 60–6. On Batu (or Baydu), see Spuler, ‘Baydu’, in Encyclopedia Iranica. 42. MA 179–82 [169–72]; Aflaki later reprises the main details of this scene in his chapter on Salah ad-Din, to whose leadership Rumi commends the community, MA 503 [24]. 43. MA 182 [172]. 44. MA 180 [170]. 45. Aflaki records another intriguing narrative concerning another Mongol siege of Konya in which Rumi’s intervention mitigated the effects of the assault. In the final report of his chapter on Rumi Aflaki recounts a reminiscence of Akhi Ahmad Shah, a leader of the chief futuwwa group in Konya: some twenty years after Rumi’s death, the Ilkhanid ruler Kayghatu (r. 1291–5) encircled Konya with 50,000 troops intent on pillaging the city. The khan dreamed that someone throttled him mercilessly, announcing that Konya belonged to its people (and dervishes). A distraught Kayghatu begged to be allowed entry to bathe, recover from his trauma and have his dream interpreted. Akhi Ahmad informed Sultan Walad about the request, and when the khan presented himself, the city’s leaders offered gifts. Akhi Ahmad then confronted Kayghatu alone. When the khan asked Akhi the identity of the greyhaired man with the ‘smoke-coloured’ turban (a description used in the text on the present image as well) staring menacingly at him from behind Ahmad, Akhi informed the ruler that he was being blessed with

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an apparition of Rumi. Kayghatu revealed that it was Rumi who had assaulted him in his dream the previous night and promised not to harm Konya. After Akhi explained Rumi’s lofty spiritual authority and took the khan to visit Sultan Walad, Kayghatu became a disciple and Rumi’s son invested the Mongol with a Mawlawi sikke. When they all visited Rumi’s sepulchral shrine, Sultan Walad uttered a quatrain: the khan was not in control of anything and must admit his limitations. Weeping tears of joy, Kayghatu departed in peace. Yet another example of a ‘transformative’ miracle that even the most implacable foe could not resist. MA 419–21[601]. 46. On which see, for example, Moin, ‘The Politics of Saint Shrines in the Persianate Empires’, in The Persianate World: Rethinking a Shared Sphere, online pp. 105–24. Early medieval (tenth to thirteenth centuries) shrine cults of Muslim Friends of God multiplied across Islamdom thanks to increasing princely patronage and active participation. It was, however, ‘only after the Mongol-dominated thirteenth century that enshrined saints transformed into an iconic source of sovereignty, replacing in an important sense the sacred body of the caliph’. Moin argues that these shrines ‘serve as markers of a new style of religion and politics’, although he focuses more on Central Asian contexts. See also Yürekli, ‘Ibn al-‘Arabi and Rumi in the Twists and Turns of Ottoman Religio-Politics’, in Sacred Spaces and Urban Networks. 47. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. 45.174.5, dispersed leaf. 48. ÓadÈ˚atü’s Sü`edå, Brooklyn Museum of Art, Brooklyn, 70.143, fol. 324a.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Conclusion: Little Images in the Big Picture

Close study of these treasures of religious and cultural import raises many intriguing questions, a number of which I have sought to answer in Parts One and Two. Here I suggest how information available both within our three manuscripts and from the historical context in which their patrons and artists produced them provides clues to three increasingly broad questions­– ­progressing from our three manuscripts, to the milieu that produced them, and concluding with possible links beyond the Ottoman world. First, what evidence do the texts and images themselves offer in support of an argument that religious/spiritual authority is the key to understanding these manuscripts? Second, a two-sided question asks what historical data can help explain 1) why, given the variety of Sufi organisations in Anatolia, Ottoman patronage of major illustrated hagiographic works was limited to works on Rumi and the Mawlawis; and 2) why, given the spread of the Mawlawis well beyond Anatolia, manuscripts and images dedicated entirely to Rumi and his Mawlawi progeny apparently resulted exclusively from Ottoman patronage? And finally, what broader connections emerge when one envisions our subject within the wider world of late medieval Islamicate cultural settings? Documentary evidence: literary and visual data Together our three manuscripts comprise what is arguably the most complete and integral visualised hagiographic record of a major Sufi, his spiritual descendants and his links to the larger (Sunni) Muslim ambience. We have numerous literary life stories of major Sufi exemplars, as well as their sometimes extensive literary legacies. Some instances of the latter (including Rumi’s Mathnawi) have been produced with illustrations of their pedagogical narratives, but these images virtually never feature the author or his disciples explicitly. Rumi and his celebrated Mawlawi offspring make occasional guest

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appearances in illustrated hagiographical anthologies, such as Jami’s much beloved Warm Breaths of Intimacy­– ­most notably as in a sixteenth-century Ottoman and a seventeenth-century Mughal manuscript (both in the Chester Beatty Library). As Chapter Two noted, such works boast often spectacular images of a broad spectrum of Sufi luminaries, spreading the glory around generously. Religious/spiritual intent and the role of affectivity In Chapters Four, Five and Six I have argued that three overarching and intertwined themes were dominant concerns in Aflaki’s hagiography and given visual expression in our three illustrated manuscripts: Virtuous Community in a Muslim Society under Divine Providence. But at a still deeper level runs another continuous unifying dynamic that pervades these documents: the insistent conviction that the central work of Rumi and his descendants is the spiritual transformation of all who encounter them. As teachers the Mawlawiyya inspire seekers to heightened awareness of their true destiny through authentic wisdom and self-knowledge. Though, unsurprisingly, not everyone they encounter accepts their challenge immediately, experiences of conversion mark the endings of the vast majority of Aflaki’s accounts. These metamorphoses run a wide gamut, from merely acknowledging the exalted status of the protagonists, to confessing Islam after a lifetime of religious nonchalance or adherence to another creed, to a commitment of material support of the Community, to active discipleship as members of the Mawlawiyya. At the heart of this irresistible dynamic is a type of charismatic authority, which is, in turn, founded on the epistemic authority born of intimate experiential knowledge of God mediated by the Family Rumi and their faithful heirs to the Mawlawi tradition. I suggest that a major function of these three manuscripts is precisely the promotion of the Mawlawiyya as a wellspring of religious authority described as consistent with obedience to divinely legitimated political authority. Aflaki entitled his hagiography manaqib al-arifin, ‘Wondrous Feats of the Knowers of God’, providing a clear indication of his primary subject. The most persuasive evidence among our manuscript illustrations is the preponderance of episodes featuring Rumi and his descendants as paragons of a blend of personal virtue, engagement with the wider civic and social community and access to wondrous powers. As heirs of the prophets, these Friends of God also model obedience to a divine mission of teaching by example. Their charismatic and epistemic authority is particularly evident in the single largest thematic cluster of scenes illustrated: miraculous deeds that are the prerogative of Friends of God. In at least three illustrations the central theme is the implicit claim to actual prophetic sanction: one likening Rumi’s spiritual authority to that of Adam’s son

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Seth; one depicting Khidr attending a sermon of Rumi and praising him as equal to the prophets (Moses in particular) in veracity and insight; and one in which Rumi’s mentor Husam ad-Din dreams that Muhammad himself read from the Spiritual Couplets and praised it as authoritative. Getting down to the concrete details of how our manuscripts communicate these values is no small challenge. In her pioneering early work on Morgan 466 Rachel Milstein discerned five key ‘religious messages’ represented in varying ‘levels of meaning’ beyond that of ‘visual translation of the literary anecdote’ (i.e. the ‘literal’). Here I summarise her suggestions and take them a step further in light of additional input from Revan 1479 and O Nova 94. First, Rumi’s status as Friend of God ranks him at the top of the exemplary hierarchy. Because Friends of God are the heirs of the prophets, Rumi here takes on even greater importance and heightened authority, which are further amplified by the attribution of ‘Perfect Person’ status. Second, in keeping with Aflaki’s axiomatic observation that the ‘Sultans of the Religious Scholars outrank the Sultans of Armies’, spiritual exemplars inherently outrank worldly rulers and wield superior authority. Beyond that, Aflaki pointedly and persistently emphasises the role of the supra-mundane ranks of abdal and qutb in maintaining cosmic order, lending still greater hierarchical heft to Rumi and his successors. Our artists specifically illustrate the involvement of these supra-mundane figures in several paintings, including all three manuscripts. Third, Islam and Sufism represent authentic spiritual values; and in support of that, Aflaki and our artists highlight the typically simultaneous relationship of conversion and transition to active ‘discipleship’ under Rumi and his successors. Fourth, the power of true discernment alone can penetrate beneath the superficial appearances of everyday experience. In support of this principle of ‘the science of hearts’, Aflaki and the artists emphasise the critical roles of dream, discernment, vision and marvel in the intricate process of understanding the relationships between the ‘seen’ and ‘unseen’ realms, thus characterising the ‘real’ world of human experience as suffused with spiritual power. Finally, love is the ultimate expression of the charisma of Rumi’s Mawlawi community. Our artists communicate this through the symbolic meanings of attire, gesture, literary allusions and composition evocative of other images, contexts and literary works. To that I would add that Mawlawi spirituality represents the pinnacle of human evolution, as expressed in Rumi’s well-known metaphor of the ever-upward movement of life forms.1 But how does one delve further into such abstract notions as these? Christiane Gruber addresses the elusive question of whether and to what extent Islamic manuscript painting has ‘grappled with the enduring problem of how religious feeling manifests itself in

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pictorial form within an artistic tradition generally described as lacking in developed cycles of religious imagery.’ She acknowledges two predominant scholarly opinions on the matter. One asserts that even manuscripts with abundant clearly ‘religious’ iconography and ‘spiritual elements’ do not necessarily constitute genuinely religious works of art; the other holds that Muslims have indeed produced works in which religious sentiment may mediate an image and thus merit the title ‘religious painting’. Gruber argues for an acknowledgement that the latter approach helps ‘to explore the function of images and their relationship to devotional practices within the religious life of pre-modern Islamic cultures’ and she exemplifies her view in a study of one of the earliest examples of such illustrated works. Gruber identifies as an important function of early Ilkhanid (c. fourteenth–fifteenth century) illustrated manuscripts the ‘promotion of specific forms of religiosity and the official view on a shared cultural history’. In particular, she argues that Ilknanid Sultan Abu Sa`id (r. 1317–35) made extensive use of pictorial arts to restore Sunni values and practices in the wake of the considerable success of his predecessor, Uljaytu (r. 1304–16), in imposing a predominantly Shi`i religious culture across the realm. Gruber analyses one of the earliest manuscripts of the Mi`rajnama (story of Muhammad’s ‘Ascension’) and concludes that it was meant to function as a resolutely Sunni ‘prayer manual’.2 What Rachel Milstein identifies as the cumulative impact of the Morgan manuscript’s visual hermeneutic I believe is applicable to the other two Ottoman works as well. She notes that ‘the miniatures contain several levels of abstraction, the most superficial of which is the narrative content’. She likens their artistic mode of communication to that of Rumi’s poetry ‘in which new and deeper meanings are achieved by the use of tales, fables, and mythological legends’. She contends that the images’ ‘realistic’ depiction of time and locale allows them to enshrine the ‘special atmosphere and life’ of Rumi’s community.3 The effect is that of evoking Rumi’s presence viscerally in the viewer. Gruber and Milstein apparently concur here on the importance of identifying the elusive but critical ‘affective dimension’ as an essential ingredient in verbal-visual hermeneutics just beneath the surface of our three manuscripts. Jamal Elias further elucidates crucial elements of this angle of approach. He regards ‘emotion’ as culturally determined and expressible ‘in spoken or written language, or a bodily enactment of it, or a visual representation’. But he regards emotions communicated via sources such as ours (with specific reference to our Ottoman­ ­visualisations of Aflaki) as ‘prescriptive’ rather than merely ‘descriptive in the sense that emotions are actively evoked, either through teleologically constructed sensory regimes or through reflective or contemplative practices’. Emotions such as wonderment (a key

