The Culture of Letter-Writing in Pre-Modern Islamic Society 9780748633746

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THE CULTURE OF LETTER-WRITING IN PRE-MODERN ISLAMIC SOCIETY ◆  ◆  ◆

ADRIAN GULLY

Edinburgh University Press

For my students of Arabic and Islamic Studies over the past two decades who have made it all worthwhile

© Adrian Gully, 2008 Edinburgh University Press Ltd 22 George Square, Edinburgh Typeset in Goudy by Koinonia, Manchester, and printed and bound in Great Britain by Biddles Ltd, King’s Lynn, Norfolk A CIP Record for this book is available from the British Library

isbn 978 0 7486 3373 9 (hardback) The right of Adrian Gully to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

iv

Prologue

vi

1 The Foundations of Letter-Writing in Pre-Modern Islamic Society

1

2 Epistolary Prose, Poetry and Oratory: Essentials of the Debate

29

3 The Power of the Pen and the Primacy of Script

50

4 The Composition Secretary (i): Background and Status

72

5 The Composition Secretary (ii): Moral and Inner Qualities

102

6 Balũa, Epistolary Structure and Style

131

7 Epistolary Protocol

166

Epilogue

193

Bibliography

197

Index

208

acknowledgements

This book has been far too long in the making. I began collecting materials for this project in 1995 when I was a guest at the University of Bayreuth, Bavaria, Germany, thanks to the generosity of the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation. I would like to thank Professor Jonathan Owens for his hospitality and mentorship during that enjoyable stay, and also the library staff at the University of Bayreuth, who were very busy on my behalf tracing obscure references and ordering materials. But it is to the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation that I extend my most sincere gratitude for believing in me and taking care of me and my family during the 1995–6 academic year. It is also thanks to the patience and understanding of that Foundation that I was able to procrastinate in working on this manuscript as I moved several times around the world and allowed another major project to intervene. The Foundation still recognises as well as any organisation anywhere the value of traditional ­scholarship. I would also like to thank the Leverhulme Foundation in London, United Kingdom, for its generous support in granting me a Fellowship in 2003–4 to take the project a step closer to completion. During that period I was fortunate enough to be a guest at the Centre for Medieval Studies, University of Sydney, which turned out to be a very inspirational setting to write the first draft of the manuscript for this book. My gratitude is extended to John Pryor and Margaret Clunies Ross in particular for their gracious hospitality there. My progress on this project would not have been possible without the willing assistance of Paul Auchterlonie, the Arabic subject librarian at the University of Exeter, UK. As always Paul chased tenuous references and wild geese with his inimitable goodwill, and I am so grateful to him for providing me with leads that have even exceeded the requirements of this particular volume. I am grateful to the two reviewers who appreciated the intent of this work and encouraged me to move forward with its publication. I would also like to thank Edinburgh University Press for acknowledging so readily the need for a book of this type, and for the thoroughly

[  iv  ]

Acknowledgements

[v

professional and cordial manner in which all communication has been conducted. There are always those who support the writing of books without realising what a major contribution they have made. In this regard I would like to thank my wonderful family – Nancy, Anya and Grace-Ellen – for their patience and understanding, particularly during the latter stages of writing but also during those balmy days in Manly, Sydney, when I had to put the demands of writing ahead of unique opportunities for quality family time. As always I am so grateful to Mum for her unconditional love and support throughout my life. Adrian Gully University of Melbourne April 2007

Note on dates The dates cited in this book are for the most part given in pairs. The first date corresponds to the year of the Islamic calendar (after Hijra, ah) and the second date to its equivalent in the Gregorian calendar (Anno Domini, ad). Thus 448/1056 refers to the year 448 ah and 1056 ad.

prologue

When Maaike van Berkel published her short article on the historical position of the secretary (Ar. kÅtib) 1 she raised some issues that have been fundamental to the writing of this book. That is not to say that much of what follows in this volume had not been conceived of in some shape or form prior to my reading that article. However, through van Berkel’s doubting of the value of the administrative texts as an accurate historical source on the position of the secretary she inadvertently presented me with additional justification for the formulation of this work. Van Berkel claims that ‘many present-day studies on the kÅtib have been lacking in a critical approach towards administrative literature’,2 and that the question of whether the secretary fulfilled the criteria of his position laid down by the secretaries themselves has never been adequately assessed. Her claims are certainly very plausible, especially as much remains unknown about the extent of nepotism, for instance, among the secretarial class.3 Thus the extent to which the secretaries as a group were less concerned with promoting the image of their profession than their own individual causes remains unclear. Yet although the real historical picture of the secretary’s position does need to be established, the importance of the text as written record in Islamic society automatically ensured for the secretary a unique position within the administrative hierarchy of that society. The text, with the pen as its creative tool, was indeed the foundation of his craft. For these reasons alone he held a very privileged position in his role as adviser to the Ruler, supported by references in the Qur’Ån4 to the supremacy of the pen as God’s chosen instrument.5 Therefore, I would argue that whether he fulfilled the criteria of his position, as van Berkel puts it, is not the main issue, although I shall be looking at the key requisites for his position in some detail later, especially in Chapters 4 and 5. The secretary is in fact the conduit through which this work, which focuses on letter-writing during a specific period of Islamic history, should be viewed. The epistolary literature on which this particular study is based was in most cases the product of the secretary’s pen alone. Not all the literary output of this genre belonged to

[  vi  ]

Prologue

[ vii

secretaries, but the majority of it did. A number of non-secretarial scholars were active in the field of letter-writing, such as al-HamadÅnÈ (d.398/1008), who never assumed the role of a secretary, or QÅbËs ibn WušmagÈr (d.403/1012–13), a ruler who also composed literary epistles.6 It is merely coincidental that the period in which each of these scholars lived falls just outside the time span selected for this study. In order for one’s work to gain the admiration of other scholars it was not necessary for a writer to have reached the status of a secretary, as witnessed in the excerpt from Ibn DaqÈq al-‘d, a writer of the MamlËk period, who was an esteemed literary figure with a penchant for using verbal artifices, and a renowned expositor of artistic prose.7 The inšÅ’ literature (inšÅ’ meaning broadly ‘prose composition’ or ‘prose style’) was the dominant feature of Arabic literary culture from at least the 4th/10th century until the end of the MamlËk era (early 10th/16th century). Although the term inšÅ’ was not employed exclusively for the genre of letter writing its association with the whole domain of artistic prose (Ar. al-natr al-fannÈ), which was more or the less the preserve of epistolary literature, led to its being explicitly acknowledged at least by the 8th/14th century as more or less synonymous with letter-writing. It is very important, therefore, that the context of epistolary writing be clearly defined and understood within the context of Arabic literature and the development of inšÅ’. InšÅ’ became an increasingly sophisticated art form which eventually reflected ‘the complex procedures employed in the MamlËk chancery in addressing the officials of state’.8 The process of delineating the historical period on which this work is based was quite difficult, since the collection of epistles in Arabic literature in the broadest sense is the product of many centuries, beginning as early as the Umayyad period.9 A brief history of the art of letter-writing up to the point where this study begins in earnest is given in Chapter 1, although that job has now been carried out in more detail by Hachmeier in his conspectus on the development of epistolography from the early Islamic period up to the 4th/10th century.10 The time span Hachmeier chose for his work complements mine perfectly. A major reason for focusing on the 5th–9th/11th–15th centuries – a period that is also sometimes referred to as the Islamic Middle Period – was that the secondary Arabic sources at least maintain that from the later Fņimid period onwards epistolary protocol became more and more canonised, and that literary style became more susceptible to ‘affectation’. Although this study will not deal very much with intricate aspects of balanced, rhyming prose style (Ar. saj‘), nor the equally important considerations of prose rhythm patterns,11 since these would entail a separate study, it will include some analysis of letter samples and their style, in an attempt to ascertain why the epistles of this period held so much fascination for scholars of the time, and for subsequent researchers. There is no doubt that a separate, detailed study of prose style is badly needed, especially as the secondary literature contains numerous superficial claims about affectation, mannerism and forced metaphor12 in saj‘ texts without any real attempt to support them. Sadly, most efforts to refute such unsubstantiated arguments, such as the one by Jackson,13 have themselves slipped into the realm of simplicity, not only on account of their being based on a very

viii ]

Prologue

small number of examples, but also because they focus on the widely used, obligatory nature of saj‘ that prevailed for centuries in Chancery composition. Any stylistic study of artistic prose writing of that time would, of course, need to investigate this topic in depth, but more necessary is an evaluation of its style across longer sections of discourse, and also a comparison between different writers. Any random piece of prose from one of the main writers of that period will inevitably contain easily identified elements of rhyming, balanced discourse; but judgements on the effectiveness of a writer’s style can not be ascertained without a more searching analysis. Furthermore, one aspect of saj‘ that has been almost completely overlooked is the possibility that in its potential capacity as the prosaic equivalent of versification it might have fulfilled a role as part of the whole process of memorisation, enhancing what Messick calls ‘the mnemonic accessibility of basic texts’.14 The first of the three clearly definable historical periods covered in this study is that of the Fņimids. This period witnessed the official foundation of the epistolary Chancery (Ar. dÈwÅn al-rasÅ’il), which then became known as the dÈwÅn al-inšÅ’,15 an institution for the formal drawing up and composition of all official correspondence. It was also a period that saw substantial cultural and intellectual growth, inspired by such innovations as the building of the DÅr al-Óikma in Cairo in 395/1005. With its foundation came scholarship and major importation of books, even though the principal motive behind it appears to have been the promotion of ŠÈ‘ism. Here, however, scholars could come and exchange ideas. The AyyËbid era also witnessed a growth of interest in intellectual and religious activity, especially under the ruler NiΩÅm al-Mulk, who built libraries for the purpose of assisting Qur’Ån readers,16 but also under ÍalÅ˙ al-DÈn. 17 Libraries and schools, built mainly to re-establish SunnÈ beliefs, remained a priority of many MamlËk rulers too.18 A further reason for studying the letters of this period is that it produced a num­­­ber of valuable monographs in which theoretical works on ‘eloquence’, or ‘communicative eloquence’ (Ar. balÅ©a)19 were interspersed with chapters on the art of writing, and illustrations of letters or excerpts from them, demonstrating the practical application of eloquent composition. One significant element of such manuals of that period is the discussion of the ‘unity’ of the text, in which each section of an epistle had its own function which could only be effective and fully communicative within the context of the whole discourse. This will be discussed in some detail later. A further challenge awaiting us is to determine whether we can talk with conviction about the existence of a theory of letter-writing in Islamic society during this period, or whether the body of textual material was more representative of a collection of models for transcription and copying than a fully formulated theory. My selection of this period as the focus for the study is validated further by a comment from Abdullah Laroui in his work on the crisis of the Arab intellectual. Although Laroui’s work concentrates mainly on intellectualism in the modern period, he evidently supports one of my own fundamental beliefs about trends in modern Arab and Islamic societies: that is to say, we can not begin to understand them properly without a deeper awareness and comprehension of their historical precedents. Laroui states the following:

Prologue

[ ix

It is after the eleventh century (the great defeat of the first Crusades) that Islam finds its matrix, whereas the preceding period (of the ninth and tenth centuries), which the historian regards as the apogee, cannot be the central period … because of the lack of definite contours.20 Laroui seems to be on the right track here, although what he does not articulate is that the increasing role of textual culture and the growing emphasis upon the written text, discussed later in Chapter 3, provide the real context for this view. Scholasticisation might have seriously restricted the scope for originality, but it did lead to a huge increase in the number of encyclopaedic works recording the history of everything relating to the first few centuries of Islamic society, and an increasing fascination with the text. An eclectic range of primary sources has contributed in similar and different ways to the formation of the rich mosaic we have of epistolary writing in the four centuries studied here. Encyclopaedic works, for example, although often un­systematic in their treatment of the material, contain a wealth of invaluable information about epistolary protocol. Moreover, the period under review here witnessed the writing of some of the most significant tracts on the history of administrative literature in Islamic society, many of which also contain important details about letter-writing. History annals have also provided us with valuable contributions, normally through sections devoted specifically to adab in which examples of letters are given to illustrate good and original style.21 The full significance of the relationship between balÅ©a and inšÅ’ (composition, [artistic] prose) is yet to be established. The texts offer prima facie evidence that the inšÅ’ literature could not exist without balÅ©a as its foundation, yet there seems to be a body of modern opinion which continues to make a very clear distinction between the two fields.22 In my view it is the integration of the principles of balÅ©a and examples of letter-writing within the same framework that makes the study of the epistolary literature so fascinating. In later chapters I shall attempt to trace some of the fundamentals of the relationship between balÅ©a and inšÅ’ as reflected in the theoretical works on epistolary style. The passing of time might not have brought significant changes in the basic formulae of the principles of balÅ©a, but there is no doubt that stylistic requirements of a particular period helped to create different interpretations and often created corpuses of fresh material with which to illustrate a specific literary device. One very good example of this was the increasing preoccupation during the AyyËbid period with the prosification of verse and the incorporation of religious text in different forms, as evidenced particularly in the work of ÎiyÅ’ al-DÈn ibn al-AtÈr (d.637/1239) and ŠihÅb al-DÈn al-ÓalabÈ (d.725/1325). Finally, as noted above, the four centuries from the 5th/11th to 9th/15th centuries straddle three significant periods of history and government, namely the later Fņimid, the AyyËbid, and much of the MamlËk eras. Assessment of the main literary texts of these periods should enable us to test the hypothesis that these three different historical approaches to government also produced diverse literary outputs reflecting cultural and societal trends of the time. As a brief example, later works

x]

Prologue

from the AyyËbid and MamlËk periods record very specific applications of honorifics according to rank, title and, in some cases, religious background, of the addressee, thus suggesting a greater concern with the display of reverence to Rulers. One of the interesting questions raised by such specific formulaics and protocol is to what degree style and realism combined within a given letter; in other words, how much was an author influenced by aesthetic requirements when writing about real life events (as opposed to those formulaics written purely as model letters)?23 Letter-writing is very culture specific. It reveals a great deal about the writer, the recipient, and the rhetorical and stylistic features of a language. But equally it demonstrates much about the society in which the letters were produced. The epistolary genre in Islamic society can be broadly divided into two parts: official, or formal, letters (Ar. rasÅ’il dÈwÅniyya), and unofficial, or informal, ones (Ar. rasÅ’il ihwÅniyya, lit. ‘brotherly letters’). In the case of the unofficial letters it should be made clear that the type of epistolary themes generally associated with it – for instance, congratulating, rebuking, condoling – were not exclusively reserved for correspondence between friends.24 In this regard the statement by Arazi and Ben Shammay that the ihwÅniyya letters comprised only ‘correspondence between two friends’ needs to be re-examined.25 In general it can be said that official letters offer a great deal of historical and sociological value, while unofficial letters reveal more about a society’s psychology and modes of interaction through communication with the ‘absent’ addressee. The epistolary genre in Islamic society has never been adequately studied, but some works sketching the history of the subject and providing invaluable references have come down to us. The strong Germanic tradition in this field has provided me with some excellent foundational materials on which to build this study. The availability of short monographs and articles about letter-writing in other cultures in Antiquity and the Middle Ages indicates further the historical and social importance of this subject, and there are certainly some very interesting chronological and structural similarities in the development of epistolography in Islamic society and Western society (particularly in Italy and France, but also in Germany). The recent workshop in Zurich on Private and Business Letters in the Middle East26 testifies to the growing interest and importance of the genre across different languages and cultures. It is hoped that this work, based on an intensive study of primary and secondary textual materials, will appeal to students and scholars working in the fields of cultural history, literature, stylistics and sociolinguistics, and to a lesser extent political history, as well as scholars of other Oriental and Western languages, literatures and cultures.

Notes   1. Maaike van Berkel, ‘A well-mannered man of letters or a cunning accountant’, passim.   2. Ibid., p. 90.   3. See, for example, Escovitz, ‘Vocational Patterns of Scribes’, p. 49.   4. See SËra 68: 1 and SËra 96: 4, for instance.

Prologue

[ xi

  5. See, for instance, Gully, ‘The Sword and the Pen’, passim. The argument goes that the pen is the tool by which the history and the achievements of Islam and Islamic society are recorded. This position, however, is only one, since it does not take into account the equally important references in the Qur’Ån to the value of the sword; neither does it address the tension between those who championed writing and those who argued for the precedence of oral transmission.   6. See Gully and Hinde, ‘QÅbËs ibn WušmagÈr’, passim.   7. See SallÅm, al-Adab fÈ l-‘Aßr al-MamlËkÈ, vol. 2, p.10.   8. al-Droubi, A Critical Edition of a Study on Ibn Fa∂l AllÅh’s Manual of Secretaryship, p. 82.   9. See, for example, A˙mad, al-Natr al-KitÅbÈ fÈ l-‘Aßr al-UmawÈ, or on letter style dating even further back, see Ri∂Å, al-RasÅ’il al-Fanniyya fÈ l-‘Aßr al-IslÅmÈ ˙attÅ l-‘Aßr al-UmawÈ. 10. Hachmeier, ‘Die Entwicklung der Epistolographie’, passim. 11. On this see Gully and Hinde, ‘QÅbËs ibn WušmagÈr’, passim. It is worth noting here that a detailed assessment of stylistic elements in pre-modern Islamic letter-writing had been one of the original objectives of this present study. However, as I carried out more and more research on the primary sources I realized that there was so much that needed to be said about other different aspects of epistolary writing during that period. 12. For example, Ayyad, ‘Regional Literatures, Egypt’, pp. 422–4 esp. 13. Jackson, ‘Some preliminary reflections on the chancery correspondence of the al-QÅ∂È al-FÅ∂il’, passim. For more on this issue, see below Chapter 6. 14. Messick, The Calligraphic State, p. 26. 15. Îayf, al-Fann wa-MadÅhibuhu, p. 356. 16. SallÅm, al-Adab fÈ l-‘Aßr al-AyyËbÈ, p. 93. 17. Ibid., p.51. 18. SallÅm, al-Adab fÈ l-‘Aßr al-MamlËkÈ, vol. 1, p. 23. 19. The translation of balÅ©a as ‘communicative eloquence’ is not one I have seen elsewhere, but it is worth proposing within the context of writing because communication was the ultimate objective of the author of a letter. BalÅ©a was generally viewed as something different from faßÅ˙a, which also conveyed a type of eloquence, but in the sense of ‘purity and euphony of language’ (von Grunebaum, ‘BayÅn’ art., p. 1114). In brief, the former was normally linked to ‘meaning’ (Ar. ma‘nÅ), the latter to ‘expression’ (Ar. lafΩ). See, for example, al-ÓalabÈ, Óusn al-Tawassul, p. 203. More will be said on this in Chapter 6. 20. Laroui, The Crisis of the Arab Intellectual, p. 59. 21. See, for example, the one cited by SallÅm, taken from the historian al-Musabbi˙È, in which Ibn al-Hayyņ writes to a friend of his; SallÅm, Al-Adab fÈ l-‘Aßr al-FņimÈ, vol. 1, p.  236. 22. See, for instance, the editor’s introduction to al-ÓalabÈ’s Óusn al-Tawassul, p.6. 23. On this subject see now Hachmeier, ‘Private letters, official correspondence’, p.142. 24. See, for example, the second part of the collected letters of RašÈd al-DÈn al-Wa†wņ (d.578/1182–3), where these and other themes normally relating to the ihwÅniyya type of epistles are found. Of particular interest here is that these letters were addressed to scholars and other dignitaries. The ikhwÅniyya type of letters mentioned here should also be distinguished from those noted by al-MaqdisÈ which were personal, if scholarly and intellectual, exchanges between literary figures. See al-MaqdisÈ, Ta†awwur al-AsÅlÈb, p.  324. 25. Arazi and Ben Shammay, ‘RisÅla (Arabic)’ art., p. 536. 26. University of Zurich, 21–2 April, 2007. Presentations were given on letters in Arabic, Bactrian, Coptic, Greek, Pahlavi and Sabaic.

‘The graphic representation of speech is a tool that encourages reflection on ­information and the organization of information.’ (Jonathan M. Bloom, Paper before Print: the History and Impact of Paper in the Islamic World, New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2001, p. 123)

CHAPTER

1 the foundations of letter-writing in pre-modern Isl amic society

[A] letter is a discourse composed of coherent yet distinct parts signifying fully the sentiments of its sender.1 The epistle as a representation of Arabic literary genres has a long history. Literary and historical sources abound with examples of letters allegedly exchanged during the early Islamic period. Collections of these examples have been assembled by modern scholars in an attempt to illustrate the importance of the epistle as a record of early political and social activity in Islamic society,2 and also as documental evidence of early Arabic prose style. Written contracts and epistles undoubtedly existed at the advent of Islam, and the commandment to register debts with a scribe is found in the Qur’Ån.3 Some scholars believe that epistolography, the art or science of letter-writing, developed fairly quickly into the most important form of writing in Islamic society.4 The productivity of secretaries and other writers subsequently made of epistolography a voluminous contribution to Arabic literary art forms. In the first chapter of this work I am going to examine the background to letterwriting in pre-modern Islamic society with specific focus on the 5th–9th/11th–15th centuries.5 Although it can be assumed a priori that many of the characteristics of letter-writing in pre-modern Islamic society are indicative of cultural, historical and to a lesser extent intellectual, trends, as well as of course reflecting a very unique literary style, it is important to assess to what extent the sophisticated elements of letter-writing in Western culture might have influenced Arabic epistolary writing during the period under review here, or vice versa. All of this discussion will be set against the wider context of inšÅ’, the technical Arabic term for composition within the domain of artistic prose, and how inšÅ’ has survived as an academic discipline until today. The discussion in this chapter will begin with a sidelong glance at the Arabic terms deployed for letter-writing, and at the various notions of what constituted a ‘letter’ at that time. If we were to canvass a wide range of people in Western society

[  1  ]

2]

The culture of letter-writing in pre-modern Islamic society

for a definition of a ‘letter’, and compare those responses with people from the Arabic-speaking world, there would probably be little disagreement on what the main features were. The quotation at the head of this chapter would probably serve perfectly well as an adequate summation of the function of a letter in the minds of most people. It expresses a truism, a universal that can be applied to any letter in a given society, but it does not take into account the culture-specific nature of letters that forms part of the discussion in this book. In pre-modern Islamic society, as in most societies in Antiquity, the letter was first and foremost an essential mode of communication, and it was one that often transmitted meaning across countries and even continents. Epistolary communication during that period was carried out within the borders of DÅr al-IslÅm and outside them. In this connection there is a parallel between the break-up of the Roman Empire (end of the 5th, early 6th centuries ad) and the rapid spread of Islam within the first few centuries after the Prophet Mu˙ammad as far west as Spain. In both situations the epistle assumed a very specific function. As Perelman puts it within the context of Western epistolary writing, ‘the lack of any central capital for the Frankish monarchy made written communication one of the only mechanisms of control available to the Merovingian kings’.6 The same could be said, mutatis mutandis, for Caliphs and Rulers in Islamic society at that time. The Arabic terms for various sorts of epistle deserve some reflection here. In the epistolary literature of pre-modern Islamic society, risÅla (pl. rasÅ’il) was the most commonly used generic term to denote the type of correspondence that will be the main focus of this study. The root of the verb, r-s-l, which connotes the idea of ‘sending’, is the one from which the Arabic word rasËl ‘apostle’ was derived. In other words, just as an apostle, particularly the Prophet Mu˙ammad, was to bring news and a message, so did a letter. From the same etymological derivation came the word murÅsala ‘letter’ and its plural murÅsalÅt which were frequently deployed in the literature.7 Other terms used for a letter in the epistolary literature include derivatives from the root k-t-b ‘to write’. The most commonly cited of these are kitÅb (now used almost exclusively to mean ‘book’) and its plural form kutub, and mukÅtaba and its plural form mukÅtabÅt. These terms appear in the sources to denote correspondence of either a formal or informal type. The singular form maktËb ‘letter [lit. something written]’ is not generally found in the literature of that period although its use was common in the modern period from the 19th century ad. In the later literature, particularly from the 5th/11th century onwards, the expressions ßinÅ‘at al-kitÅba ‘the craft of writing’ or kitÅbat al-inšÅ’ ‘the composition of documents in artistic prose’ became more or less synonymous with the art of letter-writing, while [ßinÅ‘at] al-tarassul ‘the craft of letter-writing’ became the generic term for epistolography8 as secretaries sought to demonstrate that the area of composition in which they excelled had become the primary vehicle of literary expression after the Qur’Ån. The terms ruq‘a and mas†Ëra were also used for a letter, especially for responses from Kings and Rulers to communications from influential members of the community such as scholars and ÍËfÈ šayhs.9 Likewise the word mu†Åla‘a was used by those of high rank when replying to those of a lower rank.10

The foundations

[3

As I shall demonstrate later, a high degree of significance was also accorded to the response (Ar. jawÅb) to a letter. The written response to an original communication was deemed by many to be as important as the original letter in terms of style and protocol (adherence to prescribed sections, use of set expressions, and so on), and by some was considered to be even more important (see below, Chapter 6 especially). Therefore, it is not surprising that a set of specific terminologies was also applied to the response. For example, a commonly used term for the letter of response amongst high-ranking officials was mitÅl (lit. ‘model’); in other words, a response that began with something like warada al-mitÅl al-šarÈf ‘the honourable letter [that is, a model to be followed] arrived’ acknowledged that the original letter was of the highest order. Therefore, the term mitÅl was superior in its connotation to any of the other terms mentioned above because it signified that the received epistle was of a certain high standard to be followed.11 The adjective with the next highest status in the hierarchy of replies was mušrif (lit. ‘making noble’); for example, al-mitÅl al-mušrif. This was followed in status by mušraf (lit. ‘made noble’). Both of these adjectives were deployed in letters between those of equal status from the intermediate rank of people, such as emirs and viziers and the like. The subtle change of vowelling from the active participle mušrif to the passive participle mušraf was neither arbitrary nor insignificant, for the former was of higher status because it conveyed the sense of [the passing on of] nobility in the writer, whereas the latter did not, owing to its passivity; in other words it conveyed the sense of a communication that ‘had been made noble’, but whose agent remained unknown, or unmentioned. Such subtle distinctions in terminology were a feature of the later pre-modern period, as I shall demonstrate in Chapters 6 and 7. The important thing to note about the above range of words deployed for ‘letter’ and its accompanying epithets is that they were part of a very specific set of terminologies reflecting the rank of the sender and the receiver. The particular choice of referent in this regard was not coincidental, for it represented many of the aspects of epistolary protocol at that time. These formulaics extended from the use of individual terms, such as the ones described here, to a number of sequential and interrelating sections of a given epistle. The main Arabic word used in the sources for a letter of correspondence, risÅla, has a broad scope in the context of writing. For example, it was the name given to the intellectual essay, an important genre of Arabic literature exemplified by some of the great pre-modern writers such as al-JÅ˙iΩ (d. 255/869) and AbË l-‘AlÅ al-Ma‘arrÈ (d. 449/1057), or the ‘Egyptian Epistle’ by Ibn AbÈ Íalt, a poet of the early 1st/7th century. These essays were not intended specifically for secretaries, but they marked an important stage in the development of adab, the instructional, morally edifying, educational and often entertaining pillar of literature that played such a foundational role in the intellectual development of Islamic society. While epistolary correspondence – particularly that of an informal nature – became the perfect forum for a secretary to display his linguistic ability, the intellectual essay appears to have given its authors an opportunity to communicate their ‘personal ideas and nonconformist concepts which adab could or would not accommodate, it being regulated by very strict rules’.12 Ironically, letters belonging to this particular

4]