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element throughout our three manuscripts) are ‘illustrative states of being’ whose communication via texts and images are not intended as ‘ontological descriptions of specific emotions’. Elias analyses several key images, highlighting especially Rumi’s final meeting with followers and his death shortly thereafter (his Figs 1 and 2, Figs 4.24 and 4.25), and the visualisation of attendees’ expressions of grief. He uses Morgan images of a vivacious sama` and Rumi’s encounter with the marketplace dogs (his Figs 3 and 4, Figs 4.19 and 6.8) as examples of ambiguous expressions of feeling less easy to divine than those in the scenes of loss, and therefore less ‘accessible’ across cultural divides. Elias seeks to ‘highlight fundamental problems in treating emotion as an object that derives, in part, from difficulties associated with the study of objects themselves’. He suggests that one should not consider such sources as our manuscripts as biographies or life stories but as ‘itineraries’ thereby letting one see the work not as an object in itself but as an ‘index . . . understood as a sign that points to something else’. Elias cautions that in a ‘forest of indexes’ a ‘system of deductive reasoning’ is not reliable by itself. Instead, he privileges ‘abduction’ (considering possibilities) over ‘translation’ (which presumes specific causes or relationships). Abduction can engender an appreciation of ‘changing human understandings and behaviours’ so that one’s focus is on regarding emotion itself as an artefact and the ‘object’ of study.4 Finally, Gruber sums up her affirmation of the credibility of ­religious/spiritual interpretation, arguing that ‘from the point of view of content, function, and reception’ the 1436 Timurid Mi`rajnama is ‘an illustrated religious work . . . a visualised theme bound Hadith [that] teaches proper religious behavior and . . . memorialises the Prophet Muhammad’s miracles.’5 Following her lead, I suggest that our three manuscripts taken together function as a visualised themebound manual of Sufi adab (pedagogy and proper behaviour) designed to facilitate Sultanic edification and emulation, in which capacity they share features of the genre ‘Mirrors for Princes’.6 From historical context and data: why Ottoman manuscripts only? And why Mawlawi only? Two intriguing historical questions present themselves here: First, given the presence in Anatolia and the Ottoman Empire of many major influential Sufi orders, why did the Ottomans commission illustrated hagiographic texts devoted in their entirety only to Rumi and the Mawlawis? Second, what might account for the fact that full-scale, comprehensive visualised hagiographies of Rumi and Company attracted the patronage only of late classical Ottoman sultans and nowhere else in late medieval Islamdom? Rumi’s works, name and fame were, after all, widely known and revered across the

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whole of the late medieval/early modern Persianate cultural sphere­ – ­from Ottoman Turkey and its holdings through the Central Middle East, across Iran and into Central Asia, and southeastward through Afghanistan, Pakistan and into northwestern India. Three types of data contribute to answering the question of a long-standing Mawlawi-Ottoman symbiosis: first, historical documents yield information on the sharing/coalescence of religiously and politically charged titles and identities; second, information concerning specific ruler-Mawlawi relationships suggests a significant spiritual function of the manuscripts; and third, institutional connections­– ­often manifested in architectural place and related symbolism­– h ­ ave been settings for, or represented, active interface between sultans and shaykhs. Shared identities and the mystical turn in the two epochs This complex development was well under way by the early fourteenth century. Jonathan Brack gathers evidence specifically related to the period during which Aflaki was writing his masterwork. He refers to Aflaki’s notice that the coalescence of two titles of cosmic import, ‘Lord of the Auspicious Conjunction’ (Sahib-i Qiran) and the anticipated Guided One (Mahdi), was claimed by Mongol governor Timurtash when he reconquered Konya in 1323. Brack argues that the ‘coupling’ of the titles ‘indicates the progressing assimilation of the Mongols’ claim to divine mandate into Islamic salvific temporality and historicity’. He traces the implied escalation to apotheosis from Lord of the Auspicious Conjunction through Millennial Renewer (mujaddid), to Qur’anic ‘ruler of the age’, to Mahdi, all religious and messianic titles that espoused a similar vision of Islamic political authority. He explains that this new type of Muslim kingship was assigned through direct divine intervention in human history (or through cosmic determinism) and bypassed the earlier, restrictive definitions for the transmission of divine authority and legitimacy: hereditary succession to the Prophet (the caliph or the Shi`i Imam) or the juridical reasoning and authority of religious scholars and jurists. It is of interest here that Ghazan Khan, who figured in two of our illustrated stories starring Arif Chalabi (Figs 6.9 and 6.14), also claimed this very constellation of honorifics. And it was none other than that celebrated Ilkhan’s minister Rashid ad-Din, author of one of the most important ‘universal histories’, who first and most famously promoted his own sovereign Uljaytu as a wielder of transcendent power.7 Hüseyin Yılmaz provides a persuasive transition to important documentation of this dynamic as it occurred during the ‘second

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epoch’, in connection with the patrons of our three manuscripts. In a recent monograph he offers an overarching metaphor with which to organise relevant evidence: the ‘mystical turn in Ottoman political thought’. Here I summarise briefly the essential elements of his argument with respect to terms and titles that effectively bridged the royal-religious/political-spiritual divide. Yılmaz observes that Aflaki not only elevated Baha Walad to ‘sultanic’ status as patron saint of the Saljuks but applied to various Mawlawis such politically pregnant terms as ‘prince-saint’ (khodavandgar), ‘well-born king’ (padshah-i asli), and descendant of the Prophet­– ­even tracing lineages as sharifs (to Hasan) and sayyids (to Husayn). Yılmaz argues that, beginning with Murad II (r. 1421–44 then 1446–51), Ottoman sultans’ claims to ‘unified authority’ led to their using the term khalifa much the way Sufi organisations had done in naming a shaykh’s ‘successors’ and co-opting the Sufi usage of chalabi and khodavandgar. Sufis reciprocated by actively appropriating titles of political authorities such as amir and pasha. During the later fifteenth century, as Ottoman rule spread westward in Anatolia, Mawlawis became key allies of the sultans and soon ‘turned into one truly Ottoman order spreading rapidly into existing and newly added territories’. By the mid–later sixteenth century sultans (especially Murad III) arrogated unto themselves (or were otherwise accredited with) the loftiest Sufi titles of Axis (qutb), Succor (ghawth) and Perfect Person (insan-i kamil), as well as eschatological sobriquets such as Guided One (Mahdi) and Millennial Renewer (mujaddid). Yılmaz concludes that, because this ‘mystical turn’ was inherently undergirded by the widely acknowledged epistemic authority of Rumi and succeeding Mawlawi leaders, ‘the mystical notion of the caliphate became as real as the former historical caliphate as Sufism further gained ground across Eurasia and converted not only ordinary believers, but the very learned­– ­jurists, bureaucrats, scientists . . .’8 Last but by no means least among Yılmaz’s substantive arguments is the conviction that at its core, the ‘transformed’ caliphate revolves around authority grounded in a life of moral virtue that emulates that of the prophets. Beginning (at least) with Sulayman I, ideal rulers employed ‘executive power for the moral perfection’ of their subjects. ‘So, as much as Sufi leaders and revivalist ulama were competing against temporal rulers to share or supersede political authority, these rulers were extending their temporal power over the moral and spiritual plains.’ And, as Aflaki presents them, the Mawlawi descendants of Rumi modelled the ethical and spiritual epitome of what the Ottomans were pleased to claim as their true North.9 Elsewhere Yılmaz provides useful background on how, beginning in the first epoch, important writings of Sufi authors became increasingly comprehensive, thereby developing Sufism into an ‘authoritative discipline’ with special emphasis on virtue ethics: ‘It was commonplace that even the most prominent jurists and

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s­ cientists had strong Sufi affiliations. From the decline of the Seljuks until the rise of a new bureaucratic consciousness, Sufi writings on politics became common in the Ottoman Empire.’ The overlap was such that references to the study of ‘Sufism’ (tasawwuf) and ‘Ethics’ (`ilm al-akhlaq­– ­study of human behaviour) were virtually interchangeable.10 Arthur Buehler identifies a similar ‘overlapping current’ of a slightly different tenor in the transference of qualities attributed to both Shi`i Imams and Sufi shaykhs. He cites as key thematic attributes the possession of higher knowledge and concomitant authority (wilayat), as well as wonder-working prerogatives, including such collateral powers as the ability to hear the entreaties of visitors to the exemplar’s tomb. He adds that Rumi’s own conception of the shaykh’s charismatic authority parallels the Shi`i conception of belief/infidelity concerning the imam when he asks, (citing Mathnawi II: 3325) ‘Who is the infidel? One who is devoid of faith in the shaykh. Who is [spiritually] dead? One who is ignorant of the spiritual life of the shaykh.’11 Sufi-sultan and spiritual–political relationships A second important factor is the matter of actual or perceived relationships between individual Ottomans and Mawlawis. Many late medieval and early modern Muslim dynasts have acknowledged Rumi’s exemplary stature but none have maintained such an intimate connection with him or the Mawlawi order as did the Ottomans. Chapters One and Five (especially) highlighted various facets of the Family Rumi’s associations, amicable or contentious, with both the supreme rulers of the Saljuk Sultanate of Rum and assorted subordinate figures, especially high level ministers and regional administrators, such as the madrasa-endowing atabek (Fig. 5.12). According to Ethel Sara Wolper, frequent Sufi literary references to architecture­– ­especially works constructed as a result of pious endowments­– ­suggest an important index of rank in Anatolian society. An influx of new religious elites to Anatolia during the thirteenth century (including Rumi’s family) soon led to the formation of socio-religious sub-communities, which in turn eventually generated fourteenth-century manaqib (accounts of ‘wondrous feats’) texts dedicated to major thirteenth-century spiritual exemplars and founders. Wolper makes insightful observations on what these works­– ­Aflaki’s among the most influential­– ­suggest about bonds between teachers such as Rumi and their institutional patrons, initially Saljuk and later Ottoman sultans. Aflaki includes anecdotes about Rumi’s father as well as Rumi himself that suggest a decided concern for retaining the Sufi community’s sense of distinctive identity within

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the social hierarchy. Their stated purpose was that of keeping enough distance from simple co-optation by the ruling class and its purse strings to maintain a modicum of independent authority. Wolper concludes that hagiographies formalized the relations between Sufi saints and the representatives of the Saljuk dynasty, going so far as to include the names of patrons, something that no doubt provided further incentive for future acts of largess. The Sufi leaders, for their part, profited from the added prestige of having prominent politicians as disciples, as long as these disciples knew their place.12 Rumi’s major falling-out with Sultan Kilich Arslan IV (illustrated in Fig. 5.14) is a fine case in point. As for subsequent generations of Mawlawis, major clues are hidden away in the complex history of the institutional and spiritual relationships between Rumi’s descendants, who maintained custody of his mystical teaching and authority, and specific members of the Ottoman royal house. Franklin Lewis offers insight into the generation of Rumi’s great-great-grandchildren and beyond. For example, Jamal ad-Din Chalabi led the Anatolian Mawlawis from 1460 to 1509. Early in that period, Ottoman forces wrested Konya from the grip of Mongol regional powers. Jamal ad-Din cultivated a working relationship with Sultan Bayazid II (r. 1481–1512), who s­upported several Sufi orders. Prominent among this sultan’s support of Mawlawis was a generous renovation of Rumi’s mausoleum, elevating the Konya establishment’s fame and prestige and thus ­ ensuring continued support through royal endowments ‘in perpetuity’. During the tenure of Jamal ad-Din’s grandson, Khusraw Chalabi, the Mawlawis enjoyed significant patronage from Salim I (1512–20). His son Sulayman I (the Magnificent) (1520–66) funded major additions to and ongoing maintenance of the Konya centre, including a liturgical dance space and embellishments to Rumi’s sarcophagus.13 To understand further and more specifically why this particular set of illustrated manuscripts represents a uniquely Ottoman phenomenon one needs to appreciate the historical events in the decades prior to the reign of Sultan Murad III (1574–95), who commissioned the Turkish translation of the Shining Stars of the Wondrous Feats. Murad further renovated the Konya shrine and endowed a tekke (dervish residence) in the former provincial capital of Edirne, at the European boundary of present-day Turkey. Not many years later Sultan Ahmet I (1603–17) celebrated his own spiritual debt to Rumi, joined in a sama`, and recommended that his subjects likewise become Rumi’s disciples.14 Herein lies the significance of the episode of the ‘Second Battle of Konya’ depicted in the Morgan manuscript (Fig. 6.23): Rumi remains the spiritual patron and guardian of the Ottoman House.15

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Material culture, places and times Finally, additional aspects of ‘material culture’ provide a distinctive type of information in this context. Gülru Necipo©lu offers further insight into the other side of the patronage/spiritual authority coin, connecting directly to the ‘Second Battle of Konya’ painting. In The Age of Sinan: Architectural Culture in the Ottoman Empire she discusses the importance of Rumi’s family funerary shrine during the sixteenth-century reigns of Sulayman the Magnificent and his son Salim II. Her key source is a work of Mustafa Ali, who attributes prince Salim’s victory to the military support he received from his father and to the spiritual aid of Celaluddin Rumi. Bayazid [Salim’s sibling rival], on the other hand, had been punished for rebelling against his father and ‘not hesitating to defile with the corpses of rebels the pure soil of Konya filled with saintly tombs’. Salim had secured leave from Sulayman to seek the support of Rumi in particular by making pilgrimage to his tomb prior to the battle. Adjacent to Rumi’s mausoleum, Sulayman’s Konya mosque evokes the memory of Rumi’s direct intercession and efficacy in Salim’s victory: the mosque’s staff were explicitly chosen from among Rumi’s descendants. And the shrine itself became a de rigueur pilgrimage stop for later sultans and their armies en route to battle with the Safawid Persians.16 Melis Taner adds additional detail anchoring the Mawlawi-Ruler connection in pre-Ottoman times. She relates a narrative concerning a Saljuk link to the mosque adjacent to Konya’s Mawlawi mausoleum that enhanced its symbolic value for the much later Baghdad art patron Yusuf Pasha. According to tradition, Sultan Ala ad-Din­ – ­the major patron of Rumi’s father­– h ­ ad dropped his ablutions ewer in the mosque’s courtyard (near a pair of columns that Khidr himself had supplied as a gift) thereby releasing a miraculous spring of water. Yusuf Pasha pointedly chose to perform his own ablutions on that spot, thus ‘inserting himself into a greater narrative of sanctity’.17 Taner offers still broader context for Mawlawi-Ottoman connections in relation to Shi`i-sponsored illustrated manuscripts (especially martyrologies) of the late sixteenth century mentioned in Chapter Three. Pursuing the question of the uniquely Ottoman patronage of these texts, she notes that close Mawlawi links with the dynasty included patronage by several governors of Baghdad, including Hasan Pasha and Yusuf Pasha. She argues that the visualised Rumi hagiographies­– m ­ ostly in single copies­– w ­ ere ‘likely produced for a Mawlawi audience, and possibly supported by local governors or officials in an attempt to counterbalance works on the Karbala tragedy. The coexistence of different types of texts highlights the

conclusion

multi-confessional nature of Baghdad.’18 Taner believes that Baghdad is ‘unique’ with respect to the coexistence of illustrated manuscripts on the core Shi`ite hagiographic theme of the Karbala martyrdoms and Sufi narratives, especially those of Rumi and his progeny.19 I will return to the Shi`i connection shortly. In the wider world of late medieval Islamicate cultures Three frames of reference will be useful here. First, our manuscripts suggest important links with the wider world of Sufism, the Naqshbandiyya in particular as represented by Jami, surely one of the most influential proponents of the Order. Second, ongoing Ottoman relations with the emerging Persian dynasty called the Safawids opens another avenue for comparative perspectives, both religiously and art-historically. And finally, far-flung as South Asia may seem in this context, late sixteenth-/early seventeenth-century Mughal dynasts shared some of their Ottoman and Safawid counterparts’ interests in visualised hagiography, but with an unlikely twist. Mawlawi hermeneutics and the Jami connection A striking feature of both the Revan and O Nova 94 manuscripts is that both conclude with a nod to Jami of Herat (d. 1492). That Jami would have expressed his admiration for Rumi by citing him frequently is hardly surprising. That Jami would make a conspicuous appearance in Ottoman works starring Rumi, however, begs for further comment. I have referred earlier to Jami’s popularity in the Ottoman cultural orbit as evidenced in a remarkable illustrated manuscript of Jami’s hagiographical anthology, Warm Breaths of Intimacy, produced in Baghdad during the same period as our three Aflaki manuscripts. In addition, Chapter Three addressed the issue briefly with respect to Revan, as did Chapter Five in connection with Fig. 5.18. There the focus was on Revan’s strikingly unusual final image and associated text that drew heavily on Jami’s accounts of several Sufis­– ­ especially Sana’i, who also merits significant mention more than once in Aflaki. And Chapter Four dealt briefly with another curious connection in discussing Fig. 4.20, there in relation to a separated picture widely believed to belong to Morgan­ – i­n this case, a link to Jami’s mystical/didactic epic Yusuf and Zulaykha. Here I offer an interpretation of the only slightly less surprising conclusion to O Nova 94. It ends with Jami’s Nay-nama, ‘Story of the Reed [Flute]’, an homage to the ‘Song of the Reed’ with which Rumi begins his Mathnawi. Jami opens the first ‘volume’ (daftar) of the first poem in his magisterial mystical septet, The Seven Thrones, with a lyrical reflection (blending prose and poetry) on the spiritual implications of the lament of the reed flute in Rumi’s metaphor for

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the questing soul. Chad Kia renders the opening lines with their play on the dual meaning of ney as both (reed) flute and (reed) pen: Now listen to this reed-flute’s deep lament About the heartache being apart has meant: ‘Since from the reed-bed they uprooted me My song’s expressed each human’s agony.’20 Jami’s placement of this text as prefatory to his ‘Chains of Gold’ (Silsilat adh-Dhahab, one of the ‘Seven Thrones’) is significant in that he develops in that poem Ibn Arabi’s notion of the Perfect Person, of which the latter’s disciple and contemporary of Rumi, Sadr ad-Din of Konya, was a noteworthy proponent. Choice of Jami’s reflection to end the O Nova 94 text testifies not only to the farreaching intertextuality of medieval Islamicate mystical literature but to the high regard among Mawlawi Sufis for a leading figure from another Sufi order.21 Recent research by Alexandre Papas provides a persuasive, somewhat more broadly cultural rationale as to Ottoman fascination with Jami during the second epoch, with specific reference to Jami’s celebrated hagiographical anthology. ‘Jami appeared as a “universal” figure, whose works served as decisive texts’ on questions of exemplarity and holiness. He argues that Turkish compilers ‘tended to draw a universal picture of Islamic sainthood, taking in multiple Sufi paths, various types of saints, and different tendencies, all under the authority of Jami’. Papas believes that this eclecticism propounds an expansive definition of holiness accessible to a broader public, an important consideration in view of Jami’s work (along with those of other hagiographers) that functioned as a tool of Islamisation.22 A Shi`ite parallel visualised hagiography Why would an art-historical study subtitled ‘A Cultural History of Ottoman Baghdad as Reflected in its Illustrated Manuscripts’ mention the Persian Shi`ite Safawid dynasty more than 250 times? It does so, in brief, because Baghdad was the centre of a liminal frontier province and ground-zero for political rivalry between Ottoman sultans and Safawid shahs throughout the sixteenth century. But even before there was a Safawid Dynasty, restive nomadic Turkoman tribes with religio-cultural allegiances reaching back to Central Asia via Persia had been posing a problem for growth of Ottoman rule in Anatolia, particularly from the late fifteenth through early sixteenth centuries. Rıza Yıldırım argues that an element among the Turkomans called the qizilbash (‘redheads’) searched for a ‘paradise between two empires’ and that by the early 1500s, ‘a considerable portion of the Anatolian population supported the Safawid dynasty against Ottoman rule with an intense religious vigor’.23

conclusion

On the cultural and religious pluralism of Baghdad more broadly understood, Melis Taner observes that ‘the coexistence in Baghdad of the more aristocratic Mawlawi branch of Sufi orders, shrine centers of importance for Sunnis and Shi`is alike, and Bektashi convents, with possibly pro-Safawid inclinations’ is yet more evidence of a ‘convergence of multiple identities’.24 Taner’s argument concerning the Baghdad school’s hagiographically connected manuscripts sharpens the focus on Baghdad as a centre of religiously themed works. While the appearance of this mostly stylistically coherent group (though not without variants) is an urban phenomenon associated with Ottoman governance in a frontier region of great importance to both the Ottomans and the Safawids, Baghdad needs to be studied in a wider and comparative context.25 Emine Fetvacı and Christiane Gruber add further details of this complex cross-cultural dynamic. They argue that ‘mobility of artists and manuscripts created shared literary and artistic traditions within Turko‐Persianate cultural spheres’. This resulted in ‘an even more interrelated cultural universe shared across the Ottoman, Safawid, and Mughal empires’.26 The last of these will make a cameo appearance in the epilogue. Arguably the nearest thematic (and in a way also functional) analogy to our Aflaki-derived manuscripts is the unique illustrated manuscript of the late sixteenth-century Shi`ite Quintessence of Purity (Safwat as-Safa). Though the painterly style is different­– l­ ighter and less congested in composition, for starters­– ­the themes of its fourteen images represent a striking parallel to the pervasively miracle-fuelled tone of our three Ottoman manuscripts. Shaykh Safi ad-Din (d. 1334), central figure in this mono-hagiography, was to the Safawid order-turneddynasty what Rumi was to the Mawlawiyya, except that Rumi never morphed into a political leader. It is not a little ironic that Shaykh Safi himself was a Sunni adherent of the Shafi`i legal school (as were Rumi’s teacher Shams of Tabriz and several major jurists with whom Rumi interacted), and the text presents the shaykh’s thought as fully consistent with the views of major Sunni mystics. The original text was written in 1357 by Ibn Bazzaz­– ­Shaykh Safi’s son and successor­ – ­but revised in 1533 under major patron of the arts Shah Tahmasp to cast Safi as a descendant of the seventh Shi`i Imam, Musa al-Kazim (d. 799). The illustrated manuscript was produced in 1582 in Safawid Shiraz, a school whose style was akin to that of Qazwin. Milstein and others have noted the clear influence of works of sixteenth-century Qazwin on the Baghdad school of painting.27 Shaykh Safi appears in most of the images, sometimes with his own mentor Shaykh Zahid (d. 1301) or friends and followers. As in the Aflaki-derived manuscripts, the main figure’s miracles dominate both written and visual narratives. These marvels run the full gamut