The culture of letter-writing in pre-modern Islamic society

form of literary expression have been referred to by contemporary scholars as maqÅlÅt inšÅ’iyya ‘thematic essays’, a term that on the one hand sets these letters apart from the communicative epistolary genre, but on the other hand still incorporates that sense of originality in composition conveyed by the important, fully loaded word inšÅ’.13 Another important type of risÅla linked to the category of intellectual essay is the one exemplified by the jurist al-ŠÅfi‘È who wrote a very important legal text with risÅla in its title. To this mix we might also add the maqÅma form, a genre of Arabic literature made famous by two literary figures in particular – al-HamadÅnÈ and al-ÓarÈrÈ in the 4th–5th/10th–11th centuries. Although the maqÅma was correctly identified as an independent literary genre there are some stylistic parallels between it and the epistolary genre of the same period. In fact, enough common ground existed between the two genres for the literary critic ÎiyÅ’ al-DÈn Ibn al-AtÈr (d. 637/1239) to defend the epistolary genre as a much more creative and demanding art form than the maqÅma.14 Extant examples of literary correspondence between scholars also provide us with a different kind of risÅla in Arabic literature. A branch comprising ‘literary letters’ (Ar. rasÅ’il adabiyya) was an important form of communication for its intellectual content, which could be on any topic, such as grammar, for example, or Sufism,15 or personal communications on matters of state.16 This type of communication has much historical significance because it demonstrates that alongside the two main forms of state communication – the formal and informal epistles– there was in pre-modern Islamic society an additional type of personal communication that was quite common in European cultures, as exemplified by the 12th century ad exchanges between Heloise and Abelard. This form of correspondence comprised an intellectual exchange of views on a range of topics. It was unique within the context of the Arabic epistolary genre, however, because the language and structure of the main text itself did not conform to any particular format. These letters would also normally be of a more personalised nature than the formal and informal state communications. The word risÅla was also employed as the generic term for the prose texts of glorification and boasting competitions, a collection of eponymous literary exchanges between the sword and the pen, for example.17 These literary exchanges were not epistolary in form, but they comprised a dialogue between two inanimate objects such as the sword and the pen, or the rose and the narcissus. The often humorous dialogue was interspersed with some serious comment on various aspects of Islamic society, such as the relationship between the bureaucrats (men of the pen) and the military (men of the sword), which gave these exchanges a genuine historical value. In the preceding discussion four broad types of risÅla have been outlined. From the diversity found in the four types it can be concluded that the term risÅla was deployed for a wide range of written texts. Although there were some general similarities in style between different types of texts – such as the widespread, often statutory, use of balanced, rhyming prose (Ar. saj‘) – the objectives of each were very different. While three of the types of risÅla did not follow a rigidly prescribed format as such, the rules and objectives of the epistolary risÅla became quite clearly

The foundations

[5

defined by the 6th/12th century at least. In fact, it was the communicative objectives (Ar. a©rÅ∂ balÅ©iyya) of epistolary literature that distinguished it from all other forms of prose writing. In recent times a good number of collections of epistles in Arabic as models, or as examples of authentic communications, have become available. Alongside these works – or in some cases as an integral part of them – there has been a significant flow of publications of primary theoretical works on epistolography. Unfortunately there remains a large number that will never be available for scholarly appraisal because they have disappeared over the years, with most of them never having made it into print. The community of Arabic epistolary scholars – small as it is – is indebted to Sezgin for his efforts to salvage and preserve some of the lesser known, but equally important, works on epistolography, such as the MawÅdd al-BayÅn of Ibn Halaf (d. 455/1063), which will be given much closer attention in Chapter 3. Details of other works preserved by Sezgin can be found in the bibliography of this book. The present work complements some of the pioneering papyri studies by Grohmann, the stylistic investigations of Stern and Khan, the later analyses of the Cairo Geniza documents by Goitein, and the outstanding, meticulous scholarship of Diem in his study of private letters from Egypt of the 9th–15th centuries ad, and official letters from Egypt of the 10th–16th centuries ad. All of these works are of inestimable worth in their own right, but Diem’s work is especially valuable because it is based on documents that reflect the vernacular register of communication at that time.18 The present study does not deal with vernacular sources, however, because the linguistic register of the epistles in almost all of the works consulted for this study is essentially that of Classical Arabic. Through a detailed analysis of the classical, written sources this study, which focuses on the theoretical and the practical aspects of the epistolary genre, aims to provide an innovative contribution to the history of epistolography in the period under review. I shall begin the task by looking at some universal principles of letter-writing and by sketching its history. Although the art of letter-writing became the most prominent type of prose writing in pre-modern Islamic society and Arabic literature generally, it was certainly not unique as a genre. A number of informative studies on the Western epistolary genre demonstrate that letter-writing was also a sophisticated branch of literature in other cultures. Interestingly, certain elements of letter-writing in Western and Islamic society of that period appear to be shared.19 For instance, in Western society up to the end of the 12th century ad at least, letter-writing was ‘not only a practical matter of business communication but an independent literary genre’.20 This statement is especially relevant to the present study, for there is no doubt that epistolography was the dominant genre of Arabic prose writing for several centuries, during which time it also remained an independent literary genre. But some areas of epistolography in both these societies have been neglected. As is the case with investigations into Arabic letter-writing, very few studies of Western epistolography have focused exclusively on stylistic elements, especially in the area of prose rhythms (cursus). In spite of the connection that Alberic of Monte Cassino, the father of the medieval ars dictaminis,21 made between epistolary prose and the syllabic patterning of rithmus in Western epistolography, there is still much work to be done to establish the extent of

6]

The culture of letter-writing in pre-modern Islamic society

that link.22 Gully and Hinde’s attempt to identify prose rhythm and syllable patterns in the Arabic epistolary prose of QÅbËs ibn WušmagÈr has taken the investigation into cursus in Arabic primary sources into new territory,23 but leaves ample scope for further investigation. On style issues Murphy’s statement is very relevant to this present work: ‘for Alberic, letter-writing was still a largely artistic and humanistic undertaking, and it is probably fair to say that he regarded rhetoric as a useful but not dominating factor’.24 Murphy’s words raise the following questions in the context of Arabic epistolography: to what extent can we say that the rules of epistolography in pre-modern Islamic society were highly schematised and rigidly prescribed, and how influential was the role of balÅ©a ‘communicative eloquence’ within this genre? How important or relevant was the rhetorical objective of ‘persuasion’ in that context? These are two of the questions I shall be attempting to answer in this work. Epistolography is very much part of the humanistic disciplines of a given society. It is perhaps no surprise, therefore, that Islamic and Western humanism shared common characteristics. For example, there seem to have been plausible parallels between the multiple meanings of adab, which is broadly the combination of literary training and the acquisition of good manners and their output (‘literature and ‘polite social intercourse’25), and its respective medieval Latin equivalents. The key to this study is the role and character of the secretary (Ar. kÅtib) in pre-modern Islamic society, in particular the role he played as an important member of state and a literary figure. One question demanding a certain level of inquiry is to what degree the secretaries in Islamic society were influenced by the discussions on epistolary prose in Western society, particularly those that took place in Italy in the 10th–12th centuries ad. The translation of Greek texts into Arabic was fundamental in provoking thought and inspiring the composition of numerous tracts on philosophy, for example. Many of these tracts drew on Aristotelian principles, in some cases accepting a number of them as compatible with Islamic thought, in others rejecting them. Although there is no extant record of texts translated into Arabic on epistolography, some of the similarities between discussions on letterwriting in the Middle Ages in the West and those in Islamic society – a number of which are mentioned throughout this chapter – are too close to reject out of hand. The secretaries must have been aware of at least some of the scholarly debate taking place in the West on the subject of epistolography, although it is difficult to prove this. Greek influence on Arabic literary forms is particularly apparent in the respective definitions of prose and poetry. The Arabic technical term natr for ‘prose writing’ – with a single piece of prose being denoted by one of its derivatives, that is to say the passive participle mantËr (lit. ‘scattered’) – seems to be Aristotelian in origin. The notion of being scattered would seem to reflect the one crucial difference between poetry and prose; that of the so-called ‘unlimited space’ of prose in contrast to the ‘limited space’ of poetry.26 Aristotle himself did not provide a technical term for prose, but referred to it as ‘bare words’,27 namely, a piece of writing whose components are not strictly homogenous, at least not until they are assembled into a prose narrative, or such like; in other words, its components (that is, words) are fundamentally scattered.

The foundations

[7

Epistolography represents a very long history of written communication in society. Pivec observes that ‘the art of letter-writing is probably as old as the art of writing itself’,28 and that the character of the writer in the epistolary genre probably comes through more clearly than in any other form of literary production. This latter view has clear parallels in the epistolary genre of Islamic society, for not only did the structure of letters in the Islamic tradition bear some resemblance to those of the medieval Western tradition – for instance, in the medieval five-part structure beginning with the salutatio, adapted from the Ciceronian six parts of speech into what has become known as the Bolognese ‘approved format’29 – but also in the notion of ‘overcoming spatial distance’, as Pivec puts it.30 This was a significant notion of Arabic epistolography, in which the relationship between the author and reader was for a number of stylists and literary critics perhaps the most important factor. But Arabic epistolography was certainly not modelled exclusively on that of the Greeks and the Romans. Aside from the enduring Persian influence it had many areas of uniqueness. Moreover, it is also possible that Arabic epistolography actually influenced the letter-writing of Italian society, evidence suggested perhaps by the ‘movement away from the medieval five-part letter structure toward treating letters as a written form of oratory’.31 I am working from the notion throughout this book that, unlike Greek rhetoric, which was founded on the fundamental premise of persuasion, Arabic epistolary style was driven much more by stylistic and aesthetic considerations and appreciation. Some Muslim scholars who discussed the relationship between communicative eloquence and letter-writing appeared to be influenced in part by the notion of persuasion, but this seems to have been more within the context of ‘winning the hearts of people for Islam’, an objective that was frequently cited in the primary literature. More will be said on this in due course. In addition to the question of the role of persuasion in Arabic letter-writing vis-à-vis emphasis on style, consideration needs to be given to the unity of the text. For some writers in Islamic society the principal measure of success of the epistolary objective was achieving textual unity. Ibn ŠÈt, for example, said that in any given letter ‘the last of [the secretary’s] ideas should be coordinated with the first of them’,32 a clear allusion to the notion reinforced by Ibn al-A†Èr in his work on epistolography entitled al-Ma†al al-SÅ’ir. Ibn al-AtÈr stated that the beauty and skill of a letter were ultimately judged by how successfully the conclusion could be interchanged with the introduction without affecting the unity and meaning of the discourse, although this notion appears to have been a hypothetical one without much further discussion. Thus, for him the relationship between the writer and his text was as important as that of the author and the addressee. For Ibn al-AtÈr, then, the true value and success of a text came principally from within itself.33 Textual unity was also a consideration for epistolary writers in antiquity in Western society. One anonymous text tells how various sections of an epistle could be interchanged without causing any disruption, or ‘without violating correctness’, as the author puts it.34 In the final analysis, however, a theory of epistolography grounded firmly in the roots of oratory could never totally ignore the requirements of the addressee. Related to the question of textual unity are epistolary themes. It seems quite

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The culture of letter-writing in pre-modern Islamic society

logical that if the unity of the text was one of the most important factors in epistolary discourse, then its success could only be achieved with the help of a systematic policy on textual themes. The historian HilÅl al-ÍÅbi’ (d. 448/1056) puts it like this: ‘It was the rule that letters sent to or from the caliph, or from the wazÈr to his lieutenants and vice versa, were to be restricted to one theme per letter. If more themes were to be conveyed, more letters were written to convey them.’35 It is worth elaborating here on the significance of the theme in pre-modern Islamic epistolography. The Arabic word for ‘theme’ normally used in the sources is ma‘nÅ, probably one of the most loaded, versatile, and significant terms in pre-modern Arabic discourse. Aside from its more general sense of ‘meaning’ – a term that in itself requires careful reflection – it carries the sense of ‘idea’, ‘motif’ or ‘concept’, all of which are related to the sense of theme. The relationship between idea and theme becomes clear when we examine more closely the unity of the text in a given epistle or even in an example of poetry. The composite structure of a letter is based on the fundamental premise that the main theme should be set by the author in the introductory element (the salutation), and then developed appropriately.36 Thus the structure of an epistle is made up of several integral components, but all based around one central theme, or idea. More will be said on this in Chapter 6. The notion of ‘friendship’ as manifested in the epistolary literature is a further element linking Western epistolography with that of pre-modern Islamic society. Both literatures established a link between writer and recipient of the letter, that is, the reader. Constable’s view that in the Middle Ages an absence of friendship equalled enmity37 seems to parallel the Islamic view expressed in the early ‘AbbÅsid period that the letter is ‘the testimony of friendship’ (šÅhid al-ihÅ’).38 This in itself is almost certainly an echo of the Aristotelian maxim that the principal function of a letter was to represent an absent friend. Leclerq’s observation that Pierre de Blois (d. 1203 ad), the theoretician of the epistolary genre, was responsible for the theory of friendship39 is perhaps questionable, however, since there is at least one Arabic tract devoted exclusively to this theory from the 4th/10th century.40 It is also important to note that the adjective ihwÅniyya (lit. ‘brotherly’), which was used to describe letters of an informal nature, was applied more frequently in the pre-modern period to official state letters of an informal nature than it was to letters between friends. Support for this argument lies in the fact that by the 13th/late 19th century informal epistles were no longer called rasÅ’il ihwÅniyya, but rather rasÅ’il aßdiqÅ’ ‘letters to friends’, comprising a vast field through which writers ‘may cure the ardent desire of the heart’41 by expressing their thoughts and feelings to the friend. This particular shift in terminology is significant, and deserves some attention here. Although the Aristotelian notion of absent friends resounds in the pre-modern Islamic epistolary literature, the extent of the reverberation is debatable. To suggest that letters are a testimony of friendship is not the same as saying that they replace the absent friend in the same way that the early modern scholar al-ŠartËnÈ (d. 1330/1912) did (see below, pp. 20ff.).42 What seems to have occurred between the main period under review here and the beginning of the ‘renaissance’ (nah∂a) in the Arab world (broadly speaking, from the mid-19th century ad) is a concretising and romanticising of the idea of immediate, intimate communication through the

The foundations

[9

epistle. The following description of the main objective of letter-writing in French society in the 19th century ad supports this hypothesis: ‘A letter is a conversation between people who are absent from one another … To succeed at it, imagine that you are in the presence of whomever you are addressing, that they can hear the sound of your voice and that their eyes are fixed on yours.’43 This type of reflection, which effectively relegated the letter to the status of the servant of oral communication, appears to have originated within the context of prayer and through the efforts of the supplicant to ‘think one’s way into the other person’s absence’.44 In other words, I am suggesting that the highly erudite al-ŠartËnÈ was influenced in his conception of friendship in epistles by the romantic view expressed in French society. His being a Christian would also have increased his interest in the relationship between this formula and spiritual supplication. Some scholars rejected the notion that epistolography merely fulfilled the function of a transcription of oral exchange. One such counter-argument ran thus: Letter-writing was necessary whenever the subject of conversation was serious enough to require more formal assurances, undertakings more binding than those that could be given by mere word of mouth … in a letter one could present facts in a particular order, string them together in such a way as to impel certain consequences and make those consequences more striking.45 The significant point here is that contrary to eclipsing all spatial distance between sender and recipient, as some of the Romantics argued, the letter engendered a ‘cultural distancing’ between the two players, thereby underlining its status as a document of objective evidence in every communicative context. Further con­si­ deration will be given to this aspect of the letter in the focus on Ibn Halaf in Chapter 3. What evidence is there, then, that the notion of the letter as a direct replacement for the absent friend was not fully developed in the pre-modern Islamic period? The first evidence is that the idealised view propagated by al-ŠartËnÈ that the addressee should be able to see the writer as if he were talking to him does not appear to be mentioned in the pre-modern literature. The second piece of evidence is that in some of the manuals devoted to letter-writing there appears to have been much more emphasis on the social, hierarchical relationship between the writer (or the sender) and the recipient than on the level of intimacy of their relationship. A good case in point is Ibn al-AtÈr, who, in spite of his intense interest in epistolography – as manifested in the number of diverse works by him on the subject – talks only of the required discourse elements of epistolography, not of the intimacy it creates. For example, he talks of how the secretary should correspond with the addressee in a way that is appropriate to him. For instance, the one of high rank should not be addressed in the same way as one of lower status, nor vice versa, unless he wishes to flatter him or be sycophantic towards him. In such cases it is permissible through the use of extended meanings.46 For Ibn al-AtÈr, then, there is no element of romance associated with letter-writing. Indeed, the first chapter of his al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ, which is far more concise and in some ways more focused on the practical, rather than the theoretical, elements of epistolography than his more famous

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The culture of letter-writing in pre-modern Islamic society

al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, is devoted to the hierarchical protocol of petitions. Significantly, the first category relates to what those of lower rank should write to those of higher rank; for example, to Rulers.47 One of the more noticeable features of pre-modern epistolography in Western cultures was the apparent shift in emphasis from Cicero’s ‘referential rhetoric’ to the ‘phatic rhetoric’ of the dictaminal literature, as exemplified in the important works that came out of Bologna in the 12th century ad. In the words of Perelman, this shift illustrates how the ars dictaminis literature moved away from ‘a rhetoric of persuasion toward a rhetoric of personal relationship’.48 In this regard the classical logical argument lost much of its importance. This appears to have been the case too in pre-modern Islamic society, where the hierarchical structure of epistolary texts seems to have been dominant. Cogently convincing the addressee of one’s argument seemed less important than demonstrating the power of one’s position through the parameters of the relationship between writer and addressee. Although maybe unaware, Perelman speaks with further relevance in this connection to the situation in Islamic society: The medieval arts of letter-writing presuppose a world of hierarchical relationships and thus reflect the bureaucracies which created them … The chanceries, both imperial and papal, owed their very existence to the respective secular and ecclesiastical hierarchies in which they existed. Their function was not to convince, but to command [emphasis added].49 Having now set out some of the apparent similarities between epistolary writing in medieval Western and pre-modern Islamic societies, I will now focus on the latter to demonstrate some of the characteristics that were specific to the epistolary culture of the time. Much of the credit for our cumulative understanding of the history of the epistolary genre in pre-modern Islamic society belongs to AbË al-‘AbbÅs al-QalqašandÈ (d. 821/1418), a secretary in the Egyptian Chancery during the MamlËk period. His multi-volume work entitled Íub˙ al-A‘ßÅ fÈ ÍinÅ‘at al-InšÅ’ ‘The Morning of the Night-Blind on the Craft of Composition’50 – completed in 814/1412 – is representative of an encyclopaedic tradition upheld by many Islamic scholars of the time. Al-QalqašandÈ’s Íub˙ is nothing less than a glorious, all-encompassing celebration of writing, nay communication, in all its facets,51 and constitutes the most detailed account of bureaucratic procedures, correspondence and writerly activities, and activities and requirements of the Composition Chancery (Ar. DÈwÅn al-InšÅ’) of the first eight centuries of Islam.52 In addition to his detailed discussion of the theoretical elements of epistolary communication, in which he lauds the virtues of the pen, and his debate about the merits of prose writing and poetry, for example, al-QalqašandÈ gives innumerable examples of formal and informal correspondence from the first several centuries of Islam. He sets out in meticulous detail all matters relating to bureaucratic activity, not only in its practical aspects but also in terms of genealogy of names and titles, for instance. As well as being a rich collection of information on epistolary protocol, his work is also an invaluable record of social and political life in that period, even though al-QalqašandÈ’s original contribution appears to be fairly limited, owing to his heavy dependence on a

The foundations

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handful of major sources. The two most important influences on his work were the al-Ta‘rÈf bi l-Mu߆ala˙ al-ŠarÈf of A˙mad ibn Fa∂l AllÅh al-‘UmarÈ (d. 749/1349), and the TatqÈf al-Ta‘rÈf of Ibn NÅΩir al-Jayš (d. 786/1384). These two sources were quoted frequently by al-QalqašandÈ, who relied particularly on the work of al-‘UmarÈ. The level of detail to be found in that work – for example, on the terms of address used in correspondence to Kings and Rulers in far-flung parts of the world – is remarkable.53 Hence there is no doubt that inšÅ’ had become a highly sophisticated art form well before the time of al-QalqašandÈ. Using the Íub˙ as a document for analysis of textual material is not in itself problematic, since al-QalqašandÈ can normally be trusted to give the source of a given epistle. However, the presentation of topics and epistolary themes, for instance, is by no means systematic or chronological, so it is far from easy to establish trends and developments in epistolary style across the wide historical period covered by the Íub˙. In fact, this was one of the arguments put forward by Cahen against basing a fully fledged theory of Arabic diplomatic on these sources.54 It has even been suggested that some of the terminology deployed by al-QalqašandÈ for epistles of the early period in particular, and also some of his interpretations of epistolary protocol in the the ‘AbbÅsid era, have been influenced by his understanding of their relevance in his own time, not as an accurate historical interpretation.55 Close scrutiny of the Íub˙ and comparisons with the original sources from which al-QalqašandÈ cites support this perception. In some cases al-QalqašandÈ gives a heading or terminology to a particular subject that is different from the one given in his source; for example, in the section on ‘innovation’ (ihtirÅ‘), a quality essential to the composition secretary, he cites extensively from Ibn al-AtÈr, who does not use that term at all.56 On other occasions al-QalqašandÈ was clearly using a different manuscript from the ones I have used for this study, as is shown in his citation of Ibn Halaf’s views on ‘natural disposition’ (Ar. †ab‘).57 Furthermore, although the majority of illustrative examples of inšÅ’ given in the Íub˙ are drawn from letters, they are not taken exclusively from that genre. Thus we can say that epistles are a major representation of the art of writing when the composite history of that art is taken into account, but they are not the only one. It is in fact a challenge for the contemporary researcher to extricate material relating to the epistolary genre from other materials that make up the inšÅ’ corpus in the Íub˙ – such as oratory and the maqÅma genre – and to prove that it was the dominant genre in Arabic literature during the period selected for this study. In order to help achieve this aim we need to examine the development of the inšÅ’ literature, and to investigate how the epistolary genre came to the fore as the mainstay of the art of writing, or, more specifically, artistic prose writing. There are a number of fundamental points to be made about the early development of inšÅ’. The first is that the term does not seem to have been cited until towards the end of the 3rd/early 10th century in the work of QudÅma ibn Ja‘far (d. 337/958) entitled KitÅb al-HarÅj wa-ÍinÅ‘at al-KitÅba ‘The Book of the Land Tax and the Craft of Writing’. Paul Heck’s excellent analysis of that work sets out the following important principle of the inša’ literature as manifested in QudÅma ibn Ja‘far’s tract58:

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The culture of letter-writing in pre-modern Islamic society

This plan [that is, QudÅma’s treating of the sciences that bear some relation to language first, followed by an exposé on the bureaucratic structure and admin­ is­trative modus operandi] reveals the close connection envisioned within state circles between the language and functions and organs of governance.59 In this and other respects QudÅma’s work displays considerable maturity and likeness to some of the later manuals for secretaries, and there is no doubt that our understanding of the development of the term inšÅ’ is enhanced by the information we now have about his work. At the same time the absence of the term inšÅ’ in the other secretarial handbooks of that period and later needs to be taken seriously, even though some of the subject matter of those works resembles that of tracts later classified under the umbrella of inšÅ’. One case in point here is the early work of ‘Abd al-ÓamÈd al-KÅtib (d. 133–4/750) which, although very sophisticated for its time, did not mention the term inšÅ’. Yet in spite of this absence Roemer makes the remark that ‘the practice commonly known as inšÅ’ goes back at least to ‘Abd al-ÓamÈd b.Ya˙yÅ’.60 My questioning of the accuracy of Roemer’s statement forms the basis of the second fundamental element of inšÅ’ to be demonstrated here. It is true that some of the principles of letter-writing which were subsequently elaborated upon as inšÅ’ material were actually established very early on in Islamic society in such works as those by ‘Abd al-ÓamÈd al-KÅtib, whom many believe to be the founder of Arabic epistolary style, or AbË ‘Amr Is˙Åq al-ŠaybÅnÈ (d. 213/828) who, in his al-RisÅla al-‘AdrÅ’,61 includes some early indications of the significance of the pragmatics of address.62 However, not only was an explicit deployment of the term inšÅ’ absent from these works, as I have just mentioned, but the early secretarial literature was, in the main, indistinguishable from the adab al-kÅtib works which incorporated technical and practical advice for secretaries, as well as philological principles, as Roemer correctly indicates.63 QudÅma ibn Ja‘far’s use of the term inšÅ’ is by no means incidental, for it would seem to reflect a new departure for the secretarial literature in its attempt to crystalise the relationship between the Arabic language and its role as the foundation of state affairs. The similarity in intent between Ibn Ja‘far’s tract and that of, say, Ibn Halaf (d. 455/1063) in his MawÅdd al-BayÅn is particularly striking,64 and the parallels between Ibn Ja‘far’s concerns and those of al-ÍËlÈ (d. 335/946) in his Adab al-KuttÅb, not to mention the fact that they were contemporaries, are also too obvious to ignore.65 It is worth noting that al-ÍËlÈ was one of the first writers to offer a definition of inšÅ’, although it was a very elementary one. He also provided some of the initial rules on the drawing up of official epistolary documents for the du‘Å’ ‘salutation (and invocation)’ which became such an important element of literary style and official protocol in the later period. In sum, in order for a particular work to be considered part of the inšÅ’ literature it did not have to contain that term in the title, but it can not be applied without caution and reflection to the various secretarial tracts of the first three centuries of Islam. The third fundamental to be established here within the context of inšÅ’ is that the obvious synthesis of themes to be found in three of the main forms of communication – oratory, poetry and prose (specifically epistolography) – evinces a close

The foundations

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relationship between written and verbal modes of expression, and underlines the importance of the nexus between originator and audience. More will be said on this at various points throughout the book, but especially in Chapters 2 and 3. As the cornerstone of the inšÅ’ literature, epistolary manuals in pre-modern Islamic society are divisible into three broad types. Björkmann’s old, but accurate, classification is adequate as an initial illustration of those types. He states that epistolary manuals of that period were made up of the following: i) collections of models similar to the formularies of the West ii) treatises on stylistics and rules concerning the drawing up of documents (similar to the Western artes or summae dictaminis) iii) a combination of these two, that is, formularies with theoretical com­men­tary, or theoretical treatises with examples (similar to those found in the West from the 12th century onwards).66 The letters contained in these manuals, whether authentic or merely intended as models, can be divided into two main categories: formal, official letters (rasÅ’il dÈwÅniyya), normally on matters of state,67 written in carefully formulated language and style and belonging, as Arazi and Ben Shammay put it, ‘as much to the tradition of eloquent discourse as to that of administrative prose’;68 and informal, unofficial letters (rasÅ’il ihwÅniyya) on more personal themes such as congratulations on the birth of a child, or chastisement for a lack of communication.69 The meaning of Arazi and Ben Shammay’s words here is a little misleading, however, for it is difficult to imagine a form of administrative prose that was not composed in traditional, eloquent discourse. It is probably the case that the style employed in letters was more ornate than that of the ordinary administrative discourse used in bureaucratic circles in pre-modern Islamic society, but the sources suggest that administrative prose was essentially epistolary correspondence. The volume and substance of that form of communication found in the literature would support this statement. Moreover, if correct, Arazi and Ben Shammay’s statement should also be applied to the informal type of letters which some literary critics and stylists claimed required even more stylistic acumen than the formal type. What Arazi and Ben Shammay might have said instead is that there was a palpable relationship between the form of a letter and its contents. This has certainly been demonstrated by Gully and Hinde in their article on Ibn WušmagÈr, and it fits neatly into the context of the relationship between style and content as expressed by Karlsson in his summation of the main elements of letter-writing in Greek society: en effet la lettre est une forme de la rhétorique et comporte, comme telle, une série de thèmes déterminés et des exigences stylistiques précises. Elle est, par sa nature même, en rélation étroite avec le ton adopté dans les rapports humains et avec les règles de la politesse.70 This statement underlines the fact that epistolary protocol in ancient Greek society reflected a balance between stylistic eloquence and the administrative prose of the day, but that they were indivisible components. The same can be said of letters in pre-modern Islamic society.