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of themes depicted in our Mawlawi chronicle and the shared symbolic references are telling. Safi’s clairvoyance, dancing in ecstasy, teaching disciples and escaping unscathed from enemy attacks (as when archers sent to kill him are unable to launch an arrow) are reminiscent of staples of the Mawlawi repertoire. But several specific scenes stand out for comparative purposes. In one scene, Safi saves a ship in peril of capsizing. The text describes two such episodes, including one in which Safi is one of the passengers; but the artist has chosen the event in which Safi works his miracle from a distance (as Rumi does in Fig. 6.10). In another scene, Safi dreams of a symbolic assemblage of candles representing a dynasty that would replace the declining Mongols­– S ­ afi miraculously extinguishes all but one candle (mirroring key imagery in Fig. 6.13). Also of note, a dream scene depicts an elder’s (pir) vision of Shaykh Safi on a camel walking ahead of the Prophet Muhammad astride Buraq (the Ascension icon) as an endorsement of Safi’s Islamic credentials. The associated text mentions the same hadith cited in Fig. 5.3: ‘Whoever sees me [in a dream] has seen truly’. All three recall imagery prominent in illustrations of Aflaki in the Ottoman manuscripts, likely a result of a shared reservoir of visual and anecdotal sources. Finally, Aslihan Erkmen situates this last image explicitly in a context of equal importance in understanding the Ottoman manuscripts: Widespread consumption of eschatological accounts marked the year 1000 ah (1591–92 ad) as the ‘End of Time’; therefore, many prophecies evolved in the sixteenth century, some of which were then illustrated with the visual elements of the apocalypse and the signs of its arrival. She then connects the imagery of important illustrated Falnama manuscripts with depictions of the Final Judgement ‘[and] whose texts are often attributed to the Prophet Daniel, Imam Ali and most frequently to [the sixth] Imam Ja`far al-Sadiq’.28 As noted earlier, Murad III was a major patron of an illustrated Falnama. Said Amir Arjomand broadens the historical perspective further by noting that the millennialist ‘Mahdist revolution’ had been exerting increasing influence on popular Sufism, as subsequent Safawi shaykhs finessed a ‘unification of dervishhood and kingship’ rooted in the saintly authority traced back to Ali.29 Notes   1. MDA 17–18; extended metaphor in Mathnawi III: 3900–3915. Further reflections on the ‘affective dimension’ are in Milstein’s ‘Sufi Elements in the Late Fifteenth-Century Painting of Herat’, in Studies in Memory of Gaston Wiet.

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 2. Gruber, ‘The Ilkhanid Mi`rajnama as an Illustrated Sunni Prayer Manual’, in The Prophet’s Ascension: Cross-Cultural Encounters with the Islamic Mi’raj Tales, p. 27. See also Gruber, ‘In Defense and Devotion: Affective Practices in Early Modern Turco-Persian Manuscript Paintings’, in Affect, Emotion, and Subjectivity in Early Modern Muslim Empires: New Studies in Ottoman, Safavid, and Mughal Art and Culture.   3. MDA 24–5; also MPOB 27–34.   4. Elias, ‘Mevlevi Sufis and the Representation of Emotion in the Arts of the Ottoman World’, in Affect, Emotion, and Subjectivity in Early Modern Muslim Empires: New Studies in Ottoman, Safavid, and Mughal Art and Culture, pp. 186–95. See also Elias, Aisha’s Cushion: Religious Art, Perception, and Practice in Islam.  5. Gruber, The Timurid ‘Book Of Ascension’(Miʻrajnama): A Study Of Text And Image In A Pan-Asian Context, p. 353.   6. See, for example, Blaydes, Grimmer and McQueen, ‘Mirrors for Princes and Sultans: Advice on the Art of Governance in the Medieval Christian and Islamic Worlds’, in The Journal of Politics; Haghighat, ‘Persian Mirrors for Princes: Pre-Islamic and Islamic Mirrors Compared’, in Global Medieval: Mirrors for Princes Reconsidered; and Peacock, ‘Advice for the Sultans of Rum: The “Mirrors for Princes” of Early Thirteenth-Century Anatolia’, in Turkish Language, Literature, and History: Travelers’ Tales, Sultans, and Scholars since the Eighth Century.  7. Brack, ‘Theologies of Auspicious Kingship: The Islamization of Chinggisid Sacral Kingship in the Islamic World’, in Comparative Studies in Society and History, pp. 1160–1; see also Brack, ‘A Mongol Mahdi in Medieval Anatolia: Rebellion, Reform, and Divine Right in the Post-Mongol Islamic World’, in Journal of the American Oriental Societ, on how ‘the dispersion of a new political language . . . freed Muslim kingship from the restrictive genealogical and juridical Sunni models of authority’. See also MA 684–6 [2–3]; and RPP 440–1 on Timurtash’s claims to titles and relationship to Amir Abid Chalabi.  8. Yılmaz, Caliphate Redefined: The Mystical Turn in Ottoman Political Thought, pp.115, 118, 122–3, 129, 132, 277–85, quoting p. 278. And on p. 283, he adds that ‘the Sufistic notion of the caliphate conflated messianic time with historical temporality and, in a way, historicized’ the notion of the Mahdi as eschatological figure.   9. Ibid., quoting p. 155, with Chapter Three developing the paramount role of virtue in detail. 10. Yılmaz, ‘Books on Ethics and Politics: the Art of Governing Self and Others at the Ottoman Court’, in Treasure of Knowledge: An Inventory of Ottoman Palace Library (1502/3–1503/4), p. 511. 11. Buehler, ‘Overlapping Currents in Early Islam: The Sufi Shaykh and Shi`i Islam’, in Journal of the History of Sufism, p. 7. 12. Wolper, Cities and Saints: Sufism and the Transformation of Urban Space in Medieval Anatolia, especially ‘Constructing Visual Authority’ and ‘Dervish Lodges and Interpretive Communities: New Ways to Use Old Sources’, pp. 19–23, here quoting p. 38. For more on distinctively Anatolian Sufi ritual, see also Tanman, ‘Settings for the Veneration of Saints’, in The Dervish Lodge: Architecture, Art, and Sufism in Ottoman Turkey. 13. RPP 448–9; also Lyber, ‘The Government of the Ottoman Empire in

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the Time of Sulayman the Magnificent’, which notes that ‘a descendant of the thirteenth century poet Jelal ad-din Rumi held office under Suleiman’, p. 118. 14. Ibid. Lyber 15. Curry offers interesting evidence that Murad III also cultivated important relationships with non-Mawlawi Sufis, in ‘“The Meeting of the Two Sultans”: Three Sufi Mystics Negotiate with the Court of Murad III’, in Sufism and Society: Arrangements of the Mystical in the Muslim World, 1200–1800. His work is suggestive of the kinds of themes at play in the larger phenomenon of Sufi-ruler engagement in Ottoman history. His three chosen figures exemplify varying dimensions of ‘the meeting of the two sultans’­– ­that is, the symbolic encounter between the respective sovereigns of the seen and unseen realms. One functioned notably as interpreter of the sultan’s dreams in his capacity as spiritual guide to his majesty; another commented on the sultan’s role as moral exemplar in a treatise on ethics; and the third, in addition to attempting to rehabilitate his own father’s reputation for disobedience to Sultan Sulayman (Murad’s grandfather), produced a treatise on dream interpretation in response to one of Murad’s well-known preoccupations. Curry concludes that the sultan’s link to the three Sufis ‘may have been based primarily on his belief that mystics had access to supernatural power that could be appropriated for the defence of his reign in an era of growing instability’ (p. 238). But none of these relationships resulted in major, let alone illustrated, hagiographies. 16. Necipo©lu, The Age of Sinan: Architectural Culture in the Ottoman Empire, p. 63. 17. Taner, ‘Two Paths to Power: Sokolluzade Hasan Pa∞a and Hadım Yusuf Pa∞a and Their Art Patronage in Early-Seventeenth-Century Baghdad’, in Osmanlı Ara∞tırmaları/The Journal of Ottoman Studies 54, p. 85. 18. Taner, Caught in a Whirlwind: A Cultural History of Ottoman Baghdad as Reflected in its Illustrated Manuscripts, p. 12. 19. Ibid., p. 96. 20. Kia, ‘Sufi orthopraxis: visual language and verbal imagery in medieval Afghanistan’, in Word & Image: A Journal of Verbal/Visual Enquiry, p. 5. 21. See also Simpson, Sultan Ibrahim Mirza’s Haft Awrang: A Princely Manuscript from Sixteenth-Century Iran. 22. Papas, ‘Individual Sanctity and Islamization in the Tabaqat Books of Jami, Nava’i, Lami`i, and Some Others’, in Jami in Regional Contexts: The Reception of `Abd al-Ra˙mån JåmÈ’s Works in the Islamicate World, ca. 9th/15th–14th/20th Century, p. 379. See also Algar, ‘Jami and the Ottomans’, in Jami in Regional Contexts and Ridgeon, ‘NaqshbandÈ Admirers of RËmÈ in the Late Timurid Period’, in Mawlana Rumi Review 3. 23. Yıldırım, ‘Turkomans Between the Two Empires: The Origins of the Qizilbash Identity in Anatolia (1447–1514),’ PhD Dissertation, Bilkent University. ‘Redhead’ refers to the red-spike at the centre of a twelvelayered turban depicted so often in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Persian miniatures. 24. Taner, Caught, p. 101. 25. Ibid., p. 6. 26. Fetvacı and Gruber, ‘Painting, from Royal to Urban Patronage’, in A Companion to Islamic Art and Architecture, p. 875.

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27. MPOB 62–3. 28. Erkmen, ‘The visualization of Shaykh Safi al-Din Ishaq Ardabili: A unique illustrated copy of the Safvat al-Safa at the Aga Khan Museum’, in Iranian Studies 50; the three specifically cited episodes are depicted in Erkmen’s Figs 13, 14 and 5; last quote from p. 53. See also Yıldırım, ‘Turkomans Between Two Empires’: she notes that none other than Rashid ad-Din, patron of one the most influential universal histories, expressed his concern for Safi’s wellbeing in a letter to the Shaykh, and instructed his own (Rashid’s) son to serve the needs of the Shaykh whom he regarded as the Pivot of the Age. Yıldırım also observes that, like the Aflaki manuscripts, the Safwat was translated ‘albeit partially, into Turkish’. See also Gruber, ‘Signs of the Hour: Eschatological Imagery in Islamic Book Arts’, in Ars Orientalis. 29. Arjomand, ‘Unity of the Persianate World under Turko-Mongolian Domination and Divergent Development of Imperial Autocracies in the Sixteenth Century’, in Journal of Persianate Studies 9, p. 13. For further on the complex interrelationships involving factions such as the Kizilbash and Sunni-Shi`i connections under Ottoman rule, see Chahanovich, ‘Ottoman Eschatological Esotericism: Introducing Jafr in Ps. Ibn al-Arabi’s The Tree of Nu`man (al-Shajarah al-nu`maniyyah)’, in Correspondences 7:1. For example: ‘The uprisings of messianicmystical Shi`i Turkmen brethren known as the Kızılba∞ . . . in the early tenth/sixteenth century in eastern Anatolia, the ascent of the Safawid Empire (906–1134/1501–1722) combined with their claims to superior charismatic power and imposition of Shi`i Islam, and the Ottoman imperial policies of Salim I (r. 918–926/1512–1520) are generally cited as the causes for a more fundamental splitting of ways. Nevertheless, prior to this point one is hard pressed to find clear dividing lines.’

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EPILOGUE

Meanwhile, over in Agra . . .

Is it purely coincidental that, as Ottoman patrons were funding hagiographic works in Baghdad and Anatolia, Mughal sovereign Akbar (r. 1556–1605) and his successor Jahangir (r. 1605–27) patronised illustrated manuscripts of a Life of Christ written in Persian by an early Jesuit missionary named Jerome Xavier (d. 1617)? Xavier had bartered with a courtier: teach me Persian and I’ll teach you Portuguese. I mentioned in passing (Chapter Three) that one of the only two surviving illustrated manuscripts of Jami’s Warm Breaths of Intimacy originated in Agra, India.1 Akbar’s legendary interest in a broad spectrum of religious traditions led him to commission the grand-nephew of the more famous Saint Francis Xavier (d. 1552) to write a Life of Christ. The result was a genuinely new narrative approach, including much apocryphal material about both Jesus and his mother Mary. Jahangir eventually funded richly illustrated versions of Xavier’s Life of Christ under the title Mirror of Holiness (Mir’at al-Quds), of which three are extant. One can detect among its multiple images an affinity with the European-influenced modelling and sense of space evident in images of the Mughal Jami work. The text was that of a Catholic priest but it was Muslim artists who created the images, albeit under the influence of northern European woodblock ink prints in a polyglot Bible the Jesuits presented as a gift to Akbar. A most entertaining feature of the iconography of the best preserved of these manuscripts is the depiction of Jesus (and several of his disciples) in distinctively Jesuit garb. As one of the first avowedly Roman Catholic works in Persian, illustrated in studios serving the mightiest of the Mughals, this remarkable text was arguably meant (from the Jesuit perspective, at least) to function in ways analogous to that of Aflaki in the Ottoman context of the same period. Here we have an engaging, edifying and inspiring example of lofty virtue as modelled by members of a major Roman Catholic religious order and the mediation of divine

epilogue

presence in the life of an exalted Christian exemplar of mutual relevance to Muslim rulers and their constituents.2 Mughal sovereigns made no secret of seeking spiritual guidance from shaykhs of the well-­positioned Chishti Sufi order, which was to several Mughals what the Mawlawiyya became for the Ottomans. Akbar even named his eldest son after his own spiritual guide, Salim Chishti, but no Mughal patron ever commissioned a work that aggrandised that order as the Aflaki manuscripts did the Mawlawis. Their majesties were, nonetheless, not shy about their fascination with this new brotherhood in town. In addition to experiencing princely favour with a prestigious commissioning of a grand visualised hagiography, black-clad Jesuits make conspicuous appearances among the crowds of visitors in audiences before the sovereign memorialised in royal chronicles of both Akbar and Jahangir. It is, I believe, not entirely fanciful to wonder whether the freewheeling royal patron of Xavier’s work regarded this Jesus (already of interest from his prophetic role in the Qur’an) as the shaykh of his own ‘order’ whose core members were his Apostles and whose spiritual offspring were the Jesuits. Notes 1. Chester Beatty Library, IN 61.3. 2. See Carvalho, Mir`at al Quds (Mirror of Holiness)­– a ­ Life of Christ for Emperor Akbar: A Commentary on Father Jerome Xavier’s Text and the Miniatures of Cleveland Museum of Art. Xavier’s prologue expresses concerns not unlike themes in Aflaki’s prefatory remarks.

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261

Index

Note: italic indicates illustrations, n indicates notes Abbas I, Shah, 47 abdal (‘Substitutes’), 18–19, 54, 178–81, 180, 182, 229 Abid, Amir, 39, 53–4, 61, 124, 125, 171 Abraham, 151, 175n Abu Nu`aym of Isfahan, Ornament of the Friends of God (Hilyat al-Awliya), 37 Abu Sa`id, Sultan, 230 Abu Talib al-Makki, 171 Abu’l-Hasan al-Bakri, 28–9 Adam, 78–82 Aflaki Baghdad School, 29 Fatima Khatun, 19–20 ‘higher meanings’, 10 Karatay Madrasa, Konya, 20 madrasas (theological colleges), 12, 13–14 and Mawlawi hagiography, 39–40 pedagogical narratives, 15 pious endowment (waqfs), 12–13 ‘polishing the mirror of the heart’, 76 recording of anecdotes, 15–16 rituals, 11 story-order, 54–5, 66–7 ‘Substitutes’ (abdal), 18–19 Suhrawardi, 18

Wondrous Feats of the Knowers of God (manaqib al-arifin), 39–40, 47–9, 228 Agha Khan Museum, 138 Ahl al-Baytist, 31–2 Ahmet I, Sultan, 235 Akbar, 244–5 Akhi Ahmad Shah, 225–6n Akhi Chuban, 21, 206 Akhi Muhammad ‘the Madman’, 21, 211–15, 213, 225n Akhi Mustafa, 21, 165–7, 174–5n Akhis of Anatolia, 20–1, 32 Aksaray, 130n, 159, 206, 207 Ala ad-Din, 19, 54, 174n, 181, 236 Ala ad-Din Kaykubad, Sultan Kaysari, 163 light imagery, 18 minbar, 139 patronage, 8, 13, 14 Aleppo, 14, 149–51, 150, 163, 221 Ali, 31–2, 36, 53, 54, 122, 133–4 Ansari of Herat, 37 Arif Chalabi and Aflaki, 39 and Akhi Muhammad ‘the Madman’, 21, 213, 225n aversion to showing off, 17 clairvoyance, 201–4, 211–15 cosmic hierarchy, 179 and foreign authorities, 46 and Ghazan Khan, 203, 232

263

INDEX

in illustrated manuscripts, 47–55, 167, 175n interaction with non-human subjects, 194–6 intoxication, 115–18, 129–30n last journey, 171 marble basin, 117, 175n Mawlawi Tariqa (‘order’), 11–12 Morgan 466, 54 in O Nova, 53 in Revan, 52, 54, 129–30n and the royal falcon, 195 tumour, 208, 209 Arjomand, Said Amir, 225n, 240 Asad ad-Din, 225n Atasoy, Nurhan, 55–6 Awhad ad-Din of Kerman, 127n Axis or Pole (qutb) Aflaki’s emphasis of, 229 cosmic hierarchy, 18 Friends of God, 178, 179, 214–15, 223n Hallaj, 84, 88 in O Nova, 54 Sultan Walad and, 184 sultans, 233 in Syria, 50 Ay, Resul, 7, 131, 153, 225n Ayn ad-Dawla, 45–6 Azrael (angel), 120 Badr ad-Din Gowhar-tash, Amir, 174n Ba©ci, Serpil, 36 Baghdad Family Rumi, 8 futuwwa (chivalric guild-like confraternities), 21 hagiography, 46 Jami, 22, 37 Junayd, 144 Mawlawi–Ottoman connections, 236–7 Safawid Persian Shi`i dynasty, 238–40 Saljuk Turks, 6 Suhrawardi, 25n Baghdad School, 29, 56–61, 122, 179–81, 239 Baha Walad Aflaki and, 39

and Amir Badr ad-Din Gowhartash, 174n death, 92 dreams, 172n Family Rumi, 8–9 itinerant scholars, 6 lineage, 181 madrasas (theological colleges), 13 mausoleum, 9, 157–9, 190 Morgan 466, 139–44 in O Nova, 53, 139–44, 140 preaching, 51, 61, 139, 140, 142, 143, 145, 178 resuscitation marvel, 185, 206–8 in Revan, 54, 139–40, 142 shrine of, 9, 61, 165 ‘sultanic’ status, 233 Baju, General, 218–21 Baki, Diwan, 223 Baktash, Hajji, 7 Barquq, Mamluk, Sultan, 28–9 basmallah blessing, 77–8 Battle of Manzikert, 6 Battle of Konya, 222 battle scenes, 51 Bayazid, 221–3 Bayazid al-Bistami, 98–100 Bayazid II, Sultan, 235 Bayqara, Husayn, 37–8 Behzad, 60 Bilal, 136, 138 bilocation, 199–206 Biruni, The Enduring Traces of Bygone Eras (Al-Athar al-Baqiya), 33 Blair, Sheila, 34 Brack, Jonathan, 232 bread, 77–8 Buehler, Arthur, 234 Burhan ad-Din, 19–20, 39, 53, 61, 92–4, 93, 163–5 Bursa, Anatolia, 22 Ça©man, Filiz, 46, 55–6, 59 Caliph Umar, 15, 28, 82–4, 83, 127n candles, 201, 202, 240 Chahanovich, 243n ‘chains’ (isnad) of custody, 27 Chalabi Pulad-Beg, 129–30n ‘Chalabism’, 9

264 INDEX Chester Beatty Library, 37, 57 Chishti Sufi order, 245 Christianity, 29, 45–6, 54, 192, 215–18, 244–5 clairvoyance, 199–206, 240 Arif Chalabi, 201–4, 211–15 Rumi, 201 Collected Life Stories, 144 ‘colour theory’, 34 Companions, 27 Constantinople, 21, 46 Curry, John, 242n Dahlén, A. K., 19 Damascus, 8, 14, 19, 21–2, 118, 163, 181–4 dance, 94, 95, 108–11, 113–15, 156, 159 Darir, Mustafa, Siyar-i Nabi (Lifestory of the Prophet), 28–30, 31–2 Day of Arafat, 201 De Nicola, Bruno, 7, 19, 38–9 ‘The Fustat al-`Adala’, 24n ‘deviant dervish groups’, 7, 24n Discourses, 14, 17 public baths, 106 virtue, 75–6 diversity, 59, 64 Divine Providence, 65, 177–226, 228 Diwan (lyric poems), 15, 129n Diwan-i Shams, 14, 97 dogs, 192–4, 193, 224n dreams, 136–8, 229, 240 Edirne, 235 Elias, Jamal, 230–1 ‘emotion’, 230–1 Erginba∞, Vefa, 31–2 Erkmen, Aslihan, 198, 240 European images, 69–70n ‘excellent qualities’ (fada`il), 27 face-veiling, 30, 35, 59–60 falcon, royal, 194–6, 195 Falnamas (Books of Omens), 35–6, 57, 240 Family Rumi Aflaki and, 65–8 charismatic authority, 228 marble basin, 118

and Mawlawi Sufism, 8–9 and Shams ad-Din of Tabriz, 98 spiritual–political relationships, 234 virtues, 76 Virtuous Community, 41 Farhad, Massumeh, 36 Farid ad-Din Attar, 15, 22, 120 Conference of the Birds (Mantiq at-Tayr), 37 Recollections of the Friends of God (Tadhkirat al-wliya), 37 Fatima Khatun, 19–20, 104, 194 fatwa, 151, 153–4; see also Hanafi; schools, legal Fetvacı, Emine, 27, 29, 38, 239 Fihi Ma Fihi (‘Containing What’s In It’), 14 Fisher, Carol Garrett, 29–30, 56 food bread, 77–8 fruit, 126 in hospitality, 53 multiplication of, 199–201, 200 see also hunger Franks, 50, 54, 184, 208–11, 210 Friends of God Aflaki representation of, 228–9 Akhi groups and, 21 aretalogical elements, 76 Arif Chalabi and Akhi Muhammad ‘the Madman’, 214–15 Arif Chalabi’s sisters, 194 Baju, General, 219 Biruni, 33 Divine Providence, 178 marvels, 16–17, 65, 126 qutb (axis or pole), 223n shrine cults, 226n Sufism, 6–7 wilaya (‘authority’), 12 futuwwa (chivalric guild-like confraternities), 8, 21 Fuzuli, The Enclosed Garden of the Felicitous (Hadiqat as-Su`ada), 31, 51, 57, 62, 122, 223 Garcia, Martinez-Burgos, 69n Gawhar Khatun, 19 Gayumars, 82