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The culture of letter-writing in pre-modern Islamic society

The two broad categories of letter mentioned above, that is, those of the formal and informal epistle, can easily be sub-divided further, as Hachmeier did in his analysis of the letters of AbË Is˙Åq al-ÍÅbi’ (d. 384/994). While not all epistolary collections contain the same divisible categories as that of al-ÍÅbi’s, Hachmeier’s classification of his letters represents in very broad terms that of the whole genre. He divides them into the following four groups: (i) ‘letters of deeds’, including letters of appointment, investiture and so on (ii) ‘private letters’, sent by al-ÍÅbi’ to family members and friends (iii) ‘diplomatic missives’, sent by the caliph, the Buyid emirs or viziers to other rulers or dignitaries, dealing with political and diplomatic problems (iv) ‘letters of congratulation’ and ‘condolence’.71 Hachmeier argues that those letters in category (ii) are different from those epistles of ‘friendship’ described by Arazi and Ben Shammay. He says that ‘they deal with serious “real life” matters that go far beyond the display of friendship that is the distinctive feature of ikhwÅniyyÅt’.72 Through following slightly different routes, Hachmeier and I have arrived at the same conclusion. In this connection it is worth noting that the subject matter of epistles, whether formal or informal, did not have to be of a serious or sombre nature, nor bound by thematic protocol. In accordance with the strong Arab and Islamic tradition of humour it was not unusual to find texts of a more light-hearted nature, for instance, such as the one written by the secretary AbË Is˙Åq al-ÍÅbi’ at the behest of the Ruler Mu‘Èn al-Dawla Ibn Buwayh al-DaylamÈ on the subject of being an unwanted guest.73 Another example of a sub-class of the epistolary genre, also taken from the Fņimid period, is the one in which a secretary would write to another secretary about a third person. In one example the original writer disguised his allusions to the third party by using a very clever framework for his composition based around different types of food. His letter was followed by an appropriate response from the recipient using a similar mode of discourse.74 The impact of such a technique would have been twofold. It would have entertained, and also educated the reader and the audience on a diverse range of cuisine, thus fulfilling the two principal objectives of adab. Hachmeier’s observation in this connection is especially pertinent: ‘these texts were not written primarily for the purpose of recording history, but first and foremost served a purpose in their respective historical present, be it praise (as in the panegyric poem), to resolve some business, or to instruct and entertain’.75 A further characteristic of letter-writing that was serious in its intent, but often amusing and informative in its result, was punning. This and other word games were particularly prevalent in letters on the ‘regulations of office’ (Ar. waßÅyÅ) which were composed mainly for those for whom teaching in its broadest sense was a profession. In these contexts the secretary would compose a letter that could in many places be read in two (or more) ways, such as the epistles on regulations of office for a grammarian, which was probably the most common type of letter of this kind.76 It is difficult to determine precisely when such techniques became popular because

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most of the texts we possess of this nature are post-6th/12th century. However, I would speculate that Ibn Halaf (5th/11th century) played a substantial role in its development. As a major contributor to epistolography in the Fņimid period on all themes – not least in the area of regulations of office – we find one letter from him congratulating the chief propagandist (Ar. dÅ‘È l-du‘Åt), in which he says the following: ‘I included this example with these expressions because the expressions [belonging to] this propagandist must be derived from the expressions of propaganda, appropriate to its doctrine.’77 In this instance there is no doubt that the ŠÈ‘È propagandist motives of Ibn Halaf inspired the inclusion of terms and expressions relevant to the position of chief propagandist. These motives might have been the catalyst for the development in letter-writing in which the secretaries became increasingly dependent upon the use of terminology and expressions appropriate to the relevant profession, such as that of the grammarian or judge.78 The need for an increasingly sophisticated system of communication grew as the realm of Islam spread. Diplomatic activity became more and more vibrant from the FÅtimid period onwards especially, and it is clear from the variety of places and sources noted by al-QalqašandÈ in his large collections of epistolary prose that communications by letter were an integral part of political life at that time. Such widespread demand for epistolary experts led to the production of an increasing number of monographs on the subject. One of the most interesting of these is the one by TÅj al-DÈn al-MawßilÈ (d. 700/1301), a Yemeni, whose major work entitled al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ fÈ ÍinÅ‘at al-InšÅ ‘The Embroidered Garment on the Craft of Artistic Composition’ has been largely neglected by scholars. Al-MawßilÈ was writing at the end of the 7th/13th century, and the contents of his work represent a salient example of diplomatic relations between the Yemen and MamlËk Egypt. The dÈwÅn in Cairo during this period was an institution of great activity, receiving large amounts of correspondence from many different Rulers.79 Al-MawßilÈ’s work, which will be looked at in some detail in later chapters, is a very good reflection of that. A comprehensive understanding of the term inšÅ’ is important not only with regard to the epistolary genre itself, but also because the term encompassed the science of oratory, particularly religious oration, as displayed in the work of Ibn NubÅtah (d. 768/1366),80 and also the body of maqÅma literature as exemplified in the work of al-ÓarÈrÈ.81 In fact, it has been cogently suggested that earlier examples of epistolary literature ‘supplied the precious primal material from which the first writers of the maqÅma derived their ideas’.82 Ibn al-AtÈr’s clear preference for epistolography over maqÅmÅt might have been a major factor in his strong criticisms of al-ÓarÈrÈ, and in his pointing out the shortcomings of the maqÅma genre in general. The ‘science’ of inšÅ’, as it was sometimes called, was deployed as an umbrella term for ‘composition’, as manifested principally in the epistolary genre, but also in state documents and papers. Roemer’s definition of it as ‘der Stilkunde für den Kanzleischreiber’83 is not far off the mark, since the style of a letter was as important as its substance and content. InßÅ’ was defined by al-QalqašandÈ as ‘the act of creating something [original] without following a model’.84 This definition is significant for two reasons. First, it reinforces the concept of originality and innovation

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of the writer which were two of the main foundations of epistolography running throughout the theoretical works. Second, it separates very clearly [artistic] prose, that is, letter-writing and oratory, from poetry, which was viewed (significantly) by prose specialists and secretaries as a genre of literature that did not require the same type or level of innovation. Al-QalaqašandÈ notes that in spite of poetry being bound to metre and rhyme it was incumbent upon the poet to add expressions, to postpose and prepose syntactic elements, and to use ineloquent expressions for eloquent ones, for example, in order to adhere to the rules of poetry; in other words, ideas (Ar. ma‘ÅnÈ) in poetry are a slave to expressions (alfÅΩ).85 Poetry was not subsumed within the domain of inšÅ’ because it was always regarded as literature of a different type – manΩËm (lit. ‘ordered’, here ‘bound’), as opposed to mantËr (lit. ‘scattered’, here ‘unbound’), a term applied to prose in general as I showed earlier. But the craft of epistolography (Ar. ßinÅ‘at al-rasÅ’il) was placed by al-QalqašandÈ within the [art of] inšÅ’ composition (Ar. kitÅbat al-inšÅ’) because it made up the most substantial part of it.86 Prior to that he had even stated that kitÅbat al-inšÅ’ was [only] expressed through the craft of letter-writing.87 Although the two fundamental elements of inšÅ’, that is to say, ‘the composing of speech, and the arranging of ideas’,88 appear to have been easy enough to implement in principle, a secretary was judged on how well he achieved this synthesis. The line between being a highly regarded writer and a mediocre one was very fine; for instance, a secretary could be considered an excellent composer of Chancery letters but a poor expositor of private ones.89 There is further evidence that the terms kitÅba and inšÅ’ became more or less synonymous, but this evidence is based on an assumption that Ibn al-AtÈr was the author of KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ li-ÓadÈqat al-InšÅ’ ‘The Book composed as the Key to the Garden of Artistic Composition’, about which there is some doubt. In that work the author states: The most honourable of the royal crafts, and the most radiant of them, and the most virtuous of the ranks of sovereignty, and the highest of them, and the most distinguished of its standings and the most splendid of them, is the rank of inšÅ’.90 In the introduction to that work the author (whom I am assuming for now was Ibn al-AtÈr) makes no mention of the term kitÅba which dominates his main tract on epistolography, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir. But I am arguing here that if he was the author of the KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ – which I believe he was – the synonymity of the terms inšÅ’ and kitÅba was so taken for granted that it was not necessary for him to distinguish between them. There are two very important principles of inšÅ’ requiring some elaboration here. The first is that †ab‘ ‘natural disposition, talent’ could be demonstrated in the composition of official, or formal, documents, but to a much larger degree in unofficial, or informal, letters, which gave the secretary more scope to demonstrate his literary skill. As al-QalqašandÈ put it, informal epistles on such themes as condolence and congratulations permitted the use of unusual expressions ‘which captivate hearts and come deeply from the soul’.91 In his invaluable work Óusn al-Tawassul ilÅ ÍinÅ‘at al-Tarassul ‘The Best Means to gain Access to the Craft of Letter-writing’

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al-ÓalabÈ wrote that informal letters are brought into service as ‘an exercise for the mind’, and that ‘the power of natural disposition is tested’ through them.92 It is against this background that Ibn al-AtÈr sets his criticism of AbË Is˙Åq al-ÍÅbi’, whom he acknowledges as a fine writer in the field of official administrative prose (al-sul†ÅniyyÅt) but incompetent in the composition of informal letters, especially on the theme of condolence.93 Ibn al-AtÈr’s predilection for the unique power of †ab‘94 – a quality that was either innately possessed by a secretary or poet, or not – justifies this judgement of the work of a rival scholar. It should be noted here that Ibn al-AtÈr never denied that writing could be taught to gifted individuals. For example, in his discussion on takrÈr ‘repetition’ he says: ‘and the only ones who are mindful of the use of this [point] are those steeped in eloquence, either through their natural disposition (†ab‘an), or through learning (‘ilman)’.95 However, what he maintained within the context of ‘natural disposition’ is that it was not a gift possessed by everyone. But an imbalance of †ab‘ led inevitably to a high level of performance in one or more areas, and weakness in others.96 Highly revered scholars of the language could be deemed poor composers of letters even though their literary production in other areas was highly regarded by their peers. One such case in point was al-ÓarÈrÈ, who apparently failed in his brief role as secretary in the Chancery because of his inability to compose letters.97 Makdisi’s comment that al-ÓarÈrÈ’s ‘lack of ability in letter-writing appears belied by [his] bibliography, in which a KitÅb al-RasÅ’il (The Book of Letters) is attributed to him’ is not strictly accurate, however, because, as we have shown, being the author of a collection of epistles did not guarantee the respect and admiration of one’s peers. The actual application and interpretation of †ab‘, as fitting as it is within the context of epistolary rhetoric and written communication generally, should, however, be subjected to some scrutiny. On the one hand it represents a level of natural, instinctive ability that was always attached to the art of communication in premodern Islamic society, regardless of whether that was prose or poetry. On the other hand, it seems to be a direct contradiction of the wider concept of imitation that obtains in Arabic letter-writing in this period. Not only were formal, official letters a relatively closed class of communication, in the sense that a writer’s imitation of style and formulaics played a greater role, in many ways, than innovation, but we can not be sure exactly how many of the letters that have come down to us were originals. Assuming that a fair proportion of them were merely models for imitation, then we may ask how often and to what extent the natural disposition of a writer was genuinely called into service. The second major principle of inšÅ’ in epistolography that needs to be introduced here – but developed more in later chapters – is that of the sensitivity of the writer to the social status and linguistic ability of the addressee. This was a concern shared by medieval authors of Western traditions in their epistolary manuals, such as Alberic of Monte Cassino, who stated that the first thing to consider in a letter is ‘the person to whom and the person from whom it is sent’.98 Such considerations had to be set out clearly in the salutation of an epistle.99 Citing the anonymous Principles of Letter-writing, Perelman notes that the salutation ‘is an expression of

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greeting conveying a friendly sentiment not inconsistent with the social rank of the person involved’.100 In this regard its function was essentially phatic, focusing on the exchange between the writer and the recipient (addresser and addressee). It was referential only in that it conveyed ‘specific information about the relative and absolute ranks of the writer and addressee’.101 The salutation was an important part of an epistle in the Bolognese dictiminal literature of the 12th century ad, then, and it was certainly no less important in Arabic letter-writing during the same period. One essential difference between the salutation of Western epistles and that of Islamic society, however, is that it amounted in the latter to much more than a greeting, often resulting in an extended salutation and prayer in praise of a Ruler, for instance. The writer would often ask for the help of God in blessing the addressee. The salutation, as I shall demonstrate in Chapter 6, gave the writer the perfect forum to combine his linguistic expertise with an intuitive understanding of the context. This, I would argue, represented one of the uniquely Islamic characteristics of letter-writing in pre-modern society. Some of the foundational principles of the relationship between the writer and the addressee had been laid prior to the four-century period under review in this study. Al-‘AskarÈ (d. 395/1005), for instance, stated that when writing to a Ruler on the matter of clemency (Ar. isti‘†Åf) the subject should not describe his misery profusely, since this would imply that the emir had been remiss in the care of his subjects. When writing a letter of apology (Ar. i‘tidÅr) the writer should be brief and not emphasise his innocence, since this would infer that the emir might have previously misjudged his subject.102 Al-QalqašandÈ puts it in more general terms, saying that when a secretary writes to the Ruler about himself he must use modest expressions commensurate with his role of service, and not address him with forms of eloquence that are not permitted from subject to master, for this would be tantamount to engaging the Ruler in affected eloquence (Ar. tafÅßu˙). Similarly he should not address him in common language.103 There were only exceptional circumstances when the terms of address could be turned upside down, so to speak. Such breaches of convention were only permissible within the context of ‘extended’ meaning (Ar. majÅz) in which the writer wished to employ flattery and adulation by addressing one of lower rank as though he were one of higher status, or, in principle, the other way around.104 It was not just in the particular choice of words that distinctions of rank and status were made. The layout at the beginning of the page was different for correspondence to Kings belonging to groups classed as infidels, namely, Christians from among the Byzantines, Europeans, Georgians and Abyssinians; and Jews. Letters to Rulers of these groups would not begin with the official, royal insignia but with handwritten notes from the secretary.105 The rank of the addressee also appears to have determined whether a given epistle should be written in saj‘ or not. Letters addressed to great Kings in the East and West, who were apparently sufficiently educated to understand all aspects of communicative eloquence, were written exclusively in saj‘. However, epistles addressed to lesser Kings and Rulers were not written in saj‘ at all. It is worth noting here too that the subject matter of a letter also determined its style, for if the subject matter of a letter was an event that had

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already occurred – for instance, recovery from illness, or the giving of horses, or the accession of a King to the throne – then it would be always be in saj‘, otherwise it was composed in free prose.106 The secretary, then had to be fully conversant with the ‘craft’ of the person to whom he was writing,107 but this did not just include letters for accountants or judges, or other specialists from a range of professions. When he sent a communication to a land outside his immediate domain he would need to take into account the circumstances of ‘its residents’ (Ar. qņinÈhÅ). If he (that is, the secretary receiving his communication) was one of those literary scholars well versed in the principles of communication, and fully conversant with the composition of prose writing, he would fill his letter with eloquent expressions, which ‘if the ideas in it were nicely presented would increase the magnificence of those ideas in [peoples’] hearts’. However, if the recipients were of those who could not distinguish between what was special and what was common in speech, then his letter should comprise expressions for the benefit of those listening to them who were equal in their ability to ascertain their meanings.108 The principle of selecting the most apposite material for the context is repeated at various points in the literature. It was expressed very clearly by al-‘AskarÈ in his influential KitÅb al-ÍinÅ‘atayn ‘Book of the two Arts’ [of poetry and prose],109 and echoed several centuries later by al-ŠartËnÈ, who defined inšÅ’ as ‘the craft of expressing what is intended by choosing the [appropriate] expressions and arranging them accordingly’ (cf. al-QalqašandÈ’s definition above).110 The fundamentals of inšÅ’ have continued to play a prominent role into modern times in defining the parameters of Arabic composition. Most of these principles have remained within the parameters of epistolography, but in more recent times they have broadened out to represent general rules of composition and style. It is worth reflecting for a moment on the impact of inšÅ’ after the 9th/15th century in order to relate it to the context of this discussion. Extant works on inšÅ’ and epistolography from the Ottoman period are few. However, those that have come down to us are important. For instance, the letters of al-KarmÈ (d. 1033/1624) in his principal work BadÈ‘ al-InšÅ’ wa-l-ÍifÅt display continuity in terms of style, theme and structure with some of the earlier works, and demonstrate that some of the essential components of a letter, such as the salutation (Ar. du‘Å’), were encouraged and even essential. For example, if the writer were addressing someone called Šams al-DÈn he would attempt to include at least part of that name in the salutation in order to extol the virtues of the addressee further.111 But from a stylistic viewpoint it was already becoming clear that the predictable consistency of saj‘ had effectively taken Arabic epistolary style to a dead end. Yet remarkably it was not until another 250 years or more that saj‘ was abandoned as an administrative style. Miscellaneous collections of epistles constitute a large proportion of works of the Ottoman period, such as the anonymous compilation entitled KitÅb MajmË‘ RasÅ’il wa-©ayr dÅlika (11th/17th century), which contains a collection of forms of prayer, proverbial expressions and various phrases suitable for epistolary composition. 112 The ‘Ajab al-‘UjÅb of al-ŠirwÅnÈ is a fascinating work first published in

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Calcutta in 1813. It contains letters of ‘affection’ (Ar. ma˙abba) exchanged between its author and various dignitaries and brethren, as well as formal letters on matters of state.113 These works notwithstanding, the volume and significance of inšÅ’ literature produced during the Ottoman period is very much open to question. At least one manuscript collection shows the Ottoman influence on administrative language.114 But the extent to which the literature of the early modern period by writers such as Óasan al-‘A††År reflects a continuity of pre-Ottoman epistolary style, or represents an increasingly complex use of verbal artifices (Ar. badÅ’i‘) indicative of a new brand of affectation, also remains to be pursued, although a few brief comments on it are appropriate here. Óasan Al-‘A††År’s (d. 1250/1835) important work entitled KitÅb InšÅ’ al-A††År dedicated to the ruler Mu˙ammad ‘AlÈ comprises letters on a range of subjects, including addresses to judges, scholars, and clerical and spiritual dignitaries. The extravagant style on themes such as praise and mourning reflects the opulence and the importance of patronage at that time,115 and underlines the prevailing trend throughout the history of the inšÅ’ literature that social conditions influenced the parameters of style. But most of the credit for the survival of inšÅ’ in its relationship to epistolography in the early modern period belongs to Sa‘Èd al-ŠartËnÈ. Not only did al-ŠartËnÈ write a substantial volume on inšÅ’, but his philosophy on the subject seems to represent a synthesis of pre-modern Islamic epistolography and a re-­stylised mode of letter-writing that was influenced by French epistolography in the 19th century. In fact, al-ŠartËnÈ’s major tract on the art of the secretary – al-ŠihÅb al-TÅqib fÈ ÍinÅ‘at al-KÅtib – displays more similarities with the popularised epistolary manuals of French society than it does with the formal, somewhat rigid formulae found in al-QalqašandÈ’s work, for instance.116 One of the ways in which letter-writing from the 19th century onwards differed from that of the Middle Ages was that it attempted to promote practicality rather than formality, and it drew less and less on the principles of communicative eloquence, in the context of which it had been taught for many centuries.117 The practical approach can certainly be applied to al-ŠartËnÈ’s contributions. Al-ŠartËnÈ’s definition of inšÅ’ remains, in my view, one of the most perspicacious and articulate pronouncements on the topic in the history of Arabic epistolography and style manuals. He defined inšÅ’ as follows: [InšÅ’ is] communication with the absent one by the tongue of the pen. The best of it is that which fulfils what is intended, and which takes the place of the writer in making his intentions clear, and personalising his situation and representing his desires to the addressee, with the effect that he sees the writer himself as though he were talking.118 The ‘personalising’ effect of a letter described by al-ŠartËnÈ here is remarkably similar to that depicted by William Folwood in his The Enemy of Idlenesse (mid-16th century ad): ‘An Epistle … or letter is nothing else, but a declaration, by Writing of the mindes as such as bee absent, one of them to another, even as though they were present.’119 In an environment such as pre-modern Islamic society, in which letters were very often composed with the objective of being read aloud to an audience,

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the effect on the addressee of a well-constructed epistle that stirred the emotions could, therefore, be quite profound. Al-ŠartËnÈ’s definition of inšÅ’ above seems to echo the sentiment of the medieval Greeks, who maintained that the principal function of a letter was to speak to someone in their absence.120 A further way in which al-ŠartËnÈ’s scholarship appears to have been heavily influenced by Greek thinking is in his views on oratory. Just as the status of the addressee should dictate the parameters of a given epistle, the orator needed to adapt his oratory to suit the ‘ethos of the listeners’.121 The Roman rhetorician Julius Victor declared in the 4th century ad that the letter was a type of conversation, echoing a view that had already been expressed three centuries earlier.122 This basic principle seems to be an extension of, but not identical to, what was expressed in an important, but totally neglected, 5th/11th century work by the Andalusian man of letters al-ÓumaydÈ. In his TashÈl al-SabÈl ilÅ Ta‘allum al-TarsÈl ‘Paving the Way to Learning [the Art of] Letter-writing’ he identified three different types of communicative eloquence. One of these was epistolary communication, which al-ÓumaydÈ defined as ‘the best way to gain the affection of the addressee’.123 However, there is still an important distinction to be made between the art of gaining the affection of the addressee through appropriate terms of address and use of language, and writing a letter that created and conveyed a real sense of presence. I maintain that this distinction existed throughout the history of Arabic letter-writing, in spite of al-ŠartËnÈ’s attempts to bring them together. Nonetheless, al-ŠartËnÈ’s manuals of model letters are as much an invaluable sociological and historical source as the collections of the pre-modern period. In al-ŠartËnÈ’s collections of epistles no longer do we encounter addresses to Rulers, but letters to Bishops and other religious figures, reflecting al-ŠartËnÈ’s religious persuasion, as well as the power structure of the day; and rarely do we find models of praise for revered scholars, but letters of complaints to school masters, for example. The epistolary work of al-ŠartËnÈ is important too because it signifies a marked departure from the predictable epistolary formulae adopted earlier by al-‘A††År and al-KarmÈ, which was laden with clichéd verbal artifices and themes.124 Those complex and verbose examples of epistolography marked the transition between the rigid structure of letters of the pre-modern period and those of the early modern period represented by the epistles of al-ŠartËnÈ. They reflected not only a gradual destructuring of the format of letters but also a loosening of the prose style and a further straining of the balanced rhyming discourse that was already suffering from affectation by the time of al-QalqašandÈ. Al-ŠartËnÈ was in fact one of the last scholars to make a contribution to the genre of letter-writing in Arab and Islamic society. Similar letter collections from the late 19th/early 20th centuries are very modest in number, while others are based mainly on formal exchanges between bureaucrats.125 Serruys’ collection of letters constitutes an important record of correspondence at the end of the Ottoman period and reflects some of the syntactic and lexical peculiarities of the time, especially those governed by the influence of a Turkish language that had been the main state language of communication for nearly three centuries. How a letter affected its recipient was also responsible for the detailed discussion

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in the literature on the nature of the response (Ar. jawÅb). The style of the reply, which was deemed by some scholars to be more important than the style of the original, reflected in some respects the two-way nature of a conversation. Al-QalqašandÈ raised this issue on at least two occasions, specifically in the context of the status of the response vis-à-vis the initial communication. On one occasion he even posed the question: ‘are initial communications of a higher status than the responses?’126 He went on to discuss the fascinating question of whether the initial communication or the response was ‘more communicative’ (Ar. abla©).127 Al-MawßilÈ also devoted an important section to the discussion of epistolary responses, but rather than commit himself to the importance of the response over the initial communication – or vice versa – he stated that they are ‘different in accordance with the difference of the rank of the sender and the addressee’.128 Many of the principles of inšÅ’, therefore, appear to have been carried through to the early modern period, but it is interesting to note that by the end of the 19th century the term inšÅ’ denoted a much broader scope than epistolography. It was now a term employed as much for ‘composition’ in the sense of essay writing as it was for the construction of letters. This usage of the term prevails, in fact, in Middle Eastern educational institutions today. Al-ŠartËnÈ claims that his book entitled KitÅb al-Mu‘Èn fÈ ÍinÅ‘at al-InšÅ’ ‘The Book of the Helper in the Craft of Composition’ (published in Beirut 1899) was part of an attempt to deal with the poor quality of translation from foreign languages into Arabic. But its pedagogical intent is unequivocal, since it is for the most part a practical manual for school pupils in which al-ŠartËnÈ addresses various aspects of style and composition through a series of chapters, asking pupils to identify superfluous sentences in a passage or explain underlined words or phrases, for instance. He also outlines a number of scenarios of a practical or moral nature about which the student must write a piece of composition or construct a letter. One such example is a scenario entitled ‘kÅdib ‘Ëqiba bi-kidbihi’ ‘a liar is punished for his lie’, in which a boy of twelve years teases his five-year-old sister by taking a gold coin and trying to convince her that gold grows like plants. The pupil is asked to write a piece of composition based on how he/she might envisage the dialogue developing between the two siblings. Another example is a section on expressions with opposite meanings in which the pupil is asked to praise a man, then rebuke him. Praise and rebuke were two common themes in letter-writing during the pre-modern period, as well as being characteristic elements of early poetry. Thus, al-ŠartËnÈ’s instructional approach is very interesting here because he took some of the key elements of the pre-modern epistolary genre and adapted them to what he saw as the needs of the time. An illustration of the way al-ŠartËnÈ trained his pupils in the skills of letter-writing comes in a scenario where a raisin merchant in Lebanon asks another in Damascus if he can be an agent for him in Lebanon. The merchant in Damascus takes up a reference from a customer of the one in Lebanon, and then declines the offer. The pupil is asked to give the place and date of the letter, and then to construct a response in which an apology and gratitude are expressed by the Damascene merchant.129 Among the publications of works of a similar nature at this time were al-MarßafÈ’s (d. 1307/1890) DalÈl al-Mustaršid fÈ Fann al-InšÅ’ ‘The Directory of the One seeking

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Guidance in the Art of Artistic Composition’,130 and the AsÅlÈb al-‘Arab fÈ ÍinÅ‘at al-InšÅ’ ‘The Styles of the Arabs in the Craft of Artistic Composition’ by ŠÅkir Šuqayr (Beirut, 1893). These were followed by the JawÅhir al-Adab fÈ AdabiyyÅt wa-InšÅ’ Lughat al-‘Arab by A˙mad al-HÅšimÈ,131 the extensive school ‘handbook’ on inšÅ’ discussed by van Gelder,132 and the JawÅhir al-InšÅ’ of Êan†awÈ al-JawharÈ (Cairo, 1902). But this flurry of compositions on inšÅ’ literature, as significant as it was, marked the decline of interest in the subject. Whatever the cause of the decline it was lamentable, for it did little to help stem the tide of sub-standard Arabic that had made its way into government circles, and which was displaying itself in official documents. One prominent Arab intellectual of the early modern period heavily criticised what was being published in government documents, referring to it as a third language which represented neither the form of ‘high’ Arabic in which such literature should be written, nor the language of the people.133 In other words, it was a hybrid form of the language that reflected a grave deterioration in the quality of Classical Arabic. But we should not underestimate the way in which some contemporary textbooks on composition have incorporated the basic principles of the early modern approach to composition and built on some of the key elements of the pre-modern works on epistolography. An example of this is those works that list [near-] synonyms to be used in an epistolary context. One very useful work, published as recently as 1993, takes a basic theme, breaks it up into several main thematic elements, then gives vocabulary items and expression appropriate to the topic. It also gives examples of proverbs, aphorisms and poetry relevant to the subject, or a piece of well-known prose writing, and requires the student to compose a piece of writing on that topic. Although the approach may be interpreted as traditional by readers and instructors versed more in contemporary methodologies, it does represent a synthesis of the traditional and the modern in the context of current Arabic inšÅ’ literature.134 This chapter has laid out some of the foundations of letter-writing in pre-modern Islamic society, and has made comparisons with epistolography in Western societies. It has identified inšÅ’ as the key to artistic prose style which dominated Arabic literature for a number of centuries, and has also given a brief synopsis of how some of the principles of inšÅ’ were carried through to the modern period. It is also essential that the merits of artistic prose writing, the main vehicle of communication in premodern epistolography, be compared with those of poetry and, to a lesser degree, oratory, since the value of these important modes of communication formed part of a substantial debate among literary critics and stylists of that period. This is the task of my next chapter.