265

INDEX

Genghis Kahn’s descendants, 6, 171, 218–21 ‘genre figures’, 179–81; see also witnesses ghazals, 14, 102, 106 Ghazan Khan, 129–30n, 194–6, 203–4, 203, 232 Ghaznawid sultan, 167–71 Ghiasian, Mohamed Reza, 34 Gruber, Christiane cross-cultural dyamic, 239 dreams, 138 images of Muhammad, 33–4 pictorial interpretation of ‘religious themes’, 27, 229–31 The Praiseworthy One: The Prophet Muhammad in Islamic Texts and Images, 29 Safavid Paintings, 32 Safwat as-Safa (The Quintessence of Purity), 38 Siyar-i Nabi (Lifestory of the Prophet), 29 Gulistan, 65 Gurji Khatun, 14, 45–6 Gutmann, Joseph, 35 hadith (sayings of the Prophet), 15–16, 53, 136–8 Hadiya, 19 Hafiz-i Abru, 22, 52, 77 Quintessence of Chronicles (Majma` at-tawarikh), 33–4 Hagen, Gottfried, 40 hagiography, 26–44, 45–72 anthologies, 36–8 ‘heroic’, 40 ‘monohagiography’, 28, 38–9 traditions, 27–8, 36–40 Hajj, 8, 200, 204–6 Halawiyya madrasa, 149–51 Hallaj, 54, 120, 127n execution of, 37, 84–8, 85, 87 Hamadhani, Abd al-Wahhab ibn Muhammad, 47 Hamid, Farooq, 15–16 hammam (public bath), 12, 51, 104–8, 105, 107, 128n Hamza, resuscitation of, 126, 211, 212, 225n Hanafi East, 6

Hanafi school, 13–14, 20, 24n, 156 Hasan al-Kharaqani, 162 Hasan Pasha, 34–5, 46–7, 54, 122 Haydar Mirza, 223 Haydari, Hajji Mubarak, 108–11 Haydari, Muhammad-i, 104 Haydari group of ascetics, 108–11 Hazine 1230 Baha Walad’s last sermon in Balkh, 145 Rumi meets Shams, 99 healing, 29, 207–15, 209, 224–5n ‘heavy burden’, 88–90 Herat, 37, 63 hijab, 60 Hillenbrand, Robert, 33, 34, 43n, 64–5 ‘historical style’ of paintings, 34 Hujwiri, Revelation of Realities Veiled (Kashf al-Mahjub), 36 hunger, 77–8, 170–1 ‘benefits of hunger’, 53 Husam ad-Din administrative practices, 11 Akhi groups and, 21 dream, 136–8, 137, 159, 229 Morgan 466, 54 in O Nova, 51, 54, 102–4 as rainmaker, 198–9, 199 and Rumi, 100–4 and Rumi at the Parwana’s reception, 51, 101, 103 Rumi’s death, 173n as Rumi’s secretary, 39 as Rumi’s successor, 10, 111–13, 120 as Rumi’s teacher, 92 Iblis (Satan), 15, 28, 82–4, 83, 127n Ibn Arabi, 18, 20, 63, 97 shrine of, 21–2 Ibn Battuta, 11 Ibn Bazzaz, 239 Safwat as-Safa (The Quintessence of Purity), 38–9 Ibn Hisham, 28 Sira, 28–9 Ibn Ishaq, 28 iconography, 57 Id al-adha (Feast of Sacrifice), 200

266 INDEX Il-Khanids, 35, 46, 230 ‘illuminationist’ (Ishraqi) thought, 17–18 Imam Ali, 240 Imam Ja`far al-Sadiq, 240 Imam Riza, 36 Inan, Murat, 22 Iraqi Kurds, 7 Iskandar, 124 Jackson, Cailah, 7–8 Jahangir, 244–5 Jamal ad-Din al-Qamari, 156, 157 Jamal ad-Din Chalabi, 235 Jami conclusion to O Nova and Revan, 167–71 hagiography, 57 Lami`i Chalabi, 31 Mawlawi hermeneutics, 237–8 Naqshbandi Sufi order, 22–3, 37–8 Nay-nama (Book/Poem of the Reed Flute), 47, 237–8 in O Nova, 23 in Revan, 23 The Seven Thrones, 63–4, 113–15, 237–8 witnesses, 63 Yusuf and Zulaykha, 113–15, 129n see also Warm Breaths of Intimacy (Nafahat al-Uns) Jami as-Siyar, 47, 60, 98–100, 127–8n Jaritz, 69n Jesuits, 244–5 Jesus, 122, 198, 224n Jewish traditions, 29 Junayd preaching, 37, 86, 144–7, 146, 204 Tha`labi, 30 jurisprudence (fiqh), 13, 24n, 156; see also fatwa; schools, legal justice, miscarriage of, 86–8 Kaluyan, 46 Kamal ad-Din, 149 Kamal ad-Din Gazurgahi of Herat, The Sessions of the Lovers (Majalis al-Ushshaq), 37–8 Karamanids, 8

Karamustafa, Ahmet, 6–7 Karatay Madrasa, Konya, 20 Karbala martyrdoms, 236–7 Karim, Hajji, 165–7 Kashifi, The Resting Place of the Martyrs (Rawdat ashShuhada), 31 Kayghatu, 225–6n Kaykawus, Sultan, 156 Kaykhusraw II, Sultan, 159, 218 Kaysari, 50, 51, 54, 148, 163–5, 164 Keir Collection, 56 Keshavarz, Fatemeh, 129n khalifa (successor), 10 khanaqah (Sufi residence), 12, 115, 162 Khidr, 54, 134–6, 135, 229, 236 Khusraw Chalabi, 235 khutba (Friday address), 144 khwaja (master), 102 Khwandamir, Beloved of Lifestories (Habib as-Siyar), 34 Kia, Chad, 63–4, 238 Kilich Arslan IV, Sultan, 235 Killing of the Family of the Prophet, 122 Kimiya Khatun, 19 Kira Khatun, 19, 20, 185–7 Kisa`i, 52 Tales of the Prophets (Qisas al-ambiya), 30 Konya, Anatolia corporate loyalties, 19–20 gender, 19–20 mausoleum, 8–9, 14 mosque next to mausoleum, 236 patronage, 3 Second Battle of Konya, 22, 235, 236 siege of, 220, 225–6n Sultanate of Rum, 6 symbolic home of Rumi’s family, 7–9 Köse Dagh, 218–21 Küçük, Hülya, 9–10 Kücükhüseyin, Sevket, 13, 76, 215 Kuru, Selim, 177 kurultay conference, 159 L. A. Mayer Museum for Islamic Arts, Jerusalem, 128n, 129n

267

INDEX

Lami`i Chalabi The Martyrdom of the Family of the Messenger (Maqtal-i Al-i Rasul), 22, 31, 62 law, religious see schools, legal Lay Khar (‘dreg-drinker’), 169–70 Lewis, Franklin, 14, 163, 192, 235 Rumi: Past and Present, East and West, 17 lineages (silsilas), 134 love, as sole all-conquering power, 84 madrasas (theological colleges) Ala ad-Din Kaykubad, Sultan, 9, 221 Aleppo, 149–51, 150 Husam ad-Din Chalabi, 111–13 Islamic institutions, 12 Karatay, Konya, 20 Kaysari, 147 Kilich Arslan IV, Sultan, 159 pious endowment (waqfs), 154–7, 174n Rumi and, 13–14, 153 Rumi and Shams, 98–9 Rumi’s death, 124 Sahib-i Isfahani, 163 Sharaf ad-Din Kaysari, 130n as symbol of religious and epistemic authority, 131–76 unseen world, 179 Virtuous Community, 65 Mahmud, Sultan, 169–71 Mahmud Dede, Darvish, Translation of the Shining Stars, 47–8 Mahmud Sabuktegin, Sultan, 162, 169 Majalis al-Ushshaq, 94 majlis (assembly, teaching session), 138 Majnun, 224n Malika Khatun, 187 manuscripts, 47–9 appearances of major personages and ‘types’, 53–4 arrangement and spacing in relation to Aflaki’s storyorder, 54–5

choice of themes, content and placement, 50–3 comparative table of images, 66–7 frames, 62–3 gold illuminated margins, 60–1, 153 images appearing only in these three, 52–3 method, 41 natural settings, 60–1 non-human subjects, 185–96 pedagogical stories, 76–92 ‘pictorial cycle’, 29–30 scenes unique to each, 51–2 settings, 60–1 shared image-topics, 51 text placement of the images, 62–3 unexpected ending, 167–71 marble basin, 115–18, 117 marvels in Aflaki and Rumi’s own works, 16–17 bilocation, 199–206 candles, 201, 202, 240 clairvoyance, 199–206, 201, 201–4, 211–15, 240 control over the forces of nature, 196–9 conversion, 50, 215–18 Divine Providence, 177–226 falcon, 194–6 Friends of God (awliya`), 184–5 fruit, 126 healing, 207–15, 224–5n long-distance communication, 199–201 in Morgan, 52 multiplication of food, 199–201, 200 precognition, 199–206 rain, 198–9 resuscitation, 211 in Revan, 51 river monster, 185–7, 188 Shaykh Safi al-Din, 239–40 of transformation, 206–18 whirlpool, 196–8 women, 19–20 ‘marvels of creation’, 36

268 INDEX Marvels of Creation, 30 Mashhad painting, 57 masjid (mosque), 12, 181 Mathnawi-yi Ma`nawi (The Spritual Couplets) beggar, 206 Book V, 53 Husam’s dream, 136–8, 137, 229 literary life stories, 227 miscarriage of justice, 86–8 reed flute, 134 Rumi’s spiritual teachers, 92 Rumi’s worldview, 14–16 Seth, 78 Shams ad-Din of Tabriz, 97 Siraj ad-Din of Urumiya, 104 ‘Song of the Reed-Flute’, 102, 237–8 Mawlawi Sufism, 8–14 charismatic authority, 76, 177–226 community, 7, 104–20 epistemic (religious/legal) authority, 139–57 hats, 86, 102–4, 106, 138, 157–9, 165 hermeneutics, 63–8, 237–8 identity, 59 material culture, 236–7 in Morgan, 52, 57 patronage, 46–7 political authorities and social relations, 157–67 ritual life, 52 social strata, 58–9 witnesses, 64 Mawlid, 29 McGowan, Bruce, 173–4n Mehmed II, Sultan, 8, 22, 46, 48 Meisami, Julie, 17 Midas, 134 Milstein, Rachel Baghdad School ‘real life’, 58–60 Baha Walad, 144 battle scenes, 223 dance, 113 dogs, 224n gold illuminated margins, 60–1 hagiography, 62 Hallaj’s execution, 86–8 Kashifi, 31

Khidr, 136 Morgan 466, 57–8 Moses, 77–8 O Nova 94, 57 palm trees, 129n Parwana, 100–2 Prophet Muhammad, 133–4 Qazwin painting, 239 ‘religious messages’, 229 Revan 1479, 56 royalty, 157 Rumi and judge, 153 Rumi’s death, 124 Seth, 82 Shams as ‘Sun of the Religion’, 97 ‘universal history’, 30–1, 34 verbal-visual hermeneutics, 230 witnesses, 63 minbar, preaching from, 37, 43n, 61–2 miracles see marvels Mi`rajnama (Book of Ascension), 28, 29–30, 35, 84, 230, 231 Mirkhwand, Resting Place of the Pure (Rawdat as-safa), 34 Mirror of Holiness (Mir’at al-Quds), 244 Moin, Azfar, 226n Monastery of Plato, 175n Mongol Il-Khans, 6 Mongols, 159, 177, 203–4, 218–21, 220, 225–6n, 232 Moreen, Vera Basch, 35 Morgan 466 Abdal come for water carrier, 180 Ali, 54 Arif Chalabi, 54 Arif discerns the distant death of Ghazan Khan, 203 Baha Walad, 139–44, 143 Caliph Umar and Satan, 28, 83 courtier disrupts Rumi’s visit to the mausoleum of his father, 158 dispute with a judge concerning the use of music in ritual, 152 diversity, 64 Frankish characters, 54 Hallaj, 54, 85 Hasan, 54

269

INDEX

Husam ad-Din, 54 Husam and Rumi at the Parwana’s reception, 101 Husam’s dream of Muhammad reading Mathnawi before Ali’s sons, 137 Khidr, 54, 135 Mawlawi life, 52 Mawlawi Tariqa (‘order’) hats, 165 miniatures, 56–7 marvels, 52 Moses, 54 Moses and Og, 52–3, 79 Muhammad, 54 Muhammad revealing secrets of the Mi`raj to Ali, 132 order of images, 47–8, 49 physician bleeds a king, 91 pious endowment (waqfs), 154 political authorities and social rivals, 50 pre- and early Islamic figures, 50 religious authorities, 50 ritual sama’ in a learning context, 112 Rumi and disciples in a hammam, 105 Rumi and the madrasa waqf of Atabek Arslan Toghmosh, 155 Rumi and the marketplace dogs, 193 Rumi and the murder of Sultan Rukn ad-Din Kilich Arslan IV, 160 Rumi and the river monster, 186 Rumi frees the supplicant ox, 189 Rumi in 24 images, 54 Rumi leaves Aleppo madrasa at midnight, 150 Rumi multiples sweetmeats, 200 Rumi (posthumously) assists Salim II at the Ottoman Battle of Konya, 222 Rumi raises flutist Hamza temporarily, 212 Rumi’s death, 52 Rumi’s intercessory healing of Frankish king at a distance, 210

Rumi’s last meeting, final spiritual counsel, 121 Rumi’s obsequies, 123 Rumi’s relationships to religious and political authorities, 52 Rumi’s ‘Sun’ (Shams) gazes on the sun’s reflection in a pool, 96 satiety and hunger as gifts from God, 78 Seth, 54, 81 son and grandson, 52 stories told by Rumi and Shams, 52 style, 57 Sultan Walad, 54, 166 Moses, 54 Burhan ad-Din, 92–4 Husam ad-Din, 173n and Og, 51, 52–3, 77–8, 79, 80 Rumi as equal, 122, 229 Rumi preaching about, 134–6 Moxey, K., 69n Mughal India, 37 Mu`in ad-Din Parwana, 14, 19, 147–9 Mu’mina Khatun, 19 Murad III, Sultan battle scenes, 221 khalifa (successor), 233 madrasas (theological colleges), 12 Mahmud Dede, Darvish, 47–8 patronage, 29, 35–6, 46, 235, 240 peace treaty, 46–7 Qazwin painting, 57 ‘renewer’, 177 Sufism, 30, 242n murid (aspirant), 47, 102, 175n Musa al-Kazim, 239 musalla, 203–4 musical instruments, 112, 113–15, 152, 153–4, 156, 159 reed flute, 133–4, 211 Muslim society, 24n, 41, 77–88, 131–76 institutions, 9–12, 12–14, 139–57 Islamic law, 24n Islamicate cultures, 237–40 Islamisation, 6 mysticism, 63 Mustafa Ali, 236 Muzaffar ad-Din, 19

270 INDEX Najm ad-Din Kubra, 7 Naqshbandi Sufi order, 22, 31, 37 Nasuh Matrakci, 22 Necipo©lu, Gülru, 236 The Age of Sinan: Architectural Culture in the Ottoman Empire, 236 Nicholson, Reynold A., 127n Nimrod, 151 Nizami, 22 Noah’s Ark, 198 O Nova 94 Amir Abid, 53–4 Amir Zahid, 54 Arif Chalabi, 53 Arif Chalabi and the royal falcon, 195 Baha Walad, 53, 139–44, 140 Burhan ad-Din, 53, 93 Chalabi Amir Abid (or Zahid?) death scene, 125 diversity, 64 Frankish qutb in Syria, 50 grandsons, 51 Husam ad-Din, 51, 54, 102–4 Husam and Rumi at the Parwana’s reception, 103 Husam prays for rain and breaks a drought, 199 Jami, 23 Kaysari, 50, 54 major Mawlawi figures, 50 notables of Kaysari vie for the honour of hosting Rumi, 51, 164 order of images, 47–8, 48 qutb (axis or pole), 54 Rumi, 53–4 skipped segments, 130n style, 57 Sultan Walad, 51, 53 Sultan Walad preaching in Kaysari, 148 Sultan Walad searches for the missing Shams, finding a hidden qutb, 183 women, 51 Oghuz Turkish forces, 5–6 O’Kane, John, 40, 66–7 Osman, 21

Ottoman Empire Aflaki, 230–1 Anatolia, 40 capture of Tabriz, 30 patronage, 46–7, 61–2, 63, 122 Shi`ites, 24n, 243n Sufism, 21–2 Sunnism, 31–2 ‘palm’ trees, 113, 129n Pancaro©lu, Oya, 11, 20 Papas, Alexandre, 238 Parwana, 100–2, 111, 162, 171, 201 patronage, 46–7 Ala ad-Din, 8, 13, 14 Konya, 3 Murad III, 29, 35–6, 46, 235, 240 Ottoman, 46–7, 61–2, 63, 122 ‘pious patronage’, 14 royal, 3, 45–7 Safawid, 38, 63 Sultan Walad, 46 Timurid court, 63 Peacock, A. C. S., 6, 8, 12–13 pedagogical stories, ‘higher knowledge’, 78–82 ‘Perfect [or Complete] Person’ (al-insan al-kamil) Friends of God, 223n, 229 Ibn Arabi, 63 Jami, 238 Sadr ad-Din of Konya, 22 Sufi cosmological framework, 18 unseen world, 178, 179 physician, 90–2, 91 pious endowment (waqf), 11, 12, 154 Plain of Filubad, 157, 159, 221 Plato, 18 potter and the vizier, 52, 88–90, 89 Prophet Daniel, 240 Prophet Muhammad Ascension (Mi`raj), 28, 84–6, 131–4 birth (mawlid), 28, 29 establishment of Prophethood, 65 and His Companions, 56 in Morgan, 54 ‘Night Journey’ (Isra`), 28 in Paradise, 56 as ‘prophetic hero’, 33

271

INDEX

revealing secrets of the Mi`raj to Ali, 132 Prophet Yusuf, 102 prosopography, 3, 27 ‘Pure Brethren’, 133 Qadi Izz ad-Din of Sivas, 151–3, 156 Qadi Qutb ad-Din Shirazi, 151–3 Qadi Siraj ad-Din of Urumiya, 20, 153–4, 173n Qadi-yi Kurd, 196–8 qalandars, 7, 24n, 78, 141 qasida (pangyric verse), 169 Qazwin painting, 57, 90–2, 239 Qitmir, 194, 223–4n qizilbash (‘redheads’), 238, 243n Qur’an Arif Chalabi, 176n Baha Walad, 174n Bilal, 138 boxes on heads, 124, 126, 211 face, 98 Hasan, 162 Husam’s dream, 136 Il-Khanids, 35 Jami, 169–70 Murad III, Sultan, 221 Paradise, 97 pool, 97 prophet-narratives, 15–16 qalandars, 24n Rumi and Azrael, 120 self-promotion, 111 Seven Sleepers of the Cave, 223–4n Shams ad-Din of Tabriz, 100 Siyar-i Nabi (Lifestory of the Prophet), 28–9 supplicant ox, 190 ‘Verse of Light’, 29 Qushayri, Treatise on Sufism (Ar-Risalat al-Qushayriya), 36 qutb (axis or pole) Aflaki’s emphasis of, 229 cosmic hierarchy, 18 Friends of God, 178, 179, 214–15, 223n Hallaj, 88 in O Nova, 54 Sultan Walad, 184 unseen world, 178, 179

Qutb ad-Din Haydar, 7 Qutb ad-Din Shirazi, 14, 24n, 147 rain, 198–9 Ramadan, 170–1 Rashid ad-Din, 52, 77, 232, 243n Compendium of Histories (Jami` at-tawarikh), 33–4 reed flute, 133–4, 211 religious/spiritual intent, 228–31 Resting Place of the Martyrs, 122 Revan 1479 abdal, 54 Abdal come to take Rumi’s sons away, 182 Ala ad-Din, 54 Arif Chalabi, 52, 54, 129–30n Arif Chalabi heals Akhi Muhammad ‘the Madman’ in Sivas, 213 Arif Chalabi sits in the newly returned marble basin, 117 Baha Walad, 54, 139–44, 142 Christians, 54 conversion, 50 diversity, 64 final image, 167–71 healing, 29 higher spiritual world, 50 Jami, 23 Jami as-Siyar, 60 marvels, 51 Mawlawi ritual life, 52 moral critique, 50 Morgan 466, 52–3 Moses, 54 Moses and Og, 78, 80 Muslim non-Mawlawis, 54 non-human subjects, 50 non-Muslims, 50 order of images, 47–9, 175n Rumi, 54 Rumi (still living) wards off a Mongol siege of Konya, 220 Rumi and Shams and assassins, 52, 119 Rumi and the pilgrim reunited with his caravan, 205 Rumi and the river monster, 188 Rumi at Salah’s goldsmithing shop, 52

272 INDEX Revan (cont.) Rumi frees the supplicant ox, 191 Rumi gives his belt to a blind beggar in Aksaray, 207 Rumi keeps the visiting minister Parwana waiting, 161 Rumi meets a visiting monk, 52 Rumi meets a visiting priest from Constantinople, 216 Rumi heals a tumour on baby Arif’s neck, 209 Rumi reprimands observers at sama’, 110 Rumi reprimands Sultan Walad’s unconcern over minor faults, 109 Rumi saves a ship from foundering, 197 Rumi whirls at Salah ad-Din’s goldsmith shop, 95 Rumi with sons, 52 Rumi with the Parwana, 52 Rumi’s small candle outlasts candles of the guests of Parwana, 202 Salah ad-Din the Goldsmith, 54 sama` (‘audition’), 50 Saqi gives a drink to ‘madman’ who toasts the deaths of the sultan and Sana’i, 168 scene in a hammam with dervish clothes in the changing room, 107 Shams ad-Din of Tabriz, 54, 119 stingy vizier and the potter, 52, 89 style, 56 Sultan Walad, 54 tekke style of illustration, 58 two different artists, 56–7 Rifa`i dervishes, 20 river monster, 185–7, 186, 188 Rizvi, Kishwar, 38 Robinson, B. W., 56 Rogers, Michael, 35 Roman Catholicism, 244–5 Roxburgh, David, 28, 30 Rubanovich, Julia, 129n Rührdanz, Karin, 30–1 Rukn al-Din Kilich Arslan IV, Sultan, 159, 160