Notes   1. Anonymous fl.1135, in The Rhetorical Tradition, p. 432.   2. Try, for instance, Íafwat, Jamharat RasÅ’il al-‘Arab and A˙mad, al-Natr al-KitÅbÈ fÈ l-‘Aßr al-UmawÈ.   3. Schoeler, ‘Writing and Publishing’, p. 423.   4. See for instance, the opinions of such illustrious scholars as ZaydÅn, TÅrÈh ådÅb al-Lu©a

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The culture of letter-writing in pre-modern Islamic society

al-‘Arabiyya, vol. 1, p. 433.   5. For a very general, but nonetheless informative, background to the development of epistolography up to the 4th/10th century it is worth consulting Hachmeier’s article mentioned in the prologue to this work (‘Die Entwicklung der Epistolographie vom Frühen Islam bis zum 4./10. Jahrhundert’). The time frame covered there by Hachmeier deserves a full monograph study too.   6. Perelman, ‘The Medieval Art of Letter Writing: Rhetoric as Institutional Expression’, p. 98.   7. A very long and detailed analysis of the historical development of the meaning of the word risÅla can be found in Ri∂Å, al-RasÅ’il al-Fanniyya, pp. 6–20. Hämeen-Antilla also reviews various types of risÅla, drawing the conclusion that it signifies ‘a short exposé of almost any field’. See his ‘The essay and debate (al-risÅla and al-munÅΩara)’, p. 134.   8. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, p. 53.   9. al-MawßilÈ, al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ, pp. 127–8. 10. Ibid., p. 127. 11. Ibid., p. 126. For more on this see Chapter 7 especially of the present work. 12. For this engaging proposition see Arazi and Ben Shammay, ‘RisÅla’ art., p. 533. SallÅm refers to the intellectual type of essays as rasÅ’il maw∂Ë‘iyya: See SallÅm, al-Adab fÈ l-‘Aßr al-FņimÈ, pp. 236ff. and 258. 13. For a fuller discussion of this important term see below, p. 12 and pp. 15ff. 14. This is not surprising perhaps, for Ibn al-Atir, one of the arch-exponents of the epistolary form, was very critical of what he perceived to be the predictable, pedestrian style of al-ÓarÈrÈ. 15. For example, Ibn ‘ArabÈ’s (d. 638/1240 ad) epistle entitled ‘The Spirit of Holiness in the Counselling of the Soul’ addressed to his friend al-MahdawÈ. This epistle was known by a few different names, including al-RisÅla al-Mahdawiyya. See Austin, Sufis of Andalusia, p. 17. 16. For example, Ibn al-ÍayrafÈ’s al-Af∂aliyyÅt , a collection of personal letters from the author, who was a prominent secretary, to A˙mad ibn Badr al-JamÅlÈ, the Fņimid vizier from 487/1094 to 515/1121. 17. For discussion on this see Gully, ‘The Sword and the Pen’, passim. 18. For a thorough assessment of Diem’s work see Gully’s review in British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies, No. 1, vol. 28, May 1998, pp. 193–5. 19. The reality of those similarities will recur at different points in this work. See, for instance, Chapter 7 and the du‘Å’ ‘salutation (and invocation)’ element of a letter. 20. Lanham, Salutatio Formulas in Latin Letters to 1200, p. 2. 21. One definition of the term ars dictaminis runs thus: ‘the theory of writing letters in prose; the term is also applied to a treatise or manual on the subject’. See Murphy, Rhetoric in the Middle Ages, p. 219. 22. For details of Alberic’s work see the section on ‘The Art of Letter Writing’ in Murphy’s Rhetoric in the Middle Ages, pp. 194–268, but p. 210 esp. For an example of stylistic analysis of Latin, in addition to that of Lanham’s (see n. 20), try Janson, Prose Rhythm in Medieval Latin. 23. Gully and Hinde, ‘QÅbËs ibn WušmagÈr’, passim. 24. Murphy, Rhetoric in the Middle Ages, p. 210. 25. Carter, ‘Humanism in Medieval Islam’, p. 30. 26. Arazi, ‘Une épître d’IbrÅhÈm b. HilÅl al-ÍÅbÈ’, p. 489. 27. Kennedy (transl.), Aristotle on Rhetoric, p. 198, n. 17. 28. Pivec, Stil- und Sprachentwicklung, p. 35.

The foundations

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29. Perelman, ‘The Medieval Art of Letter Writing’, p. 107. 30. Pivec, Stil- und Sprachentwicklung, p. 35. 31. Murphy, ‘Rhetoric in the Fifteenth Century’, p. 237. 32. Ibn ŠÈt al-QurašÈ, Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba, p. 14. 33. This appears to have been the main thesis of his argument throughout his famous work of literary criticism, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir. Of course, in practice an author could not totally ignore the role of the addressee in measuring the success of his literary productivity; but Ibn al-AtÈr’s attempts to find literary perfection from within a text must be regarded as novel and ingenious. More on this can be found in Chapter 6 especially. 34. Murphy, ‘Anonymous of Bologna’, pp. 21–4. 35. HilÅl al-ÍÅbi’, RusËm DÅr al-HilÅfa, p. 84. 36. The introductory salutatio was considered the defining feature of the letter in the medieval handbooks of Western epistolary literature too. For this see Rice-Henderson, ‘Erasmus on the Art of Letter-Writing’, p. 333. The salutation has been defined as follows: ‘an expression of greeting conveying a friendly sentiment not inconsistent with the social rank of the persons involved’ (see Murphy, Rhetoric in the Middle Ages, p. 196). 37. Constable, Letters and Letter-Collections, p. 15. 38. See Arazi and Ben Shammay, ‘RisÅla’ art., p. 536. 39. Leclercq, ‘L’Amitié dans les Lettres du Moyen Age’, p. 400. 40. See AbË ÓayyÅn al-Taw˙ÈdÈ’s RisÅlat al-ÍadÅqa wa-l-ÍadÈq. 41. al-ŠartËnÈ, al-ŠihÅb al-TÅqib fÈ ÍinÅ‘at al-KÅtib, p. 9. 42. For a detailed analysis of the life and works of Sa‘Èd al-ŠartËnÈ see Gully, ‘al-ŠartËnÈ’ art. 43. Dauphin, ‘Letter-Writing Manuals in the Nineteenth Century’, p. 132. 44. Ibid., p. 132. 45. Ibid., p. 133. 46. Ibn al-AtÈr, KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ, p. 53. 47. Ibid., p. 57. 48. Perelman, ‘The Medieval Art of Letter Writing’, p. 107. 49. Ibid., p. 106. 50. It has been intimated that al-QalqašandÈ wrote this work as a commentary on his maqÅma on secretaryship which was written in praise of al-QÅ∂È Mu˙È al-DÈn ibn Fa∂l AllÅh, the head of the Chancery at the time al-QalqašandÈ joined it (see editor’s introduction to the Íub˙, vol. 1, p. 22). If this was the reason for its composition then not only does it underline the unique tradition of Islamic society in which a short work on a given subject could lead to a magnum opus, but it also suggests that al-QalqašandÈ took advantage of the initial favour he gained with Ibn Fa∂l AllÅh to promote his own position through the composition of the Íub˙. For a discussion of al-QalqašandÈ’s maqÅma on secretaryship see Bosworth, ‘A MaqÅma on Secretaryship’. 51 In addition to the very detailed discussions of the obvious formal modes of communication witness the section on signs and symbols that have nothing to do with writing or script in al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 9, pp. 249ff. 52. For a sound synopsis of, among other things, statecraft, secretarial manuals, requirements of the DÈwÅn al-InšÅ’ and Chancery education, see now Muhsin al-Musawi, ‘Elite prose – pre-modern Belletrist prose’, passim. 53. Examples of this can be seen in al-QalqašandÈ’s Íub˙, vol. 8, pp. 4ff., for instance. 54. Cahen, ‘Notes de Diplomatique Arabo-Musulmane’, pp. 311–12 and 315–17 esp. 55. Björkmann, Beiträge zur Geschichte der Staatskanzlei, p. 16. 56. Cf. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 2, p. 315 and Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Ma†al al-SÅ’ir, vol. 1, pp. 87ff.

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57. For this see Chapter 3, pp. 54–5 especially. 58. See Heck, ‘The Hierarchy of Knowledge in Islamic Civilization’, and his The Construction of Knowledge in Islamic Civilization. 59 Heck, ‘The Hierarchy of Knowledge’, p. 35. 60 See Roemer, ‘InshÅ’’ art., p. 1242. 61. It is almost certain now that al-ŠaybÅnÈ, not Ibn al-Mudabbir, was the author of this work. See Bosworth, ‘Administrative Literature’, p. 161. 62. Ibn ‘Abd Rabbihi (d. 328/940), al-‘Iqd al-FarÈd, vol. 2, part 4, p. 232. 63. Roemer, ‘InshÅ’’ art., p. 1242. 64. Some of the apparent similarities between these two works have been alluded to in Bonebakker’s early, rather sketchy, analysis of Ibn Halaf’s work. See Bonebakker, ‘A Fatimid Manual for Secretaries’, pp. 307–10. 65. For more on this see Gully, ‘Epistles for Grammarians’, p. 149. 66. Björkmann, ‘Diplomatic’ art., p. 306. 67. There is very good reason to argue that letter collections of this type contain some valuable historical information not found in important history works on a particular period. See for example, Mu߆afÅ al-Šaka‘a, BadÈ‘ al-ZamÅn al-HamadÅnÈ, p. 69, where he cites the value of the letters of al-ÍÅ˙ib ibn ‘AbbÅd in this connection. 68. See Arazi and Ben Shammay, ‘RisÅla’ art., p. 537. 69. Hämeen-Antilla refers to this type of letter as ‘functional’; that is, ‘sent to convey a message’. See Hämeen-Antilla, ‘The essay and debate (al-risÅla and al-munÅΩara)’, pp. 135–6. 70 Karlsson, Cérémonial et idéologie dans l’épistolographie Byzantine, p. 15. 71. Hachmeier, ‘Private letters, official correspondence’, p. 141. Of particular interest here is Hachmeier’s observation that the fourth category is ‘so distinct in form and content that [it] can properly be considered as part of a separate group’. This form of investigation will be conducted later in this book, as a matter of fact. 72. Ibid., p. 142. 73. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, p. 450. 74. SallÅm, al-Adab fÈ l-‘Aßr al-FņimÈ, p. 245. 75. Hachmeier, ‘Private letters, official correspondence’, p. 137. History is spoken of here in its broadest context, to include literary works as well as official letters and documents. This underlines further the importance of viewing epistolography within the domain of cultural history. But Hachmeier appears to focus more on the actual historical content of literary documents than on their invaluable contribution to history as the vehicle of salvation and nostalgia. For another view of the historical value of chancery correspondence of this period see Bürgel, Die Hofkorrespondenz ‘Adud ad-Daulas. 76. For an important discussion of this see Gully, ‘Epistles for Grammarians’, pp. 151ff. 77. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 9, p. 20. 78. See also Chapter 7 of this study. 79. al-MawßilÈ, al-Burd al-Muwašša, editor’s introduction, p. 17. 80. See SallÅm, al-Adab fÈ l-‘Aßr al-AyyËbÈ, pp. 176–8. 81. As an example of the abundance of literature on the maqÅma – a genre similar to the picaresque literature, written in balanced, rhyming prose – see Brockelmann and Pellat, ‘MakÅma’ art. 82 Arazi and Ben-Shammay, ‘RisÅla’ art., p. 538. 83. Roemer, Staatschreiben der Timuridenzeit, p. 1. 84. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, p. 52. 85. Ibid., p. 58.

The foundations   86.   87.   88.   89.

[ 27

Ibid., p. 53. Ibid., p. 11. Ibid., p. 54. Mez, Die Renaissance des Islams, p. 232. More will be said on the role of the secretary in Chapters 4 and 5.   90. Ibn al-AtÈr, KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ, p. 51.   91. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 6, p. 299.   92. al-ÓalabÈ, Óusn al-Tawassul, p. 382.   93 Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 1, p. 233.   94. Ibid., for instance vol. 1, pp. 27, 99, 153. See also al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 2, pp. 317ff.   95 Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 2, p. 155.   96 Ibid., vol. 1, p. 27.   97 See Makdisi, The Rise of Humanism, p. 159.   98. Murphy, Rhetoric in the Middle Ages, p. 206. See also Murphy, ‘Rhetoric in the Fifteenth Century’, p. 236.   99. Murphy, ‘Anonymous of Bologna’, pp. 8–10. 100. Perelman, ‘The Medieval Art of Letter Writing’, p. 110. 101. Ibid., p. 110. For more on the salutation in an Islamic context see Chapter 7 below especially. 102. Kanazi, Studies in the KitÅb aß-ÍinÅ‘atayn, p. 142. 103. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 6, p. 299. 104. See Ibn al-AtÈr, KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ, p. 53. 105. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 8, p. 25. 106. Ibid., vol. 8, p. 24. 107. Ibid., vol. 1, p. 54. 108. Ibid., vol. 6, p. 298. There is more on this subject in Chapter 6. 109. Kanazi, Studies in the KitÅb aß-ÍinÅ‘atayn, p. 140. 110. al-ŠartËnÈ, al-ŠihÅb al-TÅqib, p. 7. His other major work on inšÅ’ was entitled Ma†Åli‘ al-A∂wÅ’ fÈ ÍinÅ‘at al-InšÅ’, ‘The Preludes of Light on the Craft of Writing’ (published Beirut 1910). 111. al-KarmÈ, KitÅb BadÈ‘ al-InšÅ’ wa-l-ÍifÅt, p. 31. For further information on al-KarmÈ’s work see Gully, ‘Epistles for Grammarians’, passim, but pp. 154–8 esp. 112. British Library manuscript, ref. Or.3090. 113. A˙mad ibn Mu˙ammad al-ŠirwÅnÈ, ‘Ajab al-‘UjÅb, probably ad 1864; see Brockelmann, Geschichte der arabischen Litteratur, S. II, pp. 850–1. 114. For example, the manuscript on inšÅ’ in the Chester Beatty library (no.4753) dated 10th/16th century. 115. al-‘A††År, KitÅb InšÅ’ al-A††År, passim, but pp. 158–62 esp. 116. For an excellent exposé of this, see Patel, Sa‘id al-ShartËnÈ: A Humanist of the Arab Renaissance, pp. 242–7. 117. Dauphin, ‘Letter-Writing Manuals in the Nineteenth Century’, p. 131. 118. The significance of part of this quotation, namely, that letter-writing is designed to replace the absent friend directly – ‘to close up the distance opened by writing’, as Goldberg puts it – has been discussed above.   A rather touching anecdote about the response of American Indians to the Spanish script is recounted by Goldberg, citing Desainliens from his Campo di Fior: ‘nothing seemed more marvellous … than that men should be able to open up to one another what they think from a long distance by a piece of paper being sent with black stains

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119. 120. 121. 122. 123. 124. 125.

126. 127. 128. 129. 130. 131.

132 133. 134.

The culture of letter-writing in pre-modern Islamic society marked on it. For the question was asked, whether paper knew how to speak?’ See Jonathan Goldberg, Writing Matter, p. 61. Such a reaction to what the pen produces gives some idea of how alien the notion of ‘speaking through script’ must have seemed to people whose main, or only, medium of communication is, or was, oral. Goldberg’s reference as part of this discussion to the ‘civilizing’ function of the hand is perhaps deliberately placed in parentheses, for such a notion is debatable. Goldberg, Writing Matter, p. 249. See Constable, Letters and Letter-Collections, p. 13. For an excellent analysis of this, and more, see Patel, Sa‘id al-ShartËnÈ: A Humanist of the Arab Renaissance pp. 165–9. Murphy, Rhetoric in the Middle Ages, p. 196. Significantly, very little was said again on this subject until the 11th century ad. al-ÓumaydÈ, TashÈl al-SabÈl ilÅ Ta‘allum al-TarsÈl, p. 7. See Gully, ‘Epistles for Grammarians’, passim. See Serruys, L’Arabe Moderne Étudié dans les Journaux et les Pièces Officielles. In the preface (p. x) we find the following assessment: ‘La rédaction de ces pièces est parfois vicieuse et se ressent de son origine turque. Il est bon néanmoins de se familiariser avec les bizarreries de style qu’on rencontre dans ce genre de literature.’ al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 8, p. 366. Ibid., vol. 6, p. 323. This will be discussed in more detail in Chapter 6. al-MawßilÈ, al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ, p. 125. For all this and many more illustrations see al-ŠartËnÈ, KitÅb al-Mu‘Èn fÈ ÍinÅ‘at al-InšÅ’, vol. 1, pp. 38–69. Peter Gran provides some useful references to works of this type in his Islamic Roots of Capitalism, pp. 156–7. A˙mad HÅšimÈ, JawÅhir al-Adab fÈ AdabiyyÅt wa-InšÅ’ Lu©at al-‘Arab. This is a twovolume work written in a very traditional style following a thematic approach. It illustrates the craft of artistic prose in the writings of medieval scholars. There is another work by a scholar of the same name entitled InšÅ’ al-MukÅtabÅt al-‘Aßriyya wa-l-MurÅsalÅt al-‘Arabiyya (no details of place nor date of publication) which is much more similar to the inšÅ’ work of al-ŠartËnÈ. I suspect this is the same scholar who wrote the previous work cited here, and also the one studied by van Gelder (see n. 132). Van Gelder, ‘145 topics for Arabic school essays in 1901 from A˙mad al-HÅšimÈ’s JawÅhir al-Adab fi ÍinÅ‘at InshÅ’ al-’Arab’. al-YÅzijÈ, ‘al-Lu©a al-‘åmmiyya wa-l-Lu©a al-Fuß˙Å’. The work referred to here is al-Farh, al-WÅ∂i˙ fÈ l-InšÅ’ al-‘ArabÈ.

CHAPTER

2 epistol ary prose, poetry and oratory: essentials of the debate

It is now time to turn to two of the most fundamental questions in the history of letter-writing in pre-modern Islamic society. Why and how did letter-writing come to prominence as the most important mode of written, artistic prose communication? How did it remain the most popular writerly form for so many centuries? There is no doubt that historical and social circumstances played a major role in its longevity, since the expansion of the Islamic state created a need for a reliable form of communication that could be conveyed over vast distances. But I am going to argue over the next few chapters that the success of epistolary prose, particularly in its capacity as an artistic form, was equally dependent not just on the literary skills of the secretary but also on his all-round professional acumen. In other words, these two aspects of the secretary’s daily existence went hand in hand. The continued prominence of epistolary prose was effectively guaranteed by a rigorous debate that attempted to justify the superiority of prose over poetry, and to a lesser extent, prose over oratory. Its popularity was also sustained by the very fact that the secretary controlled the literary climate to which the epistolary genre belonged, and exploited that situation to emphasise that his pen was also his sword. The changing of the name of the Chancery from DÈwÅn al-InšÅ’ ‘The Composition Chancery’ to DÈwÅn al-MukÅtabÅt ‘The Chancery of Epistolary Communication’ during the AyyËbid period is just one very important illustration of how letter-writing and epistolary prose ascended as one to full prominence. It thus also strengthened the case of those who argued for the precedence of prose over poetry, a polemic that provoked substantial debate, as I shall demonstrate shortly. One of the most cogent descriptions of the importance of Arabic letter-writing over all other forms of communication was given by Ibn al-AtÈr in his al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, which was an invaluable work of literary appreciation and criticism, and not simply a pedagogical manual for secretaries of the type that was common in the first few centuries of Islam.1 It is significant that Ibn al-AtÈr did not use the term inšÅ’ at all in his detailed and lengthy discussion of the principles of secretaryship at the

[  29  ]

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The culture of letter-writing in pre-modern Islamic society

beginning of that work. Rather, he focused exclusively on the term ‘ilm al-bayÅn, the branch of communication concerned with eloquence and clarity of expression, and, I suppose, the term in his vocabulary for literary criticism in the broadest sense. However, in spite of the absence of the term inšÅ’ in al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, I am going to assume that for him the epistolary genre, eloquence, and inšÅ’ were inseparable components. As part of a critique of al-ÓarÈrÈ’s maqÅmÅt Ibn al-AtÈr describes letter-writing as ‘a coastless sea’ in which ‘ideas are expressed anew in accordance with the coming of each new day, recurring according to the number of breaths’.2 He goes on: Do you not see that when the successful secretary exhorts one of the expanded states whose Ruler’s sword is famous, and whose endeavours are well-known, and the secretary continues to do that for a short period of fewer than ten years, he can record more than ten volumes of letters about him, with each volume being larger in size than the maqÅmÅt of al-ÓarÈrÈ. And if he wrote [just] one letter every day his letters would amass to [even] more than the number indicated here.3 Just as the literary competence of secretaries in formal and informal epistolography was often evaluated by their peers, so too was their achievement in different forms of writing. The role of †ab‘ ‘natural disposition, talent’ came very much into play here; hence a writer could be very strong in poetry but weak in prose, or highly skilled in the art of maqÅmÅt but not so competent in epistolography.4 The historian al-MarzËqÈ argued that very few scholars were able to master the art of poetry and prose writing5 although the biographical literature states that many scholars attempted to do just that, such as AbË ‘AlÈ al-BaßÈr (died between 256/870 and 279/892), a poet who wrote epistles, or AbË Is˙Åq al-ÍÅbÈ, the famous secretary who also wrote an anthology of poetry. The process of judging the scholarship of one’s peers no doubt contributed to the vibrant debate on the merits of prose and poetry of the 4th/10th century in which some of the major differences between the two genres appear to have escaped the attention of most of the scholars involved in the debate.6 Ibn al-AtÈr’s al-Matal al-SÅ’ir is a perfect example of the dilemma faced by him and other prominent literary critics, such as AbË HilÅl al-‘AskarÈ in his KitÅb al-Íina‘atayn ‘The Book of the Two Crafts’. The full title of Ibn al-AtÈr’s work – al-Matal al-SÅ’ir fÈ Adab al-KÅtib wa-l-ŠÅ‘ir ‘The Model that shows the Way for the Discipline of the Secretary and the Poet’ – suggests an equal admiration and respect for prose and poetry. Since his main objective was to demonstrate the subliminal benefits of bayÅn (‘clarity of expression, exposition’) in language he could not exclude poetry because some of the finest examples of bayÅn are found in poetry. But Ibn al-AtÈr’s predilection for prose over poetry becomes obvious as we read his work. Even formal grammar for him was simply a means to an end, a tool by which the more profound elements of meaning could be established. I am now going to examine in more detail the complex relationship between poetry, oratory and prose in Arabic literature as it is presented by the pre-modern literary critics, and to illustrate how some of them argued that epistolary prose (or the craft of writing) was the supreme literary art form. The discussion will be

Epistolary prose, poetry and oratory

[ 31

balanced by a brief evaluation of those writers who attempted to assert the authority of poetry over prose. Poetry is the first of the above three disciplines I shall look at here. It is important to emphasise the immense cultural and emotional value of poetry for the Arab people. The pre-Islamic poetic tradition, on which the early development of Arabic literature is founded, began for the Arabs a love affair with poetry which remains undiminished. This is not the place to look in depth at the history of Arabic poetry; besides, the present writer is not best placed to do that. But this is the moment to note that when an Arab wishes to illustrate one of life’s maxims or a personal or related experience in a literary form he/she will often draw on a well-known verse of poetry, as opposed to a piece of prose or oratory. As Ibn Halaf noted, ‘it has been said that nothing affects the ear more quickly than a rare verse [of poetry]’.7 One of the theoretical advantages held by poetry over prose was that at its foundation lay the theory of prosody. This theory was developed in the 1st/7th century and has been upheld for the most part until today. The brilliance of this prosodic theory was never challenged by anything similar in the field of prose, although Ibn al-AtÈr did propose a fascinating, but rather primitive, syllable theory in Arabic prose.8 The translated excerpts of poetry in Cantarino’s volume on Arabic poetics in the Golden Age are just one illustration of the esteem in which poetry was held.9 The content of some of those excerpts mirrors exactly what the prose writers were attempting to show about the supremacy of their own discipline. The complexity of the prose versus poetry debate is highlighted by the inclusion in Cantarino of a passage from Ibn al-AtÈr in which he describes the merits of poetry. But what Cantarino does not give is an opposite view that reflects Ibn al-AtÈr’s true position on this issue. The role of poetry was never redundant even within the context of epistolary prose. Letters were frequently embellished with citations of poetry, and poetry was often an essential ingredient in the writer’s achieving his objective of communicating successfully on a given theme. The contribution of poetry to the epistolary genre can be seen in the scholarly compilations of poetry used to embellish letters.10 Other writers such as al-MawßilÈ included a limited number of poetic citations to illustrate their function within the epistolary context, and to provide an easily absorbed and ‘user-friendly’ handbook of epistolary etiquette.11 Ibn Halaf stated that one of the most honourable virtues of poetry was its embellishment of the (literary) sessions of Kings, which should be ‘replete with praise of them’.12 Such citations became an integral part of the letter-writing process. It can not have escaped the notice of those scholars who argued vehemently for the precedence of poetry over prose that when adornment (specifically the rhyming of cola within lines of poetry (Ar. tarßÈ‘)), became such an important focus of a writer’s style, letters would often end up containing more poetry than prose.13 The overlap between poetry and prose became increasingly apparent in form and function. Not only were many themes common to both literary forms, as I shall discuss shortly, but the almost obsessive preoccupation with saj‘ in prose meant that metre became the only remaining distinguishing feature between poetry and prose. Yet even in that connection the two disciplines grew closer together as rhythm patterns in letter-writing became more discernible. Ibn al-AtÈr even went so far as to say that everything the secretary requires for the

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The culture of letter-writing in pre-modern Islamic society

art of poetry is connected to the art of prose,14 although he qualified the statement by showing that what he was actually referring to were the devices of communicative eloquence such as metaphor (borrowing), and other foundational devices of writing, such as the allusive openings.15 By the AyyËbid period the citation of poetry had become mainly a characteristic of the informal type of letters,16 while Qur’Ånic citation was more the preserve of formal letters.17 Moreover, while the citation of poetry in informal epistles was permitted either in imitation of previous verse or as innovation, citations of it in formal letters to Rulers were dependent solely on imitation,18 with no scope for innovation. This was presumably because poetry that had been approved and accepted by the scholarly community was more reliable and less likely to contravene accepted protocol than newly composed verse. It is also an indication that formal letters – which more often than not involved communication with dignitaries and even Kings – were to be adorned only with the most revered of textual material. As a compendium of poetic citations deployed in letter-writing the value of al-Ta‘ÅlibÈ’s (d. 429/1038) al-Munta˙al should not be underestimated. That work is not only a significant contribution to the poetic heritage of the Arabs in its preservation of poetry by some of the finest Muslim poets within one anthology, but it also emphasises the role of poetry in epistolography. It does this in two ways. First it underlines just how common the citation of poetry was in letter-writing. Second, and perhaps even more important, it illustrates how many of the prominent themes of poetry became the trademark of epistolary prose; for example, congratulating, praising, rebuking, condoling, and so on.19 In fact, some later poems from the MamlËk period were even subsumed within the category of ihwÅniyyÅt, a classification that was normally reserved for epistolography.20 The Munta˙al begins with a celebration of script, writing, and balÅ©a, but through the citation of famous poetry written on these subjects. That work, which also went under the name of Kanz al-KuttÅb, contains a total of 2,500 passages from different poets.21 The categories are even classified according to theme in the same way as collections of letters were. Al-Ta‘ÅlibÈ also wrote other works that furnished the needs of secretaries. His HÅßß al-HÅßß (‘The Best Works from the Elite Authors’) was a compendium of useful quotations and stylistic models of poetry [and prose] designed to be drawn upon for the purposes of adorning correspondence. The contents of the Munta˙al also reflect al-Ta‘ÅlibÈ’s own personal preference for poetry over prose. This bias towards one discipline or the other was not unusual. Ibn al-Mu‘tazz (d. 296/908 ad), one of the finest and most influential poets of the ‘AbbÅsid era, wrote a whole treatise in poetic form on how to correspond with friends using poetry. There were also later examples of this, such as the DÈwÅn of al-DaylamÈ (d. 428/1037).22 Composing whole texts in poetry facilitated the process of committing material to memory, as some of the later classics of Arabic literature such as the Alfiyya of Ibn MÅlik, a grammatical treatise of one thousand verses, have demonstrated. The benefits of memorisation were always twofold: to assist the learning process, and to preserve each individual corpus of text that was an integral part of the Islamic literary heritage. Works written in rhyme, particularly poetic rhyme, aided this process.

Epistolary prose, poetry and oratory

[ 33

The acceptance of poetic citation in letters was not without controversy, however, and it became the subject of some debate between at least two of the key writers of the 5th–9th/11th–15th centuries. Ibn Halaf argued that poetry should not be included in epistles emanating from Rulers, nor in those addressed to them, partly because ‘poetry is a different craft from the craft of epistolography, and the mixing of crafts is not deemed good’.23 On the other hand, Ibn ŠÈt maintained that poetic citations were acceptable, but only in letters originating from the Ruler. Al-QalqašandÈ attempted to find common ground in these two views by suggesting that Ibn Halaf intended that poetry was not permitted in correspondence from Rulers to those below them; however, if they were writing to those of equal or similar rank, then poetry could be included ‘to adorn the unbound [prose] with the bound [poetry], and to unite the two types of speech which represent the purity of his [the writer’s] objectives’.24 One of the best examples of a scholar who critiqued prose and poetry, and came down in favour of the latter, is al-‘AskarÈ. In his KitÅb al-ÍinÅ‘atayn he fully acknow­ ledged the merits of poetry and prose, but classified them both, together with oratory, as ‘bound speech’, reflecting the view held by some that by al-‘AskarÈ’s time poetry and prose were becoming closer in terms of style, structure and rhythm.25 The list of literary devices common to poetry and [epistolary] prose is actually quite extensive, with one non-exhaustive list amounting to more than thirty items.26 Al-‘AskarÈ often compared the introduction of an epistle with that of a poetic ode (Ar. qaßÈda), and sought ways of setting the positive qualities of poetry against the negative ones of prose. One such example is his analysis of brevity (ÈjÅz). According to al-‘AskarÈ, ÈjÅz was only good communicatively in poetry, whereas in epistles and oratory it could be a barrier to good style.27 Why al-‘AskarÈ championed poetry over prose is not really clear, for he was of Persian origin. Given the strong connection between the secretaries and a Persianinspired prose within the early secretarial class, one might have expected him to favour prose.28 However, Arabic prose style had probably developed a sufficiently Arab identity of its own by the time of al-‘AskarÈ so that the close affiliation between those of non-Arab lineage and Arabic prose writing no longer influenced a writer’s preference for prose or poetry. In contrast, Ibn al-AtÈr leaned heavily towards prose as his favoured vehicle of communication, as I mentioned above. One example of this was his acknowledgement that i‘jÅz, the uniquely Islamic concept of ‘inimitability’ – specifically in the Qur’Ån – is connected only with prose, not poetry.29 Through this line of argument prose instantly elevates itself above poetry. But Ibn al-AtÈr fully acknow­ ledged the immeasurable contribution of poetry to the Arab and Islamic literary heritage, not just for its volume – with which he compared the output of prose as a ‘drop in the ocean’ – but also because every conceivable (literary) motif (Ar. ma‘nÅ) had already been deposited in poetry.30 Therefore, it was essential for a secretary to memorise poems and use the motifs of poetry in his written orations and letters of communication. His admiration for poetry is also reflected in the way that he often begins the discussion of literary devices, such as tahalluß and iqti∂Åb, with a detailed presentation of their deployment in poetry, before moving on to their use in

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The culture of letter-writing in pre-modern Islamic society

prose.31 But his preference for prose over poetry is very clear from this quotation: ‘the composition secretary (Ar. munši’) must set his focus in the art of letter-writing on the prosification of verse’.32 In other words, the main objective of epistolary writing was to transform all verse into prose. This is a view that Ibn al-AtÈr supported fully in his book dedicated to that very topic.33 It is also one I shall be expanding on towards the end of this chapter and again in Chapter 6. Other scholars, such as Ibn ŠÈt, approached the issue from a different perspective. He stated the following: All the attributes of poetry fall within those of prose except metre. The proficient poet is capable of being an eloquent secretary, whereas the secretary, if he does not have poetry in his natural disposition, is incapable of being a poet. This is because poetry that is not part of one’s natural disposition can not be acquired through practice.34 He went further, saying that many skilled writers have stated the following (cf. Ibn al-AtÈr above): Writing is the prosification of poetry [lit., the unbinding of bound verse], since all expressions have been employed for [expressing] the motifs of poetry … So, if a secretary is proficient he looks at the motif intended in poetry and unties its arrangement in order to adorn his speech.35 Ibn ŠÈt and Ibn al-AtÈr seem to be approaching the same topic from a different angle, therefore. Ibn ŠÈt appears to be saying that epistolography derives its strength from poetry, whereas Ibn al-AtÈr indicates that prose writing is the foundation of epistolography and poetry is merely its tool. The relationship between poetry and prose formed the basis of a 5th/11th century work entitled KitÅb al-ImtÅ‘ wa-l-Mu’Ånasa (‘The Book of Pleasure and Conviviality’) by AbË ÓayyÅn al-Taw˙ÈdÈ (d. 414/1023). In that work al-Taw˙ÈdÈ set out the respective merits of each genre and concluded that they are equally relevant to society. Each side of the argument was balanced by an opposite view, such as in the scenario where a poet recounts how poetry plays a role in the telling of history, while the prose writer attempts to underline his essential position as a recorder of important affairs of state.36 Such polemics mirror to some degree the literary debates between the sword and the pen in which each ‘implement’ was given a speaking role to assert its own value to the state. Although the significance of these debates should not be overstated, since their contribution to the literature in terms of volume is quite small, they did represent points of conflict in Islamic society that required intellectual expression. This was part of the aspiration of some secretaries to develop a complex and extravagant prose style to match the established appeal of poetic language, inspired by the political and societal developments of the 3rd–4th/9th–10th centuries.37 Is it too conspiratorial, on the other hand, to suggest that a number of epistolary collections have never come down to us because some of the texts were destroyed by poets in an effort to maintain the primacy of poetry?38 Two writers who unequivocally asserted the value of prose over poetry were al-QalqašandÈ and Ibn Halaf. Al-QalqašandÈ drew extensively on the MawÅdd

Epistolary prose, poetry and oratory

[ 35

al-BayÅn of Ibn Halaf, and it is therefore not surprising that they shared the same passion – promoting the craft of (prose) writing over all other crafts. Ibn Halaf’s MawÅdd al-BayÅn is an extremely important work not just as a manual for secretaries but also for its discussion of literary theory. For now, however, it is worth noting a few remarks made by al-QalqašandÈ which not only seem to reflect the views of Ibn Halaf, but also appear prima facie to be more in accordance with those of Ibn al-AtÈr than those of Ibn ŠÈt noted above. Al-QalqašandÈ’s arguments for the precedence of prose over poetry have been noted in part above. In spite of his clear preference for prose, his judgements were based mainly on perceived negativities in poetry rather than the obvious advantages held by prose. In fact, al-QalqašandÈ spends two-thirds of one page in praise of poetry before stating that prose is ‘of a higher rank and status’ because in prose, expressions are subordinate to ideas,39 but in poetry form is more important than content. To support this argument he contrasts an attempt to convert prose into poetry with an effort to prosify a piece of verse. The prose section he cites had been converted unsuccessfully into poetry because of the inordinate number of expressions involved in its transformation, and the subsequent loss of its beauty. In contrast al-QalqašandÈ shows how successfully Ibn al-AtÈr converted a piece of poetry from the famous poet al-MutanabbÈ (d. 354/965)40 into prose, employing some of the key verbal artifices of the time such as tawriya (hidden meaning). Al-QalqašandÈ offers a more balanced evaluation of the respective values of poetry and prose than some scholars, which suggests that we can hardly take his apparent heavy criticism of poetry very seriously. He begins his discussion by acknowledging the need for the memorisation of verses of poetry and their incorporation into letters as a form of adornment. After citing some verses from the Qur’Ån to demonstrate the superiority of prose over poetry al-QalqašandÈ states that the [communicative] objectives of poetry are full of lies,41 and that they deviate into impossible things, transgress limits and go beyond the norm. By contrast prose, that is, oratory and letter-writing, is honourable in its subject matter, and sound in its authority. Oratory, for example, is founded on the praising and glorifying of God, and blessing of the Prophet Mu˙ammad, as well as reminding [people] and making [them] desirous of the after life, and urging them to be cooperative and favourable toward one another. Letter-writing is founded on the interests of the Muslim community. Its royal correspondence sustains citizens. It is also the backbone of the people in important matters of religion, as well as the provider of other innumerable benefits.42 What al-QalqašandÈ appears to be saying here is that the function of poetry does not extend beyond the secular, whereas prose has religious, maybe spiritual, qualities. Ibn Halaf’s comments about the decline of poetry in the face of prose writing are used by al-QalqašandÈ at this point to underscore his own thoughts. Notwithstanding the preference of some writers for prose or poetry, the source material shows that deployment of the most stylistically attractive and thematically appropriate material was paramount, regardless of whether that material derived from poetry or prose. In another of al-‘AskarÈ’s important works, the DÈwÅn al-Ma‘ÅnÈ, he cites examples of prose and poetry to illustrate particular themes employed in both genres of writing; for instance, on the theme of ‘apology’ (Ar. i‘tidÅr).43 On the

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The culture of letter-writing in pre-modern Islamic society

theme of ‘congratulating’ (Ar. tahni’a) al-QalqašandÈ cites only poetry to give the finest textual illustration of how to congratulate someone on the birth of twins.44 This example comes in a section on the citation of poetry in the informal type of letters.45 The use of language in poetry and prose was an essential part of the criteria for setting language standards. Any expression from poetry or prose could in principle function as an example of linguistic excellence and beauty in one context as much as it could represent improper use and ugliness in another. One such instance is where the verb yu’dÈ ([such behaviour] annoys) occurs in the Qur’Ån (SËra 33: 53) as an example of fine usage (fÈ ©Åyat al-˙usn wa-l-†alÅwa) but in a verse of poetry by al-MutanabbÈ as an example of ‘worn out incorrect [usage]’ (fa-jÅ’at rattatan mustahjanatan)’.46 In short, prose writers could not do without poetry, and poets could not escape the equally important presence of prose and its stylistic impact on Arabic literature in general. Perhaps the clearest example of the distinction between the two disciplines of poetry and prose was given by IbrÅhÈm ibn HilÅl al-ÍÅbi’: The finest epistolary craft is that in which the motif is clear, and whose objective is given to you immediately you hear it; but the finest poetry is that which obscures, and whose objective is not given to you until you have spent some time listening to it.47 What al-ÍÅbi’ appears to be saying is that through the constraints of metre and rhyme poetry achieves its effect by being obscure in its ideas, for if it were to have the clarity of prose it would, in a sense, be vacuous. However, prose, being free from these constraints, is able to express itself through clarity. But this view was not accepted by Ibn al-AtÈr. Not only did he refute al-ÍÅbi’s apparent misunderstanding of the relationship between clarity of expression and balÅ©a, saying that clarity should be a requirement of both prose and poetry, but he also quarrelled with the notion that the subject matter of poetry and prose was similar. He noted that ‘while the poet describes dwellings and traces of encampments, and craves for passions and desires, the secretary writes about the yearning for the homeland, the homes of loved ones and brethren’.48 He also argued in favour of the uniqueness of prose by saying that there are certain expressions which are unacceptable in prose, unlike in poetry, where anything is possible. If the poet wishes to deploy large numbers of topics and different ideas he can not sustain the quality of writing over hundreds of verses; rather he can produce excellent poetry in only a few verses. In spite of this view, however, there is little point in trying to make the case that Ibn al-AtÈr was totally dismissive of the value of the poetry when compared to prose. Indeed, many of the literary devices that make up the second part of the al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, such as those dealing with the unity of the text,49 have some of their best representations in poetry. One essential element separating the two disciplines, which might have given prose writers a sense of superiority over poets, is that whereas poetry was intended only for recitation and oral dissemination, prose was intended to be written down and recited. In order to achieve longevity and even posterity for prose, the future

Epistolary prose, poetry and oratory

[ 37

recitation of prose texts depended on there being a preserved and written record of them. Poetry, however, continued to rely on an oral transmitter after the death of the poet.50 Ultimately, however, the Qur’Ån was the definitive guide in this polemic, since it ‘was published in two parallel ways’, as Schoeler puts it. On the one hand master copies of it were deposited, and on the other hand it was recited.51 It is no coincidence, therefore, that the very first revealed text of the Qur’Ån begins with the (ambiguous) command of ‘read/recite’. The debate on the relative merits of prose and poetry reached its zenith during the 4th–5th/10th–11th centuries, and it continued to be of real interest only to the secretaries themselves, most of who naturally displayed a preference for [artistic] prose over poetry. However, the reality was that the Arab and Islamic literature could not do without either, so the views of secretaries such as al-QalqašandÈ should be viewed principally as no more than an attempt to promote the discipline that would best serve their interests. Beale’s comment on prose and poetry seems to be particularly relevant to the conclusions I have drawn here: ‘In the prose and poetry of primarily oral civilizations the ritualistic, political and instrumental, and aesthetic functions of language are more at ease together, and forms and genres of discourse are not sharply differentiated’.52 In other words, however much scholars attempted to champion prose over poetry, or vice versa, the fact remained that the only significant difference between the two genres was that poetry was bound by metre and rhyme. Yet in a way, proponents of poetry could claim a sense of justification in their stance against prose. After all, it was their discipline that gave way to prose as a more prevalent art form, yet lent it most of the foundations of its success. Not only did prose advance and develop some of the themes of poetry, as we have already seen, but it developed its own acoustic rhythm, moving through into what Havelock calls a ‘semantic rhythm’ that was redolent in some senses of poetry.53 Thus, although it could not be claimed that poetry became displaced in the Arab-Islamic heritage as ‘the instrument for the establishment of a cultural tradition’, nevertheless its preeminence as a literary genre was not sustained in the same way as it had been during the first few centuries of Islam.54 It was not just the shared themes, or motifs, which drew the two disciplines of poetry and prose together, however, but also structural issues. There were important similarities between the structure of certain types of poetry and prose at given points in history. In his important, and underused, work on tropes (Ar. badÈ‘) Cachia documents nearly two hundred categories of literary ‘schemes’ recorded by ‘Abd al-˝anÈ al-NÅbulsÈ in the 18th century ad. These verbal artifices, presented in groups ranging from those dealing with phonetic or graphic features to those relating to meaning or variations of presentation, capture all the flavour of literary aestheticism. Of immediate relevance, in Cachia’s work, to this discussion are the first few categories illustrating a large degree of homogeneity between poetry and prose that was conveniently pushed aside by those advocating the supremacy of their art, whether that was poetry or prose.55 Particularly relevant are the categories of allusive opening (Ar. barÅ‘at al-istihlÅl), felicitous transition (Ar. ˙usn al-tahalluß), and felicitous ending (Ar. ˙usn al-hitÅm).56 I now want to explore briefly these categories in accordance

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The culture of letter-writing in pre-modern Islamic society

with Cachia’s discussion. The translations used in the following section are his. By the time of al-NÅbulsÈ (d. 1144/1731) the ‘allusive opening’ had, according to Cachia, developed as ‘an outgrowth of the felicitous opening (Ar. barÅ‘at al-ma†la‘)’, and was ‘by late authorities made into a separate trope in both prose and verse’. Cachia’s definition of ‘allusive opening’ runs as follows: ‘Making one’s opening words indicative of one’s intention, not by explicit statement but by subtle hinting.’ The example of an ‘allusive opening’ cited by al-NÅbulsÈ (and chosen by Cachia) is taken from the poetry of AbË TammÅm (d. 232/846) in praise of IsmÅ‘Èl ibn ŠihÅb, in which he thanks him for his generous treatment of him: O lightning, be ever on top of the shining clouds. And through them produce a bountiful downpour! Here the poet is calling down rain upon the region ‘in an indication that the main theme of the poem is to be thanking and praising the patron’.57 ‘Felicitous transition’ (Ar. ˙usn al-tahalluß) is an equally interesting trope. It is likely that the concept developed originally within the discipline of poetry, as al-NÅbulsÈ says: [Since the classical Arabic ode had a succession of themes, usually progressing from an amatory prelude to praise of a patron,] this trope consists of passing from such an introductory theme as love or self-glorification or lamentation to a topic concerning the patron in the most pleasing style possible, slipping into it elegantly, with such subtlety that the listener scarcely senses that one theme has been relinquished before he finds himself involved in the text [emphasis added].58 However, al-NÅbulsÈ points out that this device was indicative of ‘late poetry’, which raises the following interesting questions. Given the fact that Ibn al-AtÈr appears to have been one of the first literary critics to have addressed the use of this device in prose, at what point did it (and others) become a shared property of prose and poetry? Is it possible that the nomenclature applied to these (and other) devices changed subtly over the centuries so that they occurred under different names or in various contexts? The concept of ‘felicitious ending’ (Ar. ˙usn al-hitÅm) is one that also requires consideration. Although there was surprisingly little emphasis on the theory of the conclusion (Ar. hÅtima) in epistolary prose (see further here, Chapter 6), it is clear that it functioned as an integral component of the structure of that genre. As al-NÅbulsÈ states, the function of the felicitious ending was ‘bringing an eloquent discourse – whether it were a poem or an oration or an epistle – to a close with the most appropriate notion on which to discontinue utterance …’.59 The preceding examples from al-NÅbulsÈ suggest that although the above categories were applicable to poetry and prose, the normal inclination of their expositor was to cite examples primarily from poetry, underlining the fact that most of them seem to have originated within the context of poetry and were then later applied to prose. It is now time to discuss the role of oratory as a vehicle of communication in

Epistolary prose, poetry and oratory

[ 39

Islamic society, since it too was an important element in the development of the epistolary genre, and also intrinsic to the development of inšÅ’. Oratory as a literary category pre-dated letter-writing, for the former existed in pre-Islamic society whereas letter-writing did not, with the latter developing under the strong influence of Persian and Greek culture.60 A knowledge of oratory was one of the main requirements for the secretary as part of his composite knowledge of the textual materials of the Arabic heritage, for he needed to be able to incorporate parts of sermons into the introductory parts of letters, as well as into other forms of epistolary communications, such as letters of appointment.61 According to AbË Ja‘far al-Na˙˙Ås (d. 339/950), the art of writing was greatly influenced by oratory, and hence the secretaries were also influenced by orators. For him, orations were among the repositories of the secret of communicative eloquence (min mustawda‘Åt sirr al-balÅ©a).62 Oratory was a particularly important aspect of Arabic prose writing in the early Islamic period because it was used for political and religious purposes. Al-QalqašandÈ goes so far as to say that it was the main vehicle of expression for views and ideas in early Islam, but that its role was later replaced by letter-writing. But oratory was also a significant form of communication and literature during the Fņimid, AyyËbid and MamlËk periods, in which religious oratory gradually became more prominent than political oratory. SallÅm suggests that religious oratory was so prominent in the AyyËbid period because Islamic society reacted with a strong nationalistic and religious fervour against the Crusaders so that Islam would be victorious.63 Al-‘AskarÈ compared the two disciplines of prose and oratory in a number of ways. He argued that what essentially sets them apart from poetry is that they are not associated with either rhyme or metre, as noted earlier. But more than that, prose and oratory draw on a similar type of linguistic sensibility in the writer. A well-constructed letter should theoretically be transferable into a piece of oratory, and vice versa. This view seems to have been carried forward into the early modern period in the work of al-ŠartËnÈ, who reminds us that many of the earlier themes of oratory, such as congratulations and thanks,64 had been incorporated into epistolography. Thus it is now clear that prose borrowed themes from oratory and poetry. The merits of oratory over poetry were also debated by some scholars, but as in the debate on prose versus poetry an individual’s preference would determine which of the two crafts was deemed superior. One scholar at least argued that the impact of an oration was transient, and that when an orator had finished a particular piece some of it might be memorised, but some of it would be forgotten. By contrast he suggested that not one verse of poetry had ever been lost or forgotten. But al-QalqašandÈ proposed a counter-argument to this, remarking that poetry could be easily memorised and transmitted, but oratory could be mastered only by a few and was also difficult to transmit.65 The relationship between poetry and oratory was formed in the earlier Arabic literature. Not only did poetry and oratory share the distinction of being part of the pre-Islamic literary domain, but they also appear to have traded stylistic features. Beeston observes that in the pre-‘AbbÅsid period Arabic poetry knew almost nothing of the main stylistic characteristics of oratory, even though both these devices were indicative of Near Eastern poetry. However, that situation changed in ‘AbbÅsid and post-‘AbbÅsid poetry in which ‘the orna-

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The culture of letter-writing in pre-modern Islamic society

mental rhetorical style (badÈ‘) … has taken on all the complex rhetorical devices of the early hu†bah’.66 Ibn Halaf discussed the role of oratory as part of the system he called ‘the art of composing speech’ (Ar. ßinÅ‘at ta’lÈf al-kalÅm), a classification that I have not found elsewhere in the literature on this subject. Writing, namely, epistolary prose, oratory and poetry fall within this system. Ibn Halaf argued that on the one hand they are equal components because they each possess a rank of honour and virtue (in the system of Arabic communication), but on the other hand they are not equal because writing is of a higher rank than oratory, and oratory is of a more elevated status than poetry. Although he said that to prove the merit of epistolary writing over the other two arts would require a very lengthy explanation, he summarised his thesis by claiming that the epistolary secretary is required at all times of day to write on behalf of the Ruler on all subjects, whereas the function of the other two crafts was much more limited.67 There are some plausible similarities between the roles of oratory in Islamic society and in Western society, as reflected in the ars praedicandi (sermon writing) literature, for example. Constable notes that ‘the concept of the letter as sermo absentium opened the way to include within the epistolary genre many works –especially works like sermons …, in which the writer sought to appeal directly to the reader – that would not today commonly be written in the form of a letter’.68 In the Islamic literature it is most unlikely that the incorporation of oratory into the domain of inšÅ’ was carried out with such forethought. Rather, the only distinction between the written word, as represented by epistolary prose, and the spoken word, as represented by oratory, was simply that the latter was originally intended only to be recited and heard, whereas the former was intended to be written and heard. But in most respects they were very similar, with both types being part of ‘unbound speech’, and both styles becoming more and more focused on saj‘.69 The written and spoken word was so closely related in terms of its impact upon the audience that al-QalqašandÈ actually said that ‘sermons are a part of writing, and one of its types’.70 Al-‘AskarÈ believed that the contents of a letter and a sermon could, theoretically, be interchanged very easily. He said the following: When the secretary wishes to transfer the sermon to the letter he is able to do so, and when the craftsman of this art memorises many of the communicative sermons, and gets to know the purposes of oratory and the sources of eloquence and points of communication, and comes to know the eloquent and famous orators, then the field of speech becomes wide open for him, and the false elements of prose become easy for him [to identify], and the difficulties of meanings are much easier for him [to comprehend]. What was hidden inside him flows over his tongue so that he can deposit it into his prose, and include it in his letters.71 But although some of the structural elements of letters and oratory were not the same – for instance, sermons did not require nearly as much adherence to protocol in the salutation and invocation as prose – they were viewed by most literary figures

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as belonging to a different category from poetry, and as equal representatives of prose style. Indeed, oratory was often given prominence in the sources for its exemplary style, as in the example from the Caliph al-Mu‘izz li-DÈn AllÅh on the death of his son ManßËr, in which the pace and length of the oratory reflects very closely the mood and the subject matter.72 Oratory was, like prose, also acknowledged as a form of expression requiring special skills. Al-ÓumaydÈ said that ‘every orator is a master of eloquence, but not every master of eloquence is an orator’. Oratory should be delivered with a quick-witted mind, a steadfast heart and an appropriate tongue.73 A significant development in the epistolary genre from at least the middle of the 6th/12th century was the inclusion of an increasing number of citations from the religious texts, namely the Qur’Ån and the ÓadÈt (Prophetic Tradition). The incorporation of religious text into letters was certainly not a new initiative.74 It was a technique deployed by one of Ibn al-AtÈr’s principal rivals, al-‘AskarÈ, who said the following on this subject: He [that is, the writer] should include in his composition of speech verses from the venerable Book in significant matters for the purposes of adornment and beautification, and for citing motifs according to the appropriateness of what is happening, and what befits the context in which it is placed. But he should not cite from it so much that it becomes the dominant factor in his speech. In that way it preserves God’s word from vulgarity, for it should be employed only from the perspective of a blessing and adornment, not as a filler for speech.75 Ibn al-AtÈr was one of the principal advocates of the inclusion of religious discourse into letter-writing. He claims that his efforts to include at least one section of religious text into each of his own epistles were wholly innovative;76 and as we can see here this objective ran contrary to what al-‘AskarÈ was proposing. For example, in a letter of appointment for one of the Kings he claims to have included at least fifty rhetorical motifs (Ar. ma‘ÅnÈ) from the Qur’Ån and Prophetic Tradition.77 Ibn al-AtÈr also appears to have been one of the first scholars, if not the first, to develop different, more subtle, ways of inserting religious text into an epistle. One of the ways in which he achieved this was through the incorporation of only part of a verse, not all of it. This was known as ta∂mÈn.78 One should be cautious about Ibn al-AtÈr’s claim to be the only epistolary specialist to have included at least one verse or line of religious material into every letter, however. Al-QÅ∂È has shown that mention of the Qur’Ån in some form is present in all but two of ‘Abd al-ÓamÈd al-KÅtib’s letters from the 2nd/mid-8th century.79 Therefore, if a writer from such an early period considered the inclusion of Qur’Ånic material to be so important, then what of the material that was produced between his time and that of Ibn al-AtÈr, that is, over a period of some four centuries? Ibn al-AtÈr’s claims to originality are probably justified, since he did appear to incorporate at least one religious citation into every epistle. But since this is a very exacting claim to prove it would be more instructive to examine the effect that he was trying to accomplish through his objective of including a religious text in each letter. This is something I shall attempt to do in Chapter 6.