Rumi children, 108 courtier disrupts Rumi’s visit to the mausoleum of his father, 158 death, 7, 10, 52 and disciples in a hammam, 105 dispute with a judge concerning the use of music in ritual, 152 frees the supplicant ox, 189, 191 gives his belt to a blind beggar in Aksaray, 207 heals a tumour on baby Arif’s neck, 209 and the heifer, 51 hermitage, 163–5 hiding from visitors, 159–63 and Husam at the Parwan’s reception, 101 initial encounter with Shams of Tabriz, 34–5, 47, 98–100, 99 intercessory healing of Frankish king at a distance, 210 keeps the visiting minister Parwana waiting, 161 last days and death, 120–6, 121 leaves Aleppo madrasa at midnight, 150 and legal scholars and judges, 151–4 Letters, 12–13 and the madrasa waqf of Atabek Arslan Toghmosh, 155 and the marketplace dogs, 193 marriage, 19 Mathnawi, 10 mausoleum, 14 meets a visiting monk, 52 meets a visiting priest from Constantinople, 216 miraculously heals a tumour on baby Arif’s neck, 209 in Morgan, 54 multiplies sweetmeats, 200 and the murder of Sultan Rukn ad-Din Kilich Arslan IV, 160 mystic, poet and storyteller, 14–16 notables of Kaysari vie for the honour of hosting, 164

273

INDEX

in O Nova, 53–4 obsequies, 123 own teachers, 92–104 people trying to paint image of, 45–6 personal magnetism, 8 and the pilgrim reunited with his caravan lost, 205 poetic style, 57 (posthumously) assists Salim II at the Ottoman Battle of Konya, 222 raises flutist Hamza temporarily, 212 relationships with Christians, 12 relationships with Muslims, 12 relationships with religious and political authorities, 52 relationships with Saljuk central government, 12 reprimands observers at sama`, 110 reprimands Sultan Walad’s unconcern over minor faults, 109 in Revan, 54 and the river monster, 28, 51, 186, 188 at Salah’s goldsmithing shop, 52 saves a ship from foundering, 197 and Shams and assassins, 52, 119 shrine of, 21–2 small candle outlasts candles of the guests of Parwana, 202 (still living) wards off a Mongol siege of Konya, 220 story of Seth, 82 successor, 10 ‘Sun’ (Shams) gazes on the sun’s reflection in a pool, 96 and the two battles of Konya, 218–23 whirls at Salah ad-Din’s goldsmith shop, 95 whirls outside with disciples, 114 with sons, 52 with the Parwana, 52 worldview, 16–19 Sa`di, 22, 65

Sadr ad-Din of Konya Ibn Arabi, 20, 22, 97 madrasas (theological colleges), 156 ‘Perfect [or Complete] Person’ (al-insan al-kamil), 63, 238 Rumi’s death, 120, 122–4 Safawid Persian Shi`i dynasty, 21–2, 238–40 paintings, 32 patrons, 38, 63 Safi al-Din, Shaykh, 21–2, 38, 138, 198, 239–40, 243n Safwat as-Safa (The Quintessence of Purity), 138, 198, 239 Sahib-i Isfahani, 163–5 Saint Francis Xavier, 244 Sakhawi, 33 Salah ad-Din the Goldsmith, 19–20, 21, 39, 52, 54, 92, 94, 95 Salim Chishti, 245 Salim I, Sultan, 22, 31, 235 Salim II, Sultan, 22, 46, 221–3, 222, 236 Saljuk Turks, 6, 233 Salmasti, Muhammad-i, 147 sama` (‘audition’) Ahmet I, Sultan, 235 candles, 201–4 dogs, 194 Husam ad-Din, 111–13 musical instruments, 151, 152 observers, 110, 111 reed flute, 211–15 in Revan, 50 with Rumi at centre, 116 set in a learning context, 112 Shams ad-Din of Tabriz, 97–9 Sultan Walad, 10–11 as symbol, 75–130 Virtuous Community, 65 Sami`i, 22 Sana’i, Hakim, of Afghanistan, 15, 167–71, 169, 175n Garden of the Ultimate Truth, 76 Saqi, gives a drink to ‘madman’ who toasts the deaths of the sultan and Sana’i, 168 Sari the Greengrocer, 144–7, 204 Sarraj, Book of Light Flashes (Kitab al-Luma`), 36

274 INDEX Sayyid Sharaf ad-Din, 108–11 Schmitz, Barbara ‘genre figures’, 179–81 gold illuminated margins, 60–1, 153 hammam (public bath), 106 manuscripts, 47, 56–7 physician, 211 Qazwin painting, 90–2 ‘universal history’, 30–1 witnesses, 63 Schnitzler, Norbert, 69n schools, legal, 13, 20, 24n, 151–4, 239 Second Battle of Konya, 22, 235, 236 self-centred behaviour, 106–11 Sepahsalar, 16, 19, 39 Seth, 54, 78, 78–2, 81, 229 Seven Sleepers of the Cave, 192–4, 223–4n Shafi`i school, 13–14, 24n, 156, 173n Shahada, 140–1 Shahnama (Book of Kings), 18, 51, 82, 124 Shams ad-Din of Tabriz assailants, 52, 118–20, 119 Awhad ad-Din of Kerman, 127n Caliph Umar and Satan, 15, 28, 82–4 Damascus, 163 disappearance, 181–4, 183 humility, 17, 127–8n initial encounter with Rumi, 35, 47, 98–100 jurisprudence, 156 Karatay Madrasa, Konya, 20 Kimiya Khatun, 19 light imagery, 18, 95–100, 96 metaphors, 14 in Revan, 54, 119 Rumi’s teacher, 39, 92 Sultan Walad’s spiritual guide, 11 Sunnis, 239 Shams ad-Din the Pharmacist, Khidr, 134–6 Sharaf ad-Din Kaysari, 122–4, 130n Sharia law, 24n Shi`ite community, 24n hagiography, 31–2, 236–40

Imams, 36, 234 Prophet Muhammad, 32 The Shining Stars of the Wondrous Feats of the Knowers of God (Thawaqib manaqib al-arifin), 47, 235 Shiraz, 239 sikke (tall honey-coloured hat), 59, 124, 153, 211, 226n Simpson, Mariana Shreve, 129n Siraj ad-Din of Urumiya, 14, 104, 153, 173n Sivas, 211–15 Siyar-i Nabi (Lifestory of the Prophet), 28–31, 56, 62 Spiritual Couplets see Mathnawi-yi Ma`nawi Su Essa ‘the lord of the water’, 185–7 ‘Substitutes’ (abdal), 18–19, 178–81, 180, 182, 229 Sufism cosmic hierarchy, 179–84 denizens of cosmology, 17–19 hagiography, 36–40 lore, 6 manuals of Sufi thought, 36 Siyar-i Nabi (Lifestory of the Prophet), 29–30 spiritual-political relationships, 234–5 and Sultans in the medieval ‘lands of Rum’, 5–25 titles, 233–4 Suhrawardi Maqtul, 127n Suhrawardi Order, 17–18, 25n, 34, 47 Suhrawardi, Umar, 21 Sulami, Generations of Sufis (Tabaqat as-Sufiya), 37 Sulayman I, 31, 47, 233, 235, 236 Sulayman Turkomani, 170–1 Sultan Muhammad, painter, 60 Sultan Walad Akhi Ahmad Shah, 225–6n and the Akhis of Konya, 166 Akhi Muhammad ‘the Madman’, 225n Akhi Mustafa, 21, 165–7, 174–5n Arif’s tumour, 208

275

INDEX

Book of the Begining (Ibtidanama), 10 children and grandchildren, 130n disappearance of Shams, 181–4 hagiography, 39 Husam ad-Din, 100, 104, 173n Kilich Arslan IV, Sultan, 159 marvels, 16 Mawlawi Sufism, 9–12 in Morgan, 54 in O Nova, 51, 53 patronage, 46 poetry, 10, 12–13 preaching, 147–9, 148, 153 rebuked by Rumi, 108, 109 in Revan, 54 Rumi as qutb, 223n Rumi’s humility, 217 as Rumi’s successor, 120 as scribe, 10 searches for the missing Shams, finding a hidden qutb, 183 ‘The Truth’, 127n unseen world, 179, 181 whirlpool, 197–8 Sunni legal schools (madhhabs), 13–14 Sunnis, 31, 32 supplicant ox, 189, 190–2, 191 Sururi, 22 Tabari, 78 Tabriz, 30 Tahir, Muhammad, The Collected Biographies (Jami` as-Siyar), 34–5 Tahmasp, Shah, 38, 239 Tales of the Prophets (Qisas al-ambiya), 15, 28–31, 77, 198 Moses and Og, 52 Taner, Melis, 236–7, 239 Caught in a Whirlwind, 62 Tanındı, Zeren, 29, 46, 59 Tarafi, Tales of the Prophets (Qisas al-ambiya), 30 Tashayyu` hasan, 32 ‘taste’, metaphor for direct experience of spiritual world, 192 Tatars, 159

tekke (dervish residence), 11, 12, 173–4n, 235 tekke style of illustration, 56, 58 Tent Pegs (awtad), 179 Tha`labi, 52 Tales of the Prophets (Qisas al-ambiya), 30 thaumaturgic gifts, 16 Thawaqib-manaqib, 104 Timurid (Herat) manuscript, 28, 231 Timurid court, 37–8 patronage, 63 Timurtash, 232 Toghmosh, Atabek Arslan, 155, 156–7 Topkapı Saray Museum manuscript (Revan 1479) see Revan 1479 ‘transmitters’, 27 turbans, 59, 86, 115, 124, 204 Türer, Osman, 7 Twelver Shi`a state, 38 ‘two school’ theory, 55–8 ‘Two Worlds’, 178 Ubaydallah ibn Ziyad, Umayyad, 223 Uljaytu, 230, 232 Umar Suhrawardi, 21 ‘unity of being’, 63 ‘universal history’, 30, 32–5, 47, 77, 198 Uppsala manuscript see O Nova Virtuous Community, 41, 65, 75–130, 154, 228 visiting monk, 52, 215–18 vizier and the potter, 52, 88–90, 89 Wafa’i order, 7 Walad-i Fakhr ad-Din Shahid, 157–9 Warm Breaths of Intimacy (Nafahat al-Uns) Agra, India, 244 anthologies, 37 dance, 115 face-veiling, 60 Hallaj, 86 Junayd, 144–7 Lami-i Chalabi, 31 Ottoman Empire, 237

276 INDEX Warm Breaths of Intimacy (cont.) Rumi, 228 Sana’i, Hakim, of Afghanistan, 169, 175n Sulayman Turkomani, 170 witnesses, 63–4 whirlpool, 196–8, 197 wilaya (‘authority’), 12–13 witnesses, 63, 78, 162–3; see also ‘genre figures’ Wolper, Ethel Sara, 21, 154, 234–5 women Burhan ad-Din, 92–4 Konya society, 19–20 in O Nova, 51 as patrons, 38–9 Rumi’s death, 121–2 visual treatment of, 59–60

Xavier, Jerome, Life of Christ, 244–5 Yalman, Suzan, 17–18 Yasawi, Ahmad, 7 Yıldırım, Rıza, 32, 238, 243n Yılmaz, Huseyin, 178, 232–4 Yürekli, Zeynep, 8, 21 Yusuf Hamadani, 170 Yusuf Pasha, 236 Zahid, Amir, 54, 124, 125 Zahid, Shaykh, 239–40 Zargar, Cyrus Ali, 77 zaviyes, 173–174n Zayn al-Abidin, 31 Zirva bathhouse, 104–6 Zoroaster, 18