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In addition to the available compendia of poetic verses recommended for transformation into epistolary prose writing, there existed a small but significant number of works that also functioned as essential accompaniments to the practice of composing letters. These tracts constituted an interesting branch of administrative works that developed from around the 4th/10th century onwards, made up of collections of appropriate expressions for the secretary to incorporate into his letters. Based generally around al-alfÅΩ al-kitÅbiyya (epistolary expressions), the title of one such book by ‘Abd al-Ra˙mÅn al-HamadÅnÈ (d. 327/938), these works came in the guise of complete manuals, such as the Kanz al-KuttÅb (‘The Treasure of Secretaries’) by Ma˙mËd ibn al-Óusayn KušÅjim (d. 360/971), or sections of tracts devoted to administrative prose and the craft of writing, as in the later Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba by the AyyËbid Ibn ŠÈt. In these works, groups of expressions were set out in the form of synonyms and antonyms, for instance, so that the secretary could draw on them in order to promote the use of good style. Secretaries could in theory call upon any of these expressions at will, just as poets could draw on a certain number of stock expressions to suit any occasion and context.80 In essence, these expressions set the boundaries of good style. Deployment of the appropriate phrase or word in the correct context was one of the duties incumbent on the secretary. Al-QalqašandÈ describes epistolary expressions thus: ‘[they] are expressions chosen and selected from the language by the secretaries, who deem them to be good and distinguish between them and other expressions in terms of beauty and elegance’.81 Normative rules, therefore, were applied not only to grammar, but also to expressions whose application would determine whether a given epistle had achieved its communicative objectives. In this sense works devoted to alfÅΩ kitÅbiyya, or more general tracts containing sections of this type, were merely an extension of the la˙n (grammatical/linguistic error) literature which was a significant component of the attempted preservation of Classical Arabic in the medieval Arabic literature. The alfÅΩ kitÅbiyya were, therefore, a body of texts written mainly by secretaries for secretaries, partly to further their own importance but partly as a means of self-protection against error. If the sources are to be taken at face value, a secretary could lose his position if he failed to use the appropriate expression, especially if he was given an opportunity to redeem himself by the Ruler for whom he was writing but refused to do so.82 One of the more interesting features of those works, such as the Si˙r al-BalÅ©a (‘The Secret of Communicative Eloquence’) by al-Ta‘ÅlibÈ, is that their authors set out the expressions according to categories, beginning with those of an ethical or moral nature such as honesty, envy, and so on.83 Such a layout was far from arbitrary, since it reinforced the main objective of many works of that time, which was to educate and moralise. This is perhaps an appropriate moment to acknowledge the importance of some of the works of adab written during the period under review in this study, and in particular their relevance to epistolography. Although tracts such as the LubÅb al-AdÅb (‘The Quintessences of Manners’) by ’UsÅma ibn al-Munqid (d. 584/1188) were not directly related to epistolography, they did contain some guidelines on style and chapters on ethical and moral issues, such as how to control one’s tongue, how to display modesty and how to keep a secret. The overlap between

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general adab works of that period and manuals written specifically for secretaries is in some cases significant, therefore. Since adab literature was a key foundation of the intellectual and moral fabric of pre-modern Islamic society I would agree with SallÅm in his identification of a ‘nationalistic spirit’ in many of the writers of the period following ÍalÅ˙ al-DÈn, and also in his assessment of the AyyËbid period as one of revival for the Arab-Islamic heritage.84 Moreover, SallÅm makes the intriguing – and quite plausible – point that those scholars who wrote from a strong nationalistic perspective, in the broadest sense, were deliberately overlooked by earlier Orientalists who were unwilling to acknowledge the intellectual contribution of scholars like Ibn al-AtÈr and al-QÅ∂È al-FÅ∂il.85 What I assume SallÅm means here is that the memory of the Crusades was still too fresh for some of the early Orientalists to acknowledge fully the contribution of these scholars to the history of that period. Proverbs were also considered an important component of letter-writing. Ibn ŠÈt included a section on proverbs in his Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba, and gave specific instruction on how to incorporate them into one’s epistolary prose.86 Proverbs were actually considered by some to be a fourth element of communicative eloquence along with poetry, prose and oratory. Unlike in Latin epistles of the 13th century ad, where proverbs were incorporated into letters mainly in an exordial function as part of the introduction, in the Islamic epistolary culture they were an integral element of a letter ‘to be cited wherever appropriate’.87 In al-QalqašandÈ’s view the proverbs occurring in prose were brief words cited to denote extensive universal issues.88 I would like to conclude this chapter by tying together the threads of prose, poetry and oratory as the three principal components of writing, and to set the scene for the next chapter, which discusses epistolary prose as the supreme literary art form. One of the most important descriptions of writing in general can be found in al-QalqašandÈ’s Íub˙. It is attributed to AbË Ja‘far al-Fa∂l ibn A˙mad and goes as follows: Writing is the foundation of kingship and the bastion of sovereignty, and various branches from one tree. Writing is the pivot of adab and the basis of wisdom; a tongue which expresses refinement, and a measure which shows the balance of the intellect. Writing is the light of knowledge and the purifier of minds and the domain of merit and justice. It is adornment, embellishment and a garment, and beauty and reverence and a spirit flowing in various ways. Writing is the most meritorious rank and [has] the highest status. He who is ignorant of the validity of writing is branded with the mark of the ignorant ones who go astray. Politics and leadership are based on writing and the secretaries, and where erudition and nobility are portrayed together then so is writing; and if among crafts there is one with authority over another then [know that] writing is the master of every art.89 In order to comprehend more fully the context in which the secretary sought to justify the craft of writing over other crafts it should be pointed out that by the time of al-QalqašandÈ, and even before him, there was tension between the inšÅ’ secretaries and the financial secretaries. This point is alluded to by van Berkel in her

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article mentioned in the introduction to this present work, and it is supported by what al-QalqašandÈ himself describes. In a previous (unspecified) period of history al-QalqašandÈ notes that whenever the term kitÅba was mentioned it could only signify the term kitÅbat al-inšÅ’; in other words, it was synonymous with the secretary’s craft of composition. The same applied to the term kÅtib, which, when uttered in isolation, could only mean the secretary of writing. However, by the time of al-QalqašandÈ the term kÅtib, when uttered in isolation, referred only to the financial secretary, in Egypt at least.90 Therefore, no matter how much the chief secretary of the DÈwÅn al-InßÅ’ promoted his position, the equally important role of the financial secretary could not be ignored, even though al-QalqašandÈ stressed that his main interest throughout the Íub˙ was to provide a comprehensive manual for secretaries of writing, not for those of finance. Van Berkel makes the important observation that the salaries of anyone working in the area of writing in general, from the head of the Chancery to the clerk responsible for calligraphy, were substantially lower than those employed in the field of finance.91 This fact perhaps explains in part the tension between the Composition secretary and the Financial secretary. There are two important points to add to the above argument. The first is that a comparison can be drawn between the self-promotional techniques of the secretary and those of the grammarian in pre-modern Islamic society. Like the secretary, grammarians received little, or even no, remuneration for their important contribution to the development of the Arabic language and the Islamic humanities and sciences.92 The second point is that in a comparison between al-ÓarÈrÈ’s maqÅma on the subject of the Chancery and finance secretaries, and the one composed a couple of centuries later by al-QalqašandÈ, we find a very different focus in the latter. Al-ÓarÈrÈ presents a balanced view by noting the relative skills of each type of secretary, but al-QalqašandÈ focuses almost exclusively on the strengths and profile of the Chancery secretary.93 I would suggest that al-QalqašandÈ wrote his maqÅma as a reaction to that of al-ÓarÈrÈ’s – evidenced partly by the fact that he acknowledges it in his own work – and that it is partly this shift of emphasis that raises questions about the real historical position of the secretary (as noted by van Berkel), especially in the MamlËk period at the time of al-QalqašandÈ. As the sixth of eight essential ‘tools’(Ar. ÅlÅt) required by the secretary, Ibn al-AtÈr calls on him to ‘memorise the noble Qur’Ån, and to train in how to use it and to insert it into the heart of his speech’.94 This, as al-QÅ∂È notes,95 is probably what ‘Abd al-ÓamÈd meant in the 2nd/8th century although he did not express it in quite the same way. For Ibn al-AtÈr, as for ‘Abd al-ÓamÈd or any other Muslim scholar, memorising of the Qur’Ån was a given; what mattered beyond that was how the textual material was utilised. By the time of Ibn al-AtÈr there was an increasing interest among scholars in developing different ways of incorporating religious material into epistolary texts. The fifth of the five pillars of writing which underpinned each and every ‘communicative correspondence’ (Ar. kitÅb balÅ©È) was the obligatory inclusion of one of the motifs of either the Qur’Ån or Prophetic Tradition, since they were acknowledged as ‘the source of eloquence and communication’. According to Ibn al-AtÈr, prosification of the Qur’Ån and ÓadÈt – in other words, incorporating the exact religious text into one’s own prose narrative in a natural

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way – was preferable to citing it ‘by insertion’ (‘alÅ wajh al-ta∂mÈn).96 This is one of two pillars that distinguished the secretary from the poet, who was unable to mould the motifs of the Qur’Ån and Prophetic Tradition into ‘bound’ language, that is to say, poetry, except on rare occasions.97 It was Ibn al-AtÈr’s notion of the superiority of prose over poetry that seems to have inspired him to devote a major study to the prosification of verse and the versification of prose, in which he described the techniques, with practical examples, of effecting these two skills, accompanied by practical examples.98 Ibn al-AtÈr argued that all prose could be turned into verse, but that not all verse could be turned into prose.99 Although the subject of prosification and versification was certainly not new – as we see in the brief sections on both forms of conversion in Ibn Halaf’s MawÅdd al-BayÅn100 – what Ibn al-AtÈr achieved was to transform it into a full art form whose significance far exceeded that of being just another rhetorical device. One of Ibn al-AtÈr’s main objectives of prosification, as illustrated in his al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, was to show how religious texts could be incorporated into prose. This could plausibly have been one of the ways in which Ibn al-AtÈr, and other scholars like him, sought ‘divine benediction’, as Sanni puts it,101 a view echoed by the editor of another of Ibn al-AtÈr’s works, who states that the closer the secretary’s written sentence was to Qur’Ånic language, or Prophetic Tradition, or the more it contained a well-known verse of poetry, the more he attained an exalted (heavenly) rank (makÅna sÅmiya).102 The three specific qualities of writing, as outlined by al-ÓalabÈ – namely, istišhÅd (citation) and iqtibÅs (importation) (both terms specifically relating to the inclusion of Qur’Ånic text into prose narrative,103 with the former entailing explicit acknowledgement of its provenance, the latter not), and ˙all (lit. ‘untying’) (deployed for poetry and religious text)104 were also described in a similar fashion by Ibn al-AtÈr. For him ˙all was a particularly useful and eloquent device, most skillfully deployed when the paraphrased material was utilised in a context that was different from, or even contradictory to, its original one.105 It would be interesting to see exactly how al-ÓalabÈ contributed to this important area of prose writing as a form of intertextuality by building on some of the innovative conclusions of Ibn al-AtÈr. As I said earlier, [the craft of] writing, in its prosaic form, became more or less synonymous with epistolary prose. This should be borne firmly in mind in the following discussion (and that of Chapter 3), which attempts to demonstrate the primacy of the craft of writing over all other crafts. This stance is naturally one sided, because it was presented very much from the perspective of the secretary, who was in a privileged position to promote the skills and requirements of his profession. To put the matter in perspective, however, not only was letter-writing only one of eight skills that the secretary was required to master, but it was only one sub-element of the ten disciplines of adab, according to one 8th/14th-century writer.106 Nonetheless, it is my contention that however much the secretary might have at times exaggerated his own importance, he also found ingenious ways of asserting his craft and its tool, that is to say, the pen, over all other writerly and non-writerly craft forms. This chapter has presented some of the main arguments in the poetry versus prose debate of the pre-modern Islamic period. The debate was significant for a number of reasons, not least for the way in which it showed how the secretary sought

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The culture of letter-writing in pre-modern Islamic society

to justify the supremacy of prose over poetry (and oratory) because of its essential, primary role in epistolary communication. It is now time to look more specifically at the special status of writing and epistolary prose within the secretarial realm, as represented in one particular work of the 5th/11th century. That work, the MawÅdd al-BayÅn of Ibn Halaf, is one of the best scholarly representations of the transition from a predominantly oral culture to an oral–writerly one in pre-modern Islamic society.

Notes   1. Much more will be said on al-Matal al-SÅ’ir throughout this study, especially in Chapter 6.   2. Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 1, p. 28.   3. Ibid., p. 28.   4. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 2, p. 318.   5. See Darabseh, Die Kritik der Prosa, p. 101.   6. See Ibn al-NadÈm, KitÅb al-Fihrist, p. 137 and p. 149. Al-ÍÅbi’s contribution to the debate about the similarities between poetry and prose was substantial, however. According to Arazi his exposition highlighted a number of very fundamental differences between the two genres, to the extent that they should be considered ‘deux pôles diamétralement opposés’. See Arazi, ‘Une épître d’IbrÅhÈm b. HilÅl al-ÍÅbÈ’, p. 475 and also p. 489 esp.   7. Ibn Halaf, MawÅdd al-BayÅn, p. 36. In spite of his clear preference for prose over poetry the section on poetry in Ibn Halaf’s important work demonstrates that even he had to acknowledge its value to epistolography and its enduring influence on Islamic society.   8. On this see Stewart,‘Saj‘ in the Qur’Ån’, passim. Through the application of modern statistical analysis Gully and Hinde have provided strong evidence of underlying rhythm patterns in at least one collection of epistles. This opens up a strong likelihood of similar patterns in epistolary literature generally. For this see their ‘QÅbËs ibn WušmagÈr’, passim.   9. See Cantarino, Arabic Poetics in the Golden Age. 10. For example, al-Ta‘ÅlibÈ’s al-Munta˙al, 11. al-MawßilÈ, al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ, pp. 188ff. 12. Ibn Halaf, MawÅdd al-BayÅn, p. 36. 13. ZaydÅn, TÅrÈh ådÅb al-Lu©a al-‘Arabiyya, vol. 1, p. 577. 14. Ibn al-AtÈr, KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ, p. 52. 15. For more on this see Chapter 6. 16. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙ vol. 1, p. 274 17. SallÅm, al-Adab fÈ l-‘Aßr al-AyyËbÈ, p. 179. 18. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 6, pp. 309–312, citing Ibn Halaf. 19. See, for instance, al-‘AskarÈ, DÈwÅn al-Ma‘ÅnÈ, vol. 1, pp. 91–103 or pp. 157–70; or al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 6, pp. 307–12. Some of the themes that were common to poetry and prose bear a strong Aristotelian flavour, representing different discourse functions and subject matters of speechmaking; see Beale, A Pragmatic Theory of Rhetoric, p. 7. 20. SallÅm, al-Adab fÈ l-‘Aßr al-MamlËkÈ, vol. 2, p. 80. 21. See also Bosworth, The La†Å’if al-Ma‘Årif of Ta‘ÅlibÈ, p. 5. 22. Ibn Marzawayh, MihyÅr al-DaylamÈ (1925–31), DÈwÅn MihyÅr al-DaylamÈ, Cairo: DÅr al-Kutub al MiΩriyya. 23. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 6, p. 307.

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24. Ibid., p. 307. 25. See Darabseh, Die Kritik der Prosa, p. 95. 26. See Ibn al-AtÈr, KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ, p. 53. 27. al-‘AskarÈ, DÈwÅn al-Ma‘ÅnÈ, vol. 1, p. 87. 28. See Kanazi, Studies in the KitÅb aß-ÍinÅ‘atayn, p. 126. 29. El-Salem, ‘Rhetoric in al-Mathal al-SÅ’ir’, p. 14. 30. For all this see Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 1, p. 99. 31. For more information on these and other devices see Chapter 6 of this work. 32. al-MawßilÈ, al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ, p. 283, citing Ibn HallikÅn. 33. See the monograph on this topic by Amidu Sanni, The Arabic Theory of Prosification and Versification, passim. 34. Ibn ŠÈt, Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba, p. 68. 35. Ibid., p. 68. 36. Darabseh, Die Kritik der Prosa, p. 100. 37. SallÅm, al-Adab fÈ l-‘Aßr al-AyyËbÈ, p. 191. 38. For a good list of non-extant collections of letters see Ibn NadÈm, al-Fihrist, pp. 129ff. 39. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, p. 58. 40. Ibid., p. 59. 41. This topic of ‘lies’ in poetry is dealt with quite comprehensively by Cantarino, Arabic Poetics in the Golden Age, pp. 27–41. 42. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, p. 60. 43. al-‘AskarÈ, DÈwÅn al-Ma‘ÅnÈ, vol. 1, pp. 216–21. 44. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 9, p. 62. 45. Ibid., vol. 6, pp. 307–12, esp. pp. 311–12. 46. Ibid., vol. 2, p. 263. 47. Arazi, ‘Une épître d’IbrÅhÈm b. HilÅl al-ÍÅbÈ’, p. 498. 48. SallÅm, ÎiyÅ’ al-DÈn ibn al-AtÈr, p. 186. 49. For example, the section on irßÅd ‘preparing’ in Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 2, pp. 329ff, or the one on tahalluß ‘transition’, ibid., vol. 2, pp. 244ff. 50. On the function of the transmitter see Schoeler, ‘Writing and Publishing’, p. 426. Later (p. 428) Schoeler makes the following remark: ‘The idea of committing their collections to writing in a definitive form and publishing them was originally foreign to Arab poets and ruwÅt and remained so for a long time.’ 51. Ibid., p. 433. 52. Beale, A Pragmatic Theory of Rhetoric, p. 6. 53. Havelock, The Muse Learns to Write, p. 72. 54. Ibid., p. 71. 55. Cachia, The Arch Rhetorician, pp. 7–10. 56. See also Chapter 6 of this study. 57. Cachia, The Arch Rhetorician, p. 8. 58. Ibid., p. 9. See also below, Chapter 6. 59. Ibid., p. 10. 60. Horst, ‘Besondere Formen der Kunstprosa’, p. 225. 61. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, p. 226. 62. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, p. 210. Al-QalqašandÈ is probably citing here from al-Na˙˙Ås’ important work ‘Umdat al-KitÅba ‘The Pillar of Writing’. 63. SallÅm, al-Adab fÈ l-‘Aßr al-AyyËbÈ, p. 178. 64. al-ŠartËnÈ, al-˝ußn al-Ra†Èb fÈ Fann al-Ha†Èb, p. 65. These were also two of the important themes of poetry, of course.

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65. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, pp. 210–11. For a selection of examples of fine oratory see ibid., pp. 211–25. 66. Beeston, ‘The Role of Parallelism in Arabic Prose’, pp. 183–4. 67. Ibn Halaf, MawÅdd al-BayÅn, pp. 31–2. 68. Constable, Letters and Letter-Collections, p. 14. 69. It is worth noting that one of the most striking stylistic features of the Kings’ Sagas in the Old Norse literature was the deployment of word pairs, which ‘often employ alliteration or balanced word placement’. Although saj‘ was a uniquely Arabic phenomenon there is no doubt that each culture utilized its own language to the maximum effect to create an appealing audible style. For the quotation and reference here see Knirk, Oratory in the Kings’ Sagas, p. 67. On this issue of balance and semantic, acoustic rhythm and parallelism see also Havleock, The Muse Learns to Write, p. 72 esp. 70. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, p. 226. There will be more on the relationship between the written and the spoken word in Chapter 3. 71. Ibid., vol. 1, p. 225. 72. See SallÅm, Al-Adab fÈ l-‘Aßr al-FņimÈ, p. 224. 73. al-ÓumaydÈ, TashÈl al-SabÈl ilÅ Ta‘allum al-TarsÈl, p. 6. 74. See, for instance, al-QÅ∂È, ‘The Impact of the Qur’Ån on the epistolography of ‘Abd al-ÓamÈd’, passim. 75. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 2, pp. 327–8. However, neither should speech be totally devoid of it. 76. Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 1, p. 89. 77. Ibid., p. 89. 78. Ibid., p. 126. 79. al-QÅ∂È, ‘The Impact of the Qur’Ån’, p. 289. 80. Ibn RašÈq, al-‘Umda fÈ Ma˙Åsin al-Ši‘r, vol. 1, p. 128, as cited in Darabseh, Die Kritik der Prosa, p. 124. 81. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, p. 162. 82. See Ibn ŠÈt, Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba, p. 85. 83. Knowledge of the alfÅΩ kitÅbiyya was the fifth of five categories (Ar. aßnÅf) of language required by the secretary; see al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, p. 162. 84. SallÅm, al-Adab fÈ l-‘Aßr al-AyyËbÈ, p. 7 and p. 168. 85. Ibid, p. 168. 86. Ibn ŠÈt, Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba, pp. 105ff. 87. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, p. 295 and p. 296. 88. Ibid., p. 296. 89. Ibid., p. 37. 90. Ibid., p. 53. 91. Van Berkel, ‘A Well-Mannered Man of Letters’, p. 95. 92. See Gully, Grammar and Semantics in Medieval Arabic, Chapter 3 esp. 93. See Bosworth, ‘A MaqÅma on Secretaryship’, passim. 94. Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 1, p. 29. ‘Speech’ here also includes written language. 95. al-QÅ∂È, ‘The Impact of the Qur’Ån’, p. 288. 96. Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 1, p. 89. The term ta∂mÈn has quite a complex history; see, for instance, Gully, ‘Ta∂min ‘implication of meaning’ in medieval Arabic’, passim. But what Ibn al-AtÈr intends as the principal meaning here is the importation of a complete verse into prose text, as opposed to part of it, which he considers to be the best use of Qur’Ånic text in prose. See his al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 1, p. 126, then the more detailed exposition in vol. 2, pp. 323–8. Also of significance here is that Ibn al-AtÈr argues that

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  97.   98.   99. 100.

101. 102. 103. 104. 105. 106. 107.

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ta∂mÈn as applied in poetry (normally translated as ‘enjambement’), also applies to prose. The argument he proposes for this is very intriguing. On the topic of ta∂mÈn in poetry see, for instance, Sanni, ‘On ta∂mÈn (enjambement) and structural coherence in classical Arabic poetry’. Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 1, p. 90. For a highly informative monograph on this subject see Sanni, The Arabic Theory of Prosification, passim. Ibn al-AtÈr includes some essential instruction on how to prosify verse in his al-Matal al-SÅ‘ir, vol. 1, pp. 93ff. SallÅm, ÎiyÅ’ al-DÈn ibn al-A†Èr, p. 188. Ibn Halaf, MawÅdd al-BayÅn, pp. 315–18. Sanni goes into some detail on the versification of prose as well as the prosification of verse. He notes for example, that what was considered originally a form of plagiarism became an acceptable form of literary theft by at least the time of Ibn ÊabņabÅ (d. 322/934). See Sanni, The Arabic Theory of Prosification, p. 145 and especially pp. 150–1. See SannÈ, The Arabic Theory of Prosification, p. 8. Ibn al-AtÈr, KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ, editor’s intro. p. 14. According to al-ÓalabÈ, there were some who argued that iqtibÅs was also to be found in poetry; see his Óusn al-Tawassul, p. 323. Ibid., p. 321 El-Salem, Rhetoric in al-Mathal al-SÅ’ir, p. 120. Makdisi, The Rise of Humanism, p. 93. Al-AkfÅnÈ in Makdisi, ibid., p. 193.

CHAPTER

3 The power of the pen and the primacy of script

To live by the pen is the life of an instrument in the service of power, yet the pen clad with royalty clothes royalty in royal letters – it performs the ideological work of the construction of a transcendental power.1 Although the rich oral tradition of Arab and Islamic society will never be totally replaced, there came a point in Islamic history when the written word began to assume increasing significance and potency. In this chapter I set out to show how the power of the pen prevailed in the domain of communication in pre-modern Islamic society. Its supremacy dominated not just in the face of a strong oral culture, but also in the context of a prominent military one in which the sword and its wielders, that is to say, the military, often contested power in that society. The secretaries, who were mainly from the bureaucratic caste, were ideally placed as influential members of the state to promote the power of the written word, with which they had been entrusted as overseers of diplomatic communication. Equally, I want to show how textual culture became fully systematised in premodern Islamic society in a similar way to Western society. Toorawa puts the relationship between writing and orality very well: ‘one of the curious effects of writing is that it does not reduce orality but, rather, enhances it by organizing the principles by which it is practiced into an art’.2 I agree with Toorawa (citing Bloom) that the transformation from an oral to a written culture was never total. However, Toowara is incorrect in reiterating Bloom’s view that the watershed of the shift from a purely oral to an oral/written culture was the 12th century ad (6th century ah). The 12th century ad may have been the point at which the written, textual culture reached its apogee, but there is no doubt that Ibn Halaf’s contribution a century earlier had taken a significant step towards that point. The foundations of Ibn Halaf’s thesis had in fact been laid centuries before that, particularly in the works of al-JÅ˙iΩ and Ibn Qutayba (d. 276/889). Therefore, before moving on to look in some detail at Ibn Halaf, whom I

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believe to be a highly original contributor to the debate on writing and orality, it is instructive to reflect on a little of the earlier background to this discussion. Al-JÅ˙iΩ, one of the most important theologians and belles-lettrists in the history of Islamic societies, was principally concerned with the writing of books as educational tools to prepare scholars for life as intellectuals, as well as repositories of knowledge. For Ibn Qutayba, however, writing was much more closely linked to the practice of the secretaries. In his Adab al-KÅtib he set out some of the principles of writing that were to become fundamental considerations for later secretaries, such as the appropriateness of certain types and modes of speech for different audiences.3 Al-JÅ˙iΩ’s view – in contrast to Ibn Qutayba’s – did not take the secretaries into account because he certainly disliked some aspects of the secretarial class. Yet for both of these writers the written text was the only sure way to guarantee the preservation of the word. The book, therefore, became not only a repository of knowledge but also ‘a guarantee of its authenticity in the course of transmission’, as Günther eloquently puts it.4 This view was reinforced explicitly by Ibn Halaf. Ibn Halaf was introduced in Chapter 1 of this work. His work entitled MawÅdd al-BayÅn, on clarity of expression (Ar. bayÅn) in Arabic, is one of the most important tracts of the Fņimid period, and one of the most valuable and informative books from the four centuries selected as the focus of this study. He emphasised in various ways the primacy of the written word. Among many of his original contributions in that work is his intriguing analysis of script, which he raises to a spiritual level. He also describes the vicarious role of script as the representative of the eloquent speaker, and proposes that the script (Ar. ha††), ergo the text, as the product of the pen assumed a deeper significance within the system of Arabic communication as part of a tripartite relationship with expression (Ar. lafΩ) and meaning, or concept (Ar. ma‘nÅ). This and other relevant arguments of Ibn Halaf’s will be dealt with later in this chapter. However, in order to lead into that discussion I shall set out some more general views on the power of the pen and its metaphorical role as one of the bastions of the state. In this manner the argument moves logically through the instrument of writing to its ultimate manifestation on the page. The elevation of the pen to the level of a revered implement was not unique to pre-modern Islamic society. The classical tradition of extolling the virtues of the pen was frequently mirrored in a range of literary and historical sources in the medieval Arabic heritage. Such maxims as ‘the pen is the ambassador of the intellect’, or ‘its noblest messenger’, ‘its longest tongue’ and ‘its most excellent interpreter,5 or ‘the pen is one of the two tongues’,6 were either attributed to important cultural figures or prominent secretaries of early Islamic society, or acknowledged as citations borrowed from other cultures, particularly from the Greek tradition. Moreover, writing became the ‘safeguard for what is uttered by the lips’, and ‘the preservation of life, memory, speech, event’.7 The legacy of manuals left by the secretaries assigned varying degrees of attention to the physical nature of the pen; its dimensions, the manner in which its nib was hewed, the type of ink associated with it, and even the size of the inkwell in which it sat. This type of description was generally the preserve of works of the first three or four centuries of Islam, although the importance of such considerations recurs

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at various points in history.8 Even the inkwell itself was described by at least one scholar as ‘an instrument of knowledge’.9 The choice of pen and even its nib was made to suit the type of paper on which it would be writing, with the champion of pens being the scroll pen used by Caliphs and Kings.10 In fact, the relationship between the writer, the hand and its writing tools is very complex, and is one that inspired the Algerian-born French literary critic and philosopher Jacques Derrida (d. 2004 ad) to assert the supremacy of writing over orality. Roland Barthes (d. 1980 ad), the esteemed intellectual and philosopher, once confessed to ‘an almost obsessive relation to writing instruments’,11 such was the power of writing in his view. By the 7th/13th century at least the pen in Islamic society had become firmly established as one of the ‘royal implements’,12 and had thus been elevated to a very high status.13 There is little doubt that the importance accorded to the pen and its function in the pre-modern Islamic administrative literature is a direct result of that literature being written for the most part by the secretary himself. Those sources indicate that the secretary, especially in later medieval Islamic society, held a unique professional position in terms of his closeness to the Ruler. As an organiser of state administration and correspondence he directed much of the business of the Ruler and was, at the same time, able to promote his profession and self-interests almost without restriction. It is in many of the works by the secretary that we witness an increasing emphasis upon the beauty and primacy of the ‘craft of writing’ (Ar. ßinÅ‘at al-kitÅba). Al-QalqašandÈ supported this assertion when he stated that Muslims believed that the craft of writing was always uppermost in God’s mind.14 The importance of the secretary’s role is supported in the literature by quotations such as the one attributed to the great leader Saladin, who is reputed to have said of his advisor, al-QÅ∂È al-FÅ∂il: ‘I took Egypt not by force of arms but by al-Qadi al-Fadil’s pen’.15 The first section of this chapter assesses the portrayal of the pen in the sources as a metaphor and instrument of power. In a sense it is difficult to separate the two images. The following extract, taken from one of the riddles (Ar. lu©z) devoted to the pen, captures this notion: It does not walk, no, but neither is it an invalid;   it has neither a head nor a hand that feels. It is not alive, no, nor is it dead,   but it is a figure that can be found in gatherings. Its spittle is more copious than the venom of a viper   that creeps in dark, black nights, Severing limbs, with silence answering it   whilst jugular veins are split open by it under the cowls.16 There are a number of important issues raised in this series of allusions to the pen. First, it is presented as a non-human object but with the status of an individual, a figure (Ar. šahß), a humanised instrument with a physical presence in administrative gatherings. Second, the ink of the pen is compared here to saliva. This is more than just a transient reference to the fact that the tongue and the pen produce liquid substances, for the nib of the pen is very often compared to the tongue, as we saw

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above, not just in terms of its shape but also in its communicative function. Later in this chapter I will show how this relationship assumed even more weight within the context of expression, meaning and script. In the same way as the eloquent tongue can produce flowing speech the pen may produce copious quantities of ink. The words that emanate from its nib may be sweet; for example, in one prosaic piece from the 7th/13th century the pen was described as a bee that produces honey, or a lip that doles out kisses.17 But as the riddle above suggests, it can also be ‘a viper that bows its head in silence’,18 with venomous and injurious words pouring forth from the nib. The excellence of the allusion in that riddle is expressed in the apparent humility of the pen, represented in the bowing, submissive shape of the carefully hewed nib; ostensibly innocuous – silent, yet deadly. As the riddle intimates, the spittle of the pen is at its most dangerous when it can be neither seen nor heard. In this connection, the pen’s capacity to wound with words was often contrasted with that of the sword’s ability to inflict damage. The pen could strike from afar, even when danger was near, whereas its adversary was only effective from close range. The pen once said of itself in a verbal exchange between the two instruments: ‘I kill without the presence of danger, while you kill because danger is present’.19 Ibn al-ÍayrafÈ (d. 542/1147), a famous secretary, puts it very succinctly when he says: ‘The head of the Chancery can destroy with his pen what swords and spears can not build even over a period of many years.’20 Although the last line of the riddle above was probably composed with the intention of acknowledging the true power of the pen, it could also be read as a mirror image of an accusation that was leveled at the sword as an ‘unholy’ Muslim; that is, an instrument that separates and destroys families, the nucleus of Islamic society. Such an accusation was made by the pen in one of the boasting competitions that made up a small, but important, collection of literary exchanges in pre-modern Islamic society.21 The role of the pen as a decisive, cutting instrument also was well documented in Western renaissance literature. In a number of works artistic, visual, detailed representations of the pen in pictorial form are given, illustrating its close association with the knife (or, by extension, the sword). All these representations combine in Goldberg’s intriguing work in a chapter entitled ‘The Violence of the Letter’, in which there is a fascinating account of the quill and the pen that goes beyond physical description: Rather than offering mere description of techniques of preparing the quill, a technology implicates itself into the descriptions, writing them along the paths of social prescriptions. Both hand and quill are instruments. The writer’s hand emerges as that which is produced by and that which exceeds these prescriptions: the hand as an instrument of violence in which what also has been violated is any notion of the human hand outside of the scriptive order, any notion of materiality outside of writing matter.22 In Goldberg’s analysis the pen, in relationship with the hand and the quill, has helped to produce a new social order in the process of civilising. This point is brought out clearly in the medieval dialogue between the ‘teacher’ and the ‘boys’ (in Desainliens translation of Vives, an international humanist who attended the

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court of Henry VIII). At one point the ‘teacher’ asks if the boys have come armed, and when they respond by saying that such things are forbidden to people of their age he replies: ‘Ah, ah! I don’t speak of the arms of blood-shedding, but of writing weapons, which are necessary for our purpose.’23 All of this, of course, falls neatly into the domain of Derridean discourse, as Goldberg inevitably notes, with ‘the reappropriation of presence in absence through writing’, for example, that create scenes of violence, beginning with the writing weapons in hand, ‘a stockpiling of the reserves in writing that goes hand in hand with the widening of power’.24 This so-called scene of violence begins with the knife which hews the quill by which writers are made. Goldberg goes on: ‘The scene of writing, we could assume with Derrida, is always associated with violence; here, with the very materials of his craft, scenes of mutual violence are staged, openings and enclosures that extend and contain the activity of writing.’25 There is no doubt that the whole process of writing, from the construction of the quill to the appearance of the script on the page, was viewed by many as one intricately associated with the power that went with the role of the secretary. One example of this – perhaps by implication more than forthright clarity – is a description by al-ÍafadÈ (d. 764/1363) in one of his treatises on self-glorification by the pen and the sword. In a series of references to the effeminate nature of the pen, the sword derides the image of the pen in the grip of the fingertips, contradicting earlier poetry that portrayed this image as one of immense beauty.26 Through this reference – and similar ones – the machismo association between the pen and the script it produces is removed. Thus the notion of ‘violence’ that seems to underscore Derrida’s process of writing, effacing (absence) and re-writing (presence) and all that this conveys, is no longer applicable. It is, in fact, exactly the same image of feminisation that occurs in the Western renaissance literature, such as in the training of the boy to be a pen, and the pen to be a mouth, together with the emphasis on the softness and malleability of the hand.27 The pen in pre-modern Islamic society could be a mighty, and at times destructive, tool, but its ability to act could only be measured by the skill of the writer who wielded it. As I noted earlier, Ibn al-AtÈr was preoccupied with the concept of †ab‘ ‘natural disposition’, which a writer was either blessed with, or not. However, he never attempted to deny that the art of writing could also be learned by gifted people, as the following quotation suggests: In paving this way for you I am only such as one who has made you a sword and placed it in your right (hand) to fight with; it is not for him to create a (brave) heart for you, as holding a sword is one thing, engaging in battle another.28 The concept of †ab‘ appears to be central to Ibn al-AtÈr’s theory of communication, particularly in the field of epistolary writing, yet Ibn Halaf had devoted a whole section to that topic nearly one century previously. For him too †ab‘ was the bastion of the art (of writing), and its ordering principle. The primary means of access to this noble art was ‘the attainment of virtuous natural disposition …, which is the primordial matter of perfection, and the source of completion …, and

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the pillar on which he [that is, the writer] leans’. A man can work assiduously to attain a thorough knowledge of literary subjects, and go to great lengths to acquire [knowledge of] the sciences, yet ‘remain bereft of natural disposition in composing speech’, argues Ibn Halaf.29 The debate on †ab‘ was important for a number of reasons, then, not least because it raised the question of what was intrinsically natural to a scholar and what could be learned through assiduous application. Ibn ÊabņabÅ (d. 323/934) discussed the notion of †ab‘ in the context of poetry, and determined that it was a talent that could be nurtured.30 Several of the early handbooks written by, or for, secretaries went to some length to describe all the materials involved in the writing process. One very plausible explanation for this is that the Arabic language was considered to be the purest and finest of all languages, and that God’s word was revealed to Muslims through the Prophet Mu˙ammad in the Arabic language. Therefore, anything to do with the process of writing down the timeless and immutable Islamic message was considered by the secretaries to be an integral part of that continuum, although the jurists did not share this view. Many quotations about the writing process are attributed to key figures in Islamic society and culture. One such citation said that ‘script is one-third the inkwell, one-third the pen, and one-third the hand’.31 Another quotation from the early literature worth citing here is one attributed to al-Îa˙˙Åk, who would sharpen the nib of his pen outside, where no one could see him, saying ‘script is the property of the pen alone’.32 This anecdote suggests that for al-Îa˙˙Åk the sharpening of the pen was an almost sacred experience, maybe even part of a process of personal refinement. These two quotations are early indications of the appreciation of the importance and value of the script, and especially the role of the pen. Such references would seem to be relevant at a point in history when Islamic society was still predominantly an oral culture. Furthermore, the intricate detail accorded to the way in which the pen should be held, and the descriptions of how it should sit on the ear when the secretary was in a state of contemplation, give further indication of how highly it was revered.33 The lack of reference in these and in similar citations in the early literature to either the intellect or the concept of expression as integral elements of the written communication process is perhaps not surprising. Such philosophical inquiries did not begin to properly take shape until at least the 4th/10th century, reaching their zenith around the 6th/12th century. Ibn Halaf, however, drew together the components of script and expression as fundamentals of writing in a manner that led to the ultimate creation of meaning of a given piece of discourse. This line of argumentation, which will be examined in more detail shortly, reflects a significant development in the relationship between the pen and script. Early in Chapter 1 I noted the widespread use of the term ‘craft of writing’ (Ar. ßinÅ‘at al-kitÅba) in the secretarial literature. Its use by secretaries appears to have become standard by the 5th/11th century. Ibn Halaf devotes the whole of the first chapter to it in his MawÅdd al-BayÅn. During this period, and subsequent to it, the emphasis on citing the pen as an instrument of power appears to have been exchanged for an increasing focus on its more esoteric role as the creator of meaning. One later work in particular focuses on the pen as the instrument par excellence

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of God’s word, and as the voice of the Islamic people. In his 8th/14th century tract al-MawßilÈ explicitly recognises the pen, not the secretary, as the true bastion of the state. This represents a significant departure from those earlier works in which the secretary’s role was given prominence over that of the instrument itself. Al-MawßilÈ stated that the pen is the ‘interpreter of the tongue of Kings [or: Rulers], and the acknowledged arranger of pearls of glorious deeds’.34 In al-MawßilÈ’s description the pen, not the writer, is responsible for the act of writing. The pen assumes the function of the agent, being the ‘arranger’ (Ar. nÅΩim) or the ‘orator’ (Ar. hņib), that is to say the voice of the nation and the arch-exponent of religious duty, presented as the timeless fÅ‘il (the ‘doer’). According to al-Mawßili, nations can not do without the pen, because it refines their glorious feats, exalts their achievements and describes their conquests. For al-MawßilÈ the pen was one of the ‘elite’ royal implements, a status that not even al-QalqašandÈ accorded it. The direct association in al-MawßilÈ’s writing between the instrument and its craft, as opposed to the writer and his craft, or even as opposed to an association between the instrument and its master, is, I would argue, a very deliberate one, for removing the pen one place from its sublime role as the direct conveyor of the pure Arabic language and creator of meaning would have disturbed the continuum of communication which I am attempting to illustrate here. The craft of writing was promoted by many of the prominent secretaries as the highest form of communication. Some secretaries proclaimed writing as the most noble of ranks after the Caliph,35 while others, such as Ibn al-AtÈr, who was one of the foremost literary critics of the pre-modern Arabic heritage and himself a highly influential Chancery secretary, characterised the craft of writing as the most noble of crafts because it ‘brings together the foundations of power and sets its rules’.36 Writing and power were inexorably connected. It is no coincidence that in some of the early important handbooks for secretaries the first chapter was often devoted to the subject of sul†Ån (the implementation of power), followed by sections on morals and the prescribed etiquette for courtiers, for instance.37 I shall now turn to the second main section of this chapter, which is to demonstrate how Arabic script became an integral part of the communication continuum for Ibn Halaf within the framework of epistolography. In essence, it became part of a communicative act that functioned as the purveyor of epistemological information in a society in which the acquisition and preservation of knowledge was, among the ruling class at least, a subject of the utmost importance. Writing, then, provided a set of rules, a system of ordering ideas and thoughts. In some respects this chapter answers the following open-ended question posed by Heck: ‘it is worth considering whether state patronage of knowledge [namely, knowledge promoted by the secretaries, that is to say, those representing state circles] did itself work to develop a conception of books as independent source of knowledge apart from the chain of transmission [namely, that associated principally with the transmission of Prophetic Tradition]’.38 Already in this work I have drawn some comparisons between various aspects of intellectual activity in Western society and Islamic society. A further similarity can be seen in an almost identical timing at which administrative script reached

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its apogee; that is to say, the 12th century ad. As Stock puts it, ‘by the mid-twelfth century the presence of scribal culture is one of the few universalizing forces that the western Middle Ages knows as a whole’.39 He also notes that ‘medieval society after the eleventh century was increasingly oriented towards the scribe, the written word, the literary text, and the document’.40 Islamic society went through a similar process, evidenced by, among other things, the volume of reference and administrative works composed at that time, although a disappointing number of these has survived. The relationship between oral and textual culture generally has received substantial attention in the past few decades, and it stimulated the publication of some classic studies, such as the one by Walter Ong which has unquestionably made a major contribution to our understanding of this complex subject. Ong’s main objective was to explore the relationship between orality and literacy. More specifically, he set out to explore ‘thought and its verbal expressions in oral culture, which is strange and at times bizarre to us, and [to explore] literate thought and expression in terms of their emergence from and relation to orality’.41 Particularly relevant to my discussion is Ong’s conclusion that ‘writing did not reduce orality but enhanced it, making it possible to organize the “principles” or constituents of oratory into a scientific “art” …’.42 Havelock, on the other hand, speaks about the conflict that came into being between the oral act and the writing act, referring to it as a ‘cultural collision’.43 There are certainly elements of both these arguments to be found in the situation in pre-modern Islamic society, as this chapter is attempting to show. Martin’s thesis about the potential impact on a society of the written text is also very relevant to the Islamic context. He notes that ‘spoken words pass, witnesses die, but a written text remains’, adding that ‘culture is nothing but what the thought of successive generations has produced; it [writing] permits the storage of those thoughts’.44 Perhaps not surprisingly, Martin makes no reference at all to the Islamic culture or the written word in Islamic society. Yet his view appears to be an echo of the maxim noted by al-QalqašandÈ several centuries earlier that eloquence is of two types: eloquence of the tongue and eloquence of the fingertips. What the pen sets down in writing endures for ever; whereas what the tongue utters is erased with the passing of time.45 This is perhaps the moment to tie in the foundations of this discussion with the wider concept of adab. In Chapters 1 and 2 the term adab was introduced because letter-writing in pre-modern Islamic society was an integral part of it. The adab literature embodies a vast corpus of literary works that set out in the very broadest sense to educate and entertain. Of all the scholarly studies devoted to defining and evaluating adab as the pillar of humanism Makdisi perhaps describes it best. He cites al-AkfÅnÈ, a humanist of the 8th/14th century: Adab is a field of knowledge by virtue of which mutual understanding of what is in the minds is acquired through word-signs and writing. The word and writing are its subject-matter with respect to their communication of ideas. Its benefit is that it discloses the intentions in the mind of one person, communicating them to another person, present or absent. Adab is the ornament of the tongue, and of the finger tips [emphasis added].46

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Al-AkfÅnÈ lived at a time when letter-writing had been firmly established as the principle genre of artistic prose. So it is perhaps no surprise that for him adab and epsitolography were almost synonyomous. This quotation also shows how the primary objective of adab was communication, through which the reader or the listener would be educated and entertained. It also highlights the parallelism of oral and written communication, affirming the view I am attempting to demonstrate here, that no matter how the secretaries asserted the superiority of the written word, it could never seriously be separated from the spoken. Few would disagree that recording texts in writing gave them a specific authority in Islamic society. In an Islamic context this authority assumed a greater significance than in many other societies because of the dependence in the Islamic tradition on the sacred word. The preservation of the text and its endorsement by a body of authoritative members (the ‘ulamÅ’) has throughout the history of Islam given substantial weight to the importance of writing, in spite of the earlier emphasis given to oral transmission.47 Moreover, the act of writing and recording material textually was an implicit acknowledgement of the importance of the text as a transmitter of knowledge, a concept that did not need stating at that time, but which we have come to appreciate fully as we reflect on history. The following hypothesis of Heck’s seems very relevant to my argument here, especially as al-Ha†Èb al-Ba©dÅdÈ, the subject of Heck’s excellent inquiry, was more or less a contemporary of Ibn Halaf: a non-isnÅd [that is to say, a form of communication not depending on an oral transmission of knowledge] writing [was] an expression of the state interest in extending its authority over knowledge through the caliph’s endowed capacity for judgment.48 Bloom’s monograph on paper before print has, like Ong’s work, become something of a classic. His comparison between the shift from oral to scribal culture in Islamic society, and that from scribal to typographic in European culture, is compelling. Bloom argues that the growing dependence on the written rather than the spoken word was due mainly to the increased availability of paper. That may indeed have been true for certain cultures at given points in their history. However, I believe this explanation to be less important than the fact that writing has always played an important role in the preservation of God’s word in Islamic society; paper has merely been the vehicle for that process. In Mitchell’s words, ‘printing … is simply a more efficient means of overcoming absence. It provides a wider and more lasting representation of an author’s meaning.’49 Thus, throughout this chapter I maintain that through oral transmission and writing Islam was blessed with two very important ways of preserving its message and history. But the mode of writing, and the introduction of paper to record it, gave the secretaries in particular the perfect opportunity to capitalise on the importance of the Islamic discourse, as Ibn Halaf showed. I shall now move gradually into a discussion of his unique thesis, looking at how a couple of prominent Muslim scholars expressed their views on the relationship between orality and writing, and how that ties in with the notion of truth. Pre-modern Islamic society undoubtedly left a rich legacy to Western societies and cultures. It is extraordinary how many universals have been discussed within

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the context of medieval Western society without any acknowledgement of the contribution Islamic society made to the formulation of those universals. One of many such examples is the theory of signification advanced by some of the Muslim jurists and theologians,50 which pre-dates modern theories by almost a millennium. Another excellent example is Ibn HaldËn’s contribution to the debate on the relationship between writing and orality several centuries ago. He stated the following: ‘Writing is the outlining and shaping of letters to indicate audible words which, in turn, indicate what is in the soul. It comes second after oral expression.’51 Ibn HaldËn’s preference for the oral over the written could well have been influenced by Socrates, whose words on this subject seem to be have been echoed by Ibn HaldËn. Socrates said that ‘once a thing is put in writing, the composition, whatever it may be, drifts all over the place, getting into the hands not only of those who understand it, but equally of those who have no business with it …’.52 In his outstanding work on orality and writing in 19th-century Yemeni society, Mitchell follows an interesting parallel line in the debate about orality and writing. He does not view the problem as being one of the precedence of the oral over the written, or vice versa. However, he states that the transmission of knowledge through the necessary chains of recitation that still pervade areas of Islamic society ‘overcomes the inevitable absence of the author within the text’. A mute reading, as he puts it, fails inexorably to recover the author’s meaning.53 Mitchell argues that Ibn HaldËn’s predilection for the authority of the oral expression over writing was almost certainly a reaction to ‘a period of crisis in the problem of authorial absence’,54 beyond which the text was seriously vulnerable to corruption and misinterpretation. Within this environment texts become corrupted and misread, the techniques of discipleship break down, and chains of authority consequently become severed. To accept the legitimacy of writing required a transcending of the belief that it caused a breach in the ‘human transmission of truth’.55 Ibn HaldËn’s view is the antithesis of what secretaries like Ibn Halaf said, for whom the importance of writing superseded that of oral transmission. Although there is no doubt that the oral tradition in the Arab and Islamic heritage remains one of the most deeply rooted and sophisticated extant cultures, there is also little dispute in the fact that writing became a more and more important phenomenon in Islamic society as distances between cities and peoples grew. Writing was a much more secure way than oral transmission of preserving the enormous corpus of material of the Arab and Islamic heritage; and ironically, this point was acknowledged by Ibn HaldËn himself.56 The notion of truth underpins explicitly the work of al-BÈrËnÈ, a Persian scholar, scientist and traveller of the 4th–5th/10th–11th centuries. Writing about his travels to India he stated the following: ‘Now as justice [being just] is a quality liked and coveted for its own self, for its intrinsic beauty, the same applies to truthfulness, except perhaps in the case of such people as never tasted how sweet it is.’57 What he says next is vital for our understanding of the precedence of writing over oral transmission. In his introduction, al-BÈrËnÈ states that he relied on accounts he heard from other (reliable) people about India, but that he recorded what he saw and heard rather than relying on memory.58 The period in which al-BÈrËnÈ was

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writing is significant, because it reflects the growing dependence on the written word in Islamic society generally. This is what he said on this subject: No one will deny that in questions of historic authenticity hearsay does not equal eye-witness; for in the latter the eye of the observer apprehends the substance of that which is observed, both in the time when and in the place where it exists, whilst hearsay has its peculiar drawbacks. But for these, it would even be preferable to eye-witness; for the object of eye-witness can only be actual momentary existence, whilst hearsay comprehends alike the present, the past, and the future, so as to apply in a certain sense both to that which is and to that which is not [which either has ceased to exist or has not yet come into existence, emphasis added]. Written tradition is one of the species of hearsay – we might almost say, the most preferable. How could we know the history of nations but for the everlasting monuments of the pen?59 The last two sentences of al-BÈrËnÈ’s insight are particularly relevant to this discussion, but what precedes them is also important to illustrate the logic of his argument, leading to the conclusion that although oral transmission is important, writing supersedes it. The written word could only be recorded, of course, through a combination of the pen and its ink. Earlier I discussed the significance of both for the secretary, and ultimately for the preservation of the Islamic message. The choice of ink was something to which the secretaries gave much thought. I believe this was all part of the sacred process I am describing here. Handwriting or calligraphy as an art form, as opposed to a conveyor of meanings in the context of verbal or textual expression, was certainly acknowledged in the primary literature. But as Björkmann notes, by the MamlËk period the responsibility for calligraphy had been taken out of the hands of the secretaries and handed over to professional calligraphers.60 By the AyyËbid period the secretaries were more preoccupied with the creation of meaning and expression than with the beauty of the script. Ibn ŠÈt put it like this: ‘and he [the secretary] should not preoccupy himself with the beauty of the script, for that leads to prolongation and delay, and diverts the mind away from what is more important’.61 Without suggesting that the secretaries regarded calligraphy with contempt, I would, nonetheless, propose that their subsequent and exclusive preoccupation with style as opposed to script underlines the importance to them of the content of writing, not just the manner and form in which it was presented. This in no way undermines the sacrosanct nature of the Arabic script, nor indeed its artistic beauty, but rather underlines the relationship between the script and its meaningful significance. Documents subsequently benefited from the input of two professionals as opposed to one, with each highly skilled individual contributing to the greater whole. This shift of responsibility seems to mirror the situation that obtained in medieval Western society, as expressed by Toorawa (quoting Havelock): ‘alphabet, writing, and easier scripts freed the mind for more abstract and textualized thought’.62 In other words, by handing over the aesthetic aspect of their duties, the secretaries were able to focus on the epistemological facets of their role.

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Early Arabic sources such as Ibn Qutayba’s Adab al-KÅtib stipulated that the secretary should possess good handwriting so that people could read what had been written. One early example of the association between script and meaning is attributed to the cousin of the Prophet, ‘AlÈ ibn AbÈ ÊÅlib, who said that good handwriting was essential because it increases the clarity of the truth.63 Writers such as al-ÍËlÈ (d. 336/947) from the later early Islamic period focused more extensively on this subject.64 Yet in the article on ‘calligraphy’ in the Encyclopedia of Islam no mention is made of this relationship, with the focus being almost exclusively on the aesthetic qualities of the Arabic script.65 This oversight is significant, given that calligraphy was, for scholars like Ibn Halaf, the foundation of all knowledge and meaning, as I am attempting to show in this chapter. This is the point, therefore, to highlight that the term ha†† is used in Arabic to convey the following three meanings: calligraphy, handwriting and script. The multiple meanings of this one word are no coincidence, for the different functions of the term progress in a linear fashion from the fundamental sense of calligraphy, that is, the mere act of making a shape on the page, to the aggregate of those parts; that is to say, the composite totality of writing and the meanings it conveys. In his MawÅdd al-BayÅn Ibn Halaf distinguishes between two distinct forms of handwriting used for different texts. Official state documents and those conveying important affairs were to be written in an accurate and exact hand (Ar. mu˙arrir mu˙aqqiq), whereas the documents of mutual correspondence had to be in a free and unrestricted hand (Ar. mu†laq mursal).66 He elaborates on this distinction later to confirm that both forms are equally important; however, their use varies according to the need and context. The ‘exact’ form of script – which was nobler than the ‘free’ form – was deployed in letters from Kings to Kings to underline the rank of the sender and the addressee, as well as being used in some other forms of important official documents. However, the free type of script, being derived from the exact form, was important in a different way. Not only was it used for correspondence on general matters but also to execute urgent correspondence that could not be delayed.67 Therefore, in the same way that the pen was extolled, handwriting, or script as I propose to call it in this context, was equally revered. Just as expressions and ideas had to be chosen carefully to please the ear, handwriting (or script) had to be portrayed using the most exquisite tools, such as hand-picked pens, the finest paper and a pure inkwell. According to Ibn Halaf, this was so that ‘souls might be drawn to it through the sense of seeing, as opposed to expressions and ideas which souls were drawn to through the sense of hearing’.68 Just as a solecism could harm the beauty of an expression, a corrupted character on the page could spoil the script.69 Analogies between the pen and script were often drawn in the secretarial literature. As I showed earlier, metaphors referring to the pen as the tongue of the hand,70 or maxims stating, for instance, that there is no difference between a wound caused by the tongue and one caused by the hand,71 were common in the literature. But there were several allusions in the sources to the deeper significance of the script. One such instance is found in the work of al-ÍËlÈ quoting Eucylides, saying that script (or handwriting) is a spiritual feat of architecture even though it is recorded by a corporeal instrument, that is, the pen.72 The juxtaposition of the spiritual and the

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corporeal was something that Ibn Halaf focused on as part of his presentation of the dual significance of script in this context, as I shall demonstrate shortly, thus underlining further the influence of Greek thought on his writing. Many sources asserted that script made a more profound impact than (verbal) expression. Al-‘AskarÈ, for instance, noted that script was deemed to be more meritorious than expression because it could reach (lit. ‘make understand’) the one who was present or absent, whereas the latter could only reach the one who was present,73 a notion that found continued support right up to the beginning of the 20th century ad.74 In more recent discussions of the relationship between writing and oral communication there have been some emphatic rejections of Saussure’s claims that the written language exists only to represent the spoken form. Derrida’s quarrel was essentially with this idea, and also with Saussure’s notion which subordinated, or even rejected, writing in favour of logocentrism, that is to say, ‘the belief that the first and last things are the Logos, the Word, the Divine Mind …’. In Derrida’s view, writing had been reduced to ‘an appendage’ in the light of the dependence upon logocentrism and even phonocentrism.75 Few would now quarrel with the notion that Islam is essentially a logocentric culture, especially given the inseparable relationship between expressions and meanings. But with the added emphasis placed by Ibn Halaf upon writing (or script) in relation to these two components a clear picture begins to emerge of the importance of writing, for the secretaries, as the ultimate vehicle of God’s word. Derrida claimed that writing is far from primitive; rather, it is a means of communication ‘extending enormously, if not infinitely, the domain of oral or gestural communication’.76 He goes on to say that oral communication has a ‘factual limit, an empirical boundary of space and time’, while writing ‘would be capable of relaxing those limits …’ and conveying the semantic message ‘over a greater distance, but still within a medium that remains fundamentally continuous and self-identical …’.77 Although Derrida does not disagree with Condillac’s notion of ‘absence’, that is to say, the absence of the addressee, in which ‘one writes in order to communicate something to those who are absent’, he takes the argument further, saying that the written text continues ‘to produce effects independently of his [the addressee’s] presence … indeed even after his death’.78 This view runs contrary to the one expressed by Socrates (noted above), that once discourse becomes writing a realm of possible misinterpretation comes into play. Derrida and Saussure represent two ends of the spectrum. To balance these views I am going to focus now on how Ibn Halaf seems to work within these extreme views so that, in the conflict between concrete writing as a human and artificial medium of expression, and speech as divine and natural, there is a point of harmony. According to Ibn Halaf, script and expressions share the meritorious honour (Ar. fa∂Èla) of clarity of expression (Ar. bayÅn), and a large degree of conformity.79 He describes the art of writing as ‘a craft which [graphically] records images that signify expressions [Ar. alfÅΩ], in the same way as expressions signify ideas or concepts [Ar. ma‘ÅnÈ]’.80 He then states that script and expression are essentially the same thing, but with some subtle differences which will be noted shortly. The craft of writing, he says, is tantamount to the physical record(ing) of graphemic images, with script representing expression and being its counterpart.81

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In order to understand the significance of these remarks it is important to remember that most of the earlier discussion about the relationship between phonemic configurations (Ar. alfÅΩ) and ideas or concepts in Islamic society took place without any reference to the role of the script. The Muslim theologians argued that ideas were mental images for which expressions, that is, these specific phonemic configurations, were posited.82 There were two distinct levels of articulation: an internal one pertaining to those images of ideas in the mind, and an external one, that is to say, the phonemic configurations expressing those images.83 The issue seemed to hinge on the following, therefore: what ideas or meanings ensue as a result of the writing process? How do internalised rational representations become tangible external ones?84 Ibn Halaf’s inclusion of script into this relationship was a significant development. It is my contention that he sought new ways to integrate this fundamental element of the language to complete the tripartite relationship of components that constituted God’s divine message for Muslims. It was during this period that debate about the origin of language intensified and a clear linguistico-philosophical approach to this subject within the Islamic context emerged. But we are no longer dealing here with just a theory of speech; rather, an intricate web of speech elements that constitute the very core of the definition of writing, a representation of the timeless Islamic discourse revealed to man as a series of linguistic ‘acts’ (af‘Ål). All this was supported by the underlying notion that ha†† as handwriting, or script, signified an authorial presence that was not found in oral transmission. Ibn Halaf would have probably subscribed to the view of Andres Brun, a Spanish writing master of the 16th century ad, who subordinated the time-honoured (Platonic) view that humans are different from animals because they have the power of speech to the notion that ‘we know how to write but they do not’.85 This is an important distinction, for it tackles the substance of what is uniquely human, and places writing at the head of that distinction. Ibn Halaf believed in conformity between script and expressions, at least in their capacity to express meanings or concepts.86 But for him there was one very significant difference between them. Expression was a dynamic concept (Ar. ma‘nÅ muta˙arrik) whereas script was, sui generis, a static concept (Ar. ma‘nÅ sÅkin). But script fulfils the role of dynamic expression through its ability to convey its contents to the minds of men.87 It can only record its posited images (Ar. ßuwaruhu l-maw∂Ë‘a) to signify expressions after [emphasis added] expressions have played an intermediary role between those images and the meanings that exist in the mind.88 Al-QalqašandÈ notes a further distinction proffered by Ibn Halaf between expression and script as spiritual and corporeal aspects of the craft of writing. The ‘spiritual’ (Ar. rË˙Åniyya) side of writing is defined as ‘those expressions which the writer imagines in his mind and puts together into a self-contained internal image’.89 The ‘corporeal’ (Ar. juthmÅniyya) element of writing is classified as ‘the script produced by the pen, which records that image through the script and turns internal rational [or: non-tangible] images into external tangible ones’. In other words, just as the script is not in itself dynamic but becomes that way through its conveying of expression, the product of the pen, that is to say the script, is not

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in itself spiritual but acquires that quality as part of the dynamic communicative process and function of expression; the script is an essential vehicle by which the dynamic signifier [the expression] reaches the signified [or: the expressed concept], that is, what the speaker, or in this context, the writer had in mind.90 It is here that the importance of Derrida’s argument becomes clear. We are no longer dealing in the context of Ibn Halaf’s argument with an essentially spoken phenomenon – nor even with a written version of oral discourse – but with the text, a medium of communication with a much greater durability than any oral discourse, as the following argument attempts to illustrate further. In essence, Ibn Halaf regards expression, that is, the spoken form of communication as opposed to script, to be transient. On the one hand it is superior to script because it is a natural form of signification (dalÈl †abÈ‘È), and its instrument, that is, the tongue, is also natural (cf. the view outlined above against which Derrida was arguing). In contrast, script is an artificial form of signification (dalÈl ßinÅ‘È) with an artifical instrument, that is to say, the pen. This juxtaposition reinforces the distinction between the spiritual and corporeal in which expression holds the upper hand. But for Ibn Halaf the superiority of expression over script ceased there, since he went on to show that forgetfulness is a natural phenomenon, indicated by the ease with which man falls into its state. In other words, expressions are part of the realm of memorisation, but unfortunately they can easily evaporate from the mind. For these reasons, Ibn Halaf maintains, God taught man the necessity of script and through it gave him the capacity to fulfil the concept of articulation for which he has been uniquely chosen.91 Ibn Halaf’s main thesis lies in his emphasis upon not only the timeless capabilities of the written word, but also its role as a communicative medium across space. Its main advantage was that its realm extended much further than that of the spoken word, which could only be heard, interpreted and understood by an addressee in relatively close proximity to the speaker, or by a chain of individuals involved in the transmission of spoken discourse. If it were not for script, he notes, communication would have been restricted to this function. Ibn Halaf goes on to say that the vagaries of change resulting from the passage of time make it very difficult for man to convey oral transmission accurately. It was only when God created the need for man to connect his [verbal] expressions with scriptural, graphemic representations that the benefit of the blessing [of communication] became complete. At this point Ibn Halaf is uncomprising about the superiority of written transmission: when the people of one generation become extinct these images deputise [for them] in communicating the virtues they have unearthed, and the concepts they have derived … and they have secured amongst them [the virtues] the role of deputising for oral transmission … This is a widespread, complete, all-encompassing and unsurpassable virtue.92 It is worth diverting here briefly to look at the implications of such dogmatism in the context of contemporary thinking on the importance of the text. Edward Said described this notion beautifully in his discussion of the text as a ruling metaphor dominating Arab-Islamic culture. In his essay on Said’s work on the Arab-Islamic

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heritage Ferial Ghazoul notes the following: ‘Said sees the vital necessity of the text, but not as a severed entity from the body of history where it turns into an aesthetic commodity or a sacralized fetish to be contemplated.’93 The point here is that although Ibn Halaf could not have predicted the enduring effect of this type of dogmatism, nonetheless his views – and those of others around his time – contributed significantly to an ethos of textual dominance that has been largely responsible for the alleged lack of progress in Islamic thinking in the past millennium or more.94 To underline further the importance of the craft of writing, Ibn Halaf divides it into two parts: a theoretical and a practical component. The theoretical part (Ar. al-qism al-‘ilmÈ) consists of two qualities that distinguish man from the animal kingdom: that is to say, clear exposition and rational mental faculty, or thought process (˙isÅb, lit. ‘calculation’). It amounts to the exposition of those images in the mind of the secretary (writer) which are then transformed into the act of eloquent expression. It also amounts to the thought process involved in transposing what is in his mind into script. The practical element (Ar. al-qism al-‘amalÈ), however, is the script itself, which is linked to articulation in the clear exposition of meanings and (communicative) aims. Ibn Halaf defines the script as ‘a silent vehicle of expression’ (Ar. mu‘abbir ßÅmit), and ‘a secret communicator’ (Ar. mu˙ņib musirr) assuming the role of the eloquent speaker. In other words, just as the speaker indicates meanings through expressions, so the script indicates meaning through its graphemic form (Ar. rasm). Then comes the following profound conclusion from Ibn Halaf, when he states that expressions indicate to the addressee the mental concepts intended by the speaker; the script, however, indicates the expressions to him who hears them from a distance. This notion mirrors perfectly the view that the pen had the capacity to destroy from afar, as I noted earlier, emphasising the power of the written word in any context and at any given point in history. The references in the medieval sources to the tongue and the pen as instruments of communication require further explanation here. According to Ibn Halaf, certain conditions were required to justify a true analogy. In Chapter 7 of his MawÅdd al-BayÅn, which is devoted to the rules pertaining to script, he makes some detailed comparisons between the relative merits of script and expression. The status of a solecism in verbal expression (speech) is equivalent to a mistake in script (writing). Just as a sweet expression enhances the meaning and draws people’s souls to it, a fine piece of script – in this context calligraphy – induces one to read what has been written. Bad examples of either, of course, have the opposite effect. However, when expression and script share and convey optimum communicative meanings (al-fawÅ’id al-‘ulyÅ) their respective instruments (the tongue being the instrument of articulation and the pen being the instrument of script) also share absolute conformity. When these conditions are met each instrument is able perform the role of the other in expressing concepts (ma‘ÅnÈ). Moreover, when the two instruments share one signification and can fulfil the role of the other the pen can, under these conditions, also be called the tongue.95 One further example of Ibn Halaf’s originality of mind will suffice here. In a comparison between the science of medicine and the craft of penmanship based on the Aristotelian theory of the four causes – substance (Ar. mÅdda), tool or vehicle

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for implementation (Ar. Åla), purpose (Ar. ghara∂) and objective (Ar. ghÅya) – Ibn Halaf cites the pen as the vehicle for the implementation of writing, and he takes the reader through each ‘cause’ showing how the pen and writing fit the paradigm. But what is especially fascinating in this comparison is his argument that God has created the pen to be revered in the same ways as the tongue, and that He has honoured the pen by ‘swearing by it’ (a reference to Qur’Ån SËra 68 ‘The Pen’). He notes that God has made the pen as a tool with which to glorify and exalt Him. A thing should be judged not by its essence but rather by its objectives, Ibn Halaf adds.96 As a final point in this chapter I want to look briefly at how Ibn Halaf’s views on the tripartite relationship between a given piece of script, the expressions it contains and the meanings conveyed by those expressions came into conflict with the theory of speech proposed mainly by the jurists. As a ‘man of the pen’ it was always in the secretary’s interests to promote the craft of writing above all other forms of communication. But the jurists appear to have had other views, since their conception of the relationship between expression and meaning did not focus on the written word as such. If we follow Bloom’s argument that the jurists were more suspicious of the authenticity of the written text than they were of an authoritative oral transmission,97 – a view that was shared by some early scholars who ‘cautioned against the unreliability of writing’, as Messick puts it98 – it is not difficult to ascertain the source of this conflict. Ibn al-JawzÈ, one of the most prominent jurists of the pre-modern period, describes it like this: ‘Thus, there is no community which reliably transmits from its prophet his words and deeds except ours … The rest of the communities relate what they observe on the page, not knowing who wrote it or who transmitted it.’99 The argument of the jurists was that the oral act was much more reliable in cases of evidence, since witnesses could be brought in and questioned. The act of writing, in contrast, permitted error and falsification that could not be tested. Johansen sums this up rather well: ‘Elle [la parole] est la forme authentique, l’écriture sa représentation symbolique qui permet la falsification et l’altération de la parole et qui rend son interprétation ambigüe’.100 Yet of course the jurists could never win this argument completely, because in stating what they did about the reliability of oral communication they had to fall back on the mode of writing, the very medium they set out to discredit. The tension between writing and oral tradition is further exemplified in medieval Damascus. Chamberlain describes how ‘books were … emblems of prestige for the elite … with talismanic power as carriers of baraka’.101 Books were the ultimate means to power, according to the ÍËfÈ scholar al-NÅbulsÈ. The Caliph al-Ma’mËn (d. 218/833) is alleged to have said that ‘the book brings to life what memory has put to death’.102 On the other hand, although books were seen as ‘tools of knowledge’, one prominent Muslim šayh at least warned against them, claiming that they are ‘some of the most damaging of all corruptions’.103 Chamberlain adds that ‘some writers warned against learning from anyone who read from a sacred text rather than memory’.104 They forbade anyone to recite either the Qur’Ån or the Prophetic ˙adÈt after one who had read them from a written text. Schoeler’s classic work on the oral and the written in early Islam offers further clarification of the conflict. He notes

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that it was not the act of writing itself that some scholars objected to but rather that written documents could become available for public use.105 This might then lead to their falling into the wrong hands, or the mixing up of Prophetic Traditions with Qur’Ånic text, or a dependence on the ‘transient’ written word at the expense of memorising what should be taken to heart.106 But in spite of the resistance to the written word by a number of scholars, the act of writing and the meaning it created prevailed. This was due in no small part to Ibn Halaf, who created a hierarchy in which the craft of penmanship superseded the craft of oratory, and oratory ranked above the craft of poetry. The cogent manner in which he argued for the elevation of the pen above the rank of the tongue sets him apart from those writers such as al-JÅ˙iΩ and Ibn Qutayba who also appreciated the importance of books as repositories of knowledge and preservers of the written word. Günther maintains that the book and the written word – of which letters were an integral part – were ‘cultural artifacts and indicators of a set of social, political and economic relations’.107 It was partly this appreciation of the value of books that helped to assign to writing a revered place in the Islamic heritage. This chapter has attempted to show that the pen, as an instrument and metaphor of power, enjoyed a revered status among many members of the secretarial class. A number of the quotations about the importance of the pen are found in some of the earlier handbooks for secretaries in which they sought to promote their profession. Many of these citations were borrowed from classical sources – mainly Greek – and were normally listed without further qualification. During the later period a number of of them were recycled and quoted again in encyclopaedic works on Arabic and Islamic literature, although in some cases they were set in a wider context. Two very poignant examples of this are Ibn Halaf’s MawÅdd al-BayÅn and al-MawßilÈ’s al-Burd al-MuwaßßÅ. In both of these works – and in different ways – the emphasis is either upon an explicit recognition of the pen as the instrument par excellence of Islamic society, the bearer of the creative Islamic message and the conveyor of its unique achievements, or on the script, the product of the pen in its vicarious role as the tongue of communication. The final word here goes to Quintillian (1st century ad, taken from his famous work on oratory entitled Institutio Oratoria): ‘It is in writing that eloquence has its roots and foundations, it is writing that provides the holy of holies where the wrath of oratory is stored.’108 Ibn Halaf seems to have set out to incorporate the fundamentals of writing and speech into a larger spectrum of communication through the very medium he sought to promote, that is to say, writing. Having laid out some of the principles of the secretary’s craft in pre-modern Islamic society, it is now time to turn attention to the role of the secretary himself. This continues a line of inquiry I began several years ago into the role of the grammarian as a member of the medieval scholarly community. The social role of the secretary has rarely been dealt with in any detail, so the following two chapters attempt to fill that gap.

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  1. Goldberg, Writing Matter, p. 155.   2. Toorawa, Ibn AbÈ ÊÅhir ÊayfËr, p. 11. Ong puts it similarly: ‘Writing, commitment of the word to space, enlarges the potentiality of language almost beyond measure’. See Ong, Orality and Literacy, pp. 7–8.   3. For all this and much more see Günther, ‘Praise to the Book!’, passim.   4. Ibid., p. 15.   5. al-ÍËlÈ, Adab al-KuttÅb, p. 68.   6. Ibid., p. 74. See also the many references in al-‘AskarÈ, DÈwÅn al-Ma‘ÅnÈ, pp. 524ff. It is important to emphasise that a number of these maxims were clearly borrowed from the Classical tradition and do not necessarily represent an original contribution by the secretaries and such like.   7. Messick, The Calligraphic State, p. 213.   8. For example, al-ÍËlÈ, Adab al-KuttÅb, or AbË ÓayyÅn al-Taw˙ÈdÈ, RisÅla fÈ ‘Ilm al-KitÅba. For a later work containing information of this nature see, for instance, Ibn Halaf’s MawÅdd al-BayÅn in which he claims to have written a book on the tools of the secretaries (p. 326), or Ibn ŠÈt’s Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba, pp. 17ff. This latter work is almost certainly the most important secretarial manual of the AyyËbid period. Although it reflects in principle some of the historically established protocol of the secretarial class it can also be assumed that each major period produced some new developments. Therefore, the level of continuity should not be exaggerated. See also the extensive coverage in al-QalqašandÈ’s Íub˙, vol. 2, pp. 446ff.   For some discussion of the process of carving the nib etc., see Rosenthal, Four Essays on Art and Literature in Islam, p. 25.   9. Heck, ‘The Epistomological Problem of Writing’, p. 107, n. 48. 10. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 6, pp. 194–5. 11. Goldberg, Writing Matters, p. 282. 12. al-Droubi, A critical edition, p. 423. 13. I say by the 7th century at least here because it is very difficult to ascertain at exactly what point the pen was given the accolade of being a ‘royal implement’. The clear recognition of its importance as the tool of writing, ergo the transmission of knowledge, many centuries earlier does not mean that it was necessarily called a ‘royal implement’ at the same time. 14. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, p. 35. 15. Ayyad, ‘Regional Literatures, Egypt’, p. 422. Al-QÅ∂È al-FÅ∂il was one of the most prominent writers of the AyyËbid period although not a great deal of his work has survived. 16. Ibn ‘Abd Rabbihi, al-‘Iqd al-FarÈd, vol. 3, part 8, p. 156. 17. Sanni, The Arabic Theory of Prosification and Versification, pp. 42–3. 18. Ibid., p. 43. 19. al-‘AskarÈ, DÈwÅn, p. 524. Given the wealth of literature on this subject it is not difficult to find references presenting counter-arguments. For example, in a text of censure aimed at the secretary’s profession the writer made the point that ‘the lance (of a spear) is unlike other reeds’; in other words, its aim is always true, whereas the ink of the pen may miss its target. See Sanni, The Arabic Theory of Prosification and Versification, p. 45. 20. Ibn al-ÍayrafÈ, al-QÅnËn fÈ DÈwÅn al-RasÅ’il, p. 8. 21. See Gully, ‘The Sword and the Pen’. The boasting competitions I am referring to here were mentioned in Chapter 1. 22. Goldberg, Writing Matters, pp. 59–60.

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23. Ibid., p. 63. 24. Ibid., p. 64. 25. Ibid., p. 69. 26. For more on this see Gully, ‘The Sword and the Pen’. 27. For this and much more see Goldberg, Writing Matters, pp. 96–9. 28. El-Salem, Rhetoric in al-Mathal al-SÅ’ir, p. 13. 29. Ibn Halaf, MawÅdd al-BayÅn, p. 275. For Ibn Halaf tab‘ appears to have been synonymous with ©arÈza. 30. See Ouyang, Literary Criticism in Medieval Arabic-Islamic Culture, p. 176. 31. al-Ba©dÅdÈ, ‘KitÅb al-kuttÅb wa-ßifat al-dawÅh wa-l-qalam wa-taßrÈfih’, p. 130. 32. Ibid., p. 130. 33. See al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 3, pp. 26ff. 34. al-MawßilÈ, al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ, p. 45. This particular description may be cross-referenced to the one by ‘Abd al-QÅhir al-JurjÅnÈ (d. 471 or 474/1078 or 1081) who, in his DalÅ’il al-I‘jÅz, compared the process of formulating a speech act to that of making a necklace, each pearl being added until the necklace is complete. 35. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, p. 37. 36. Ibn al-AtÈr, KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ, p. 111. 37. For this observation see al-Azmeh, Muslim Kingship, p. 93. The inclusion of chapters offering moral instruction is not unlike the style of Aristotle, who includes a section on ethical topics for deliberative rhetoric. See Kennedy, Aristotle on Rhetoric, pp. 56–61. 38. Heck, ‘The Epistemological Problem of Writing’, p. 109. 39. Stock, The Implications of Literacy, p. 18. 40. Ibid., p. 16. 41. Ong, Orality and Literacy, intro. p. 1. 42. Ibid., p. 9. Ong presents this discussion within the context of a very important analysis of what ‘rhetoric’ really means. This point is discussed further in Chapter 6 of the present work. 43. Havelock, The Muse Learns to Write, p. 34. 44. Martin, The History and Power of Writing, p. 74 and p. 87. 45. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 2, p. 446. This may well be an echo of Ibn Halaf’s remark a few centuries earlier where he talks about the composition of prosaic speech and the binding of it to script which preserves it throughout the passage of time ([…] ta’lÈf al-kalÅm al-mantËr wa-taqyÈduhu bi-l-ha†† al-˙ÅfiΩ lahu ‘alÅ ta‘Åqub al-duhËr). The use of the word ˙ÅfiΩ here is very powerful since it conveys a specific sense of timeless endurance. See Ibn Halaf, MawÅdd al-BayÅn, p. 11 (also SallÅm, al-Adab fÈ l-‘Aßr al-FņimÈ, p. 355). 46. Makdisi, The Rise of Humanism, p. 93. 47. The concept of textual authority applies to the whole range of Islamic sciences, including grammar. See, for example, Gully, Grammar and Semantics in Medieval Arabic, pp. 49ff. 48. Heck, ‘The Epistomological Problem of Writing’, pp. 112–13. 49. Mitchell, Colonising Egypt, p. 150. 50. On this see, for instance, al-Azmeh, Arabic Thought and Islamic Societies, Chapter 3 especially. 51. As cited in Messick, The Calligraphic State, p. 22. Messick’s account of the sustained importance of recitation vis-à-vis writing in 19th century ad Yemeni society is fascinating and deserves to be read as a classic source for this aspect of Islamic society. His remark that ‘writing intervened in these [that is, the reproduction of recited texts] procedures in facilitating the role of repetition; its role was decisive but understated’, supports the argument here.

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52. Ibid., p. 211, citing Plato. 53. Mitchell, Colonising Egypt, p. 152. 54. Ibid., p. 152. 55. Messick, The Calligraphic State, p. 212. 56. Rosenthal (transl.), Ibn HaldËn, p. 272. 57. al-BÈrËnÈ, AlBeruni’s India, p. 5. 58. If al-BÈrËnÈ is correct it shows that Ibn Ba††Ë†a was probably not the first traveller of the Islamic tradition to write down everything he saw or heard. 59. al-BÈrËnÈ, AlBeruni’s India, p. 3. 60. Björkmann, Beiträge zur Geschichte der Staatskanzlei, p. 26. 61. Ibn ŠÈt, Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba, p. 14. 62. Toorawa, Ibn AbÈ ÊÅhir ÊayfËr, p. 8. 63. See, for example, al-‘AskarÈ, DÈwÅn al-Ma‘ÅnÈ, p. 533. 64. Darabseh, Die Kritik der Prosa, p. 170 and p. 172. 65. See Sourdel-Thomine, ‘Kha††’ art., passim. However, there is one point where Sourdel-Thomine does talk rather vaguely about ‘a particularly vast world where the “thing written” was at once admired and preserved’ (p. 1114). 66. Ibn Halaf, MawÅdd al-BayÅn, p. 324. Stern’s translation of these two terms – ‘negligent’ and ‘inaccurate’ – is rather strange, and does not suit the context here, for the contrast is simply in the level of care that should be taken in the presentation of the document, not in the level of accuracy of content. See Stern, Fņimid Decrees, p. 105. 67. Ibn Halaf, MawÅdd al-BayÅn, p. 327. 68. al-ÓumaydÈ, TashÈl al-SabÈl, p. 25 69. Ibn Halaf, MawÅdd al-BayÅn, p. 324. 70. al-‘AskarÈ, DÈwÅn al-Ma‘ÅnÈ, p. 521. 71. Attributed to Ibn Halaf; see al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 9, p. 225. 72. al-ÍËlÈ, Adab al-KuttÅb, p. 41. 73. al-‘AsakrÈ, DÈwÅn al-Ma‘ÅnÈ, p. 521. 74. See Chapter 1 of this work. 75. For all this and more see Jacques Derrida, Of Grammatology, preface, p. xviii. 76. Jacques Derrida, Limited Inc, p. 3. 77. Ibid., p. 3 78. Ibid., pp. 6 and 8. 79. Ibn Halaf, MawÅdd al-BayÅn, p. 323. 80. Ibid., p. 8. See also SallÅm, al-Adab fÈ l-‘Aßr al-FņimÈ, p. 354. 81. al-ha†† nawb al-lafΩ wa-qasÈmuhu. See MawÅdd al-BayÅn, p. 8. 82. The term ßuwar ‘images’ is important here because it was used by the theologians in their discussions about the relationship between lafΩ and ma‘nÅ, and also by Ibn Halaf with regard to the script. 83. Ibn Halaf, MawÅdd al-BayÅn, p. 9. 84. The Aristotelian view was essentially that ‘spoken words are symbolic of mental experiences, and written words are symbols of spoken words’ (Murphy, Rhetoric in the Middle Ages, p. 195). But I would argue that the connection between lafΩ and ma‘nÅ in the Arabic tradition in all forms of communication ensured a unique relationship, in which this very real, dynamic process replaces any hint of symbolism, and in which written words come alive on the page through this relationship, so to speak. 85. Goldberg, Writing Matters, 174. 86. Ibn Halaf, MawÅdd al-BayÅn, p. 323: wa-dalika anna l-ha†† wa-l-lafΩ yu‘abbirÅni ‘an-i l-ma‘ÅnÈ.

The power of the pen and the primacy of script   87.   88.   89.   90.   91.   92.

  93.   94.

  95.   96.

  97.   98.

  99. 100. 101. 102. 103. 104. 105. 106. 107. 108.

[ 71

Ibid., p. 323 Ibid., pp. 8–9. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, p. 51. For this general notion see Culler, Saussure, p. 109. Ibn Halaf, MawÅdd al-BayÅn, p. 12. For all this see ibid., pp. 12–13. These words seem to reflect almost exactly what Ghersetti is saying (cited in Günther, ‘Praise to the Book!’, p. 139): ‘If the transmission of knowledge were confined solely to the human memory, which is characterized by significant limitations of an innate and contingent nature, the knowledge of humanity would have been in great part lost.’ See Ghersetta, ‘L’utilita della scrittura e la lode del libro: testimonianze di alcuni scrittori arabi medievali [The Usefulness of Writing and the Praise of the Book]’, p. 73. Ghazoul, ‘The Resonance of the Arab-Islamic Heritage’, p. 165. One prominent example of this is the ongoing debate on the conflict between ‘imitation’ (Ar. taqlÈd) and ‘independent reasoning’ (Ar. ijtihad). The ‘fixation’ with the text and its negative influence on advancement in Islamic is not just part of the Orientalist fantasy, so to speak, but is a concern that has been expressed repeatedly by prominent Arab intellectuals. For all this, Ibn Halaf, MawÅdd al-BayÅn, pp. 323–4. Ibid., pp. 29–30. A further example of Greek influence in Ibn Halaf’s thinking can be found in his definition of the epistolographer, who is not only the ‘tongue of the king’ but also the one who articulates his argument (Ar. ˙ujja), this being a term that was evidently influenced by Greek thinking, if not borrowed from it. This should be compared with Patel (Sa‘id al-ShartËnÈ: A Humanist of the Arab Renaissance, pp. 165ff.), who identifies the influence of Cicero on some of Sa‘Èd al-ŠartËnÈ’s principles of oratory, but acknowledges at the same time the original contribution of al-ŠartËnÈ. According to Patel, there were two types of proofs (Ar. dalÈl) in al-ŠartËnÈ’s system, one leading to conviction, the other to assumption. Óujja belonged to the latter. Bloom, Paper before Print, p. 99. Messick, The Calligraphic State, p. 23. According to Messick, there was some contradiction in the status of writing as revealed in the literature of Prophetic Tradition. The contradiction arose from the existence of two conflicting orders descending from the Prophet Mu˙ammad, one claiming that he gave the command that no text apart from the Qur’Ån should be written down, the other stating the maxim ‘commit knowledge to writing’. Heck, ‘The Epistemological Problem of Writing’, p. 93, n. 25. Johansen, ‘Formes de Langage et Fonctions Publiques Stéréotypes’. p. 337. Chamberlain, Knowledge and Social Practice, p. 138. Heck, ‘The Epistemological Problem of Writing’, p. 108. For all this see Chamberlain, Knowledge and Social Practice, pp. 138–9. Ibid., p. 145. For this see Schoeler, The Oral and the Written in Early Islam, p. 112. Ibid., pp. 117–19. Günther, ‘Praise to the Book!’, p. 127. Goldberg, Writing Matter, p. 158.

CHAPTER

4 the composition secretary (i): background and status

The secretary ‘AlÈ ibn Zayd said to the King: I will never divulge your secrets, never delay giving you advice, and will never prefer anyone to you1 Before examining more closely the background and status of the secretary in pre-modern Islamic society, I should point out that in a previous study I found it necessary to evaluate the social and intellectual position of a particular group of scholars in relation to their peers. In that work I was looking at the relationship between grammar and semantics, and found it especially instructive to look at how the class of grammarians fitted into the intellectual stratum of Islamic society in the pre-modern period.2 Almost nothing had been written previously on that aspect of the life of a grammarian. The same applies to the secretary.3 Therefore, in this and the next chapter I have decided to look more closely at the general social position of the secretary, and also at the qualities he needed to fulfil the requirements of his profession. Some of the requisites underpinning the secretary’s profession had in fact been established within a little over a century after the advent of Islam. Such was the importance of ‘Abd al-ÓamÈd al-KÅtib’s contribution to the history and development of the profession that numerous books and articles have been devoted to him. Some of those works focus on social and historical issues in ‘Abd al-ÓamÈd’s letters, such as matters of state, while others concentrate on his epistolary style. This is not the place to offer a detailed analysis of ‘Abd al-ÓamÈd’s contribution to our knowledge of the early background to the profession of secretary, but it is the point to reflect on a few of the more salient elements of his work. An excellent source from which to extract such information is WadÅd al-QÅ∂È’s chapter on the impact of the Qur’Ån on ‘Abd al-ÓamÈd’s epistolography. Her statement that he has ‘long been considered the founder of Arabic prose’4 reminds us of the essential link between Arabic prose writing (and adab in general) and the rising prominence of the secretary in Islamic society. Moreover, the importance of

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his letters, which were of a formal and an informal nature, completes the circle on which this present study is based; that is to say: secretary – prose writing – epistolography. Al-QÅ∂È’s chapter is enlightening not only for the information it contains, but also for what it necessarily omits. For example, although she deliberately focuses on a fairly narrow period of history, her observations that ‘Abd al-ÓamÈd’s letters addressed to friends lack any reference to the Qur’Ån are highly significant from a diachronic perspective. In the later epistolary literature the environment in which Qur’Ånic verses were cited was very specific, and their deployment was restricted to formal letters.5 The omission of Qur’Ånic verses in letters to friends appears to be taken for granted in ‘Abd al-ÓamÈd’s epistles, whereas in the later epistolary literature it was stated as a given that informal letters (that is, letters to friends, but also letters of an informal nature to Rulers and so on) did not contain verses from the Qur’Ån. Interestingly, poetry had an opposite role in the later pre-modern period, since it could only be used in informal letters, not in formal ones.6 This was mentioned earlier in Chapter 2. A number of the educational requirements of the secretary listed by later writers such as Ibn al-AtÈr had already been recorded by ‘Abd al-ÓamÈd. For example, he stated the following: ‘begin [your education] with the knowledge of the Book of God, after which come the knowledge of religious duties, Arabic language, good handwriting, poetry, the histories of the (pre-Islamic) Arabs and non-Arabs, and finally arithmetic’.7 ‘Abd al-ÓamÈd’s prose style also set an early trend for ­epistolary writing, although the balanced parallelism that characterised his easy style was gradually replaced by more emphatic parallel schemes such as those exemplifed in the writings of al-ÍÅ˙ib ibn ‘AbbÅd.8 These schemes included synonymous, antithetic and synthetic parallelism.9 Saj‘ and its concomitant affectations became the dominant feature of epistolary prose from the 5th/11th century onwards.10 The influence of Sasanid (Persian) traditions was very much in evidence in early Islamic administrative developments. For example, the secretary was from early times in Islamic society closely linked to the dÈwÅn. While ‘Abd al-ÓamÈd al-KÅtib was certainly responsible for providing a number of the literary, intellectual and moral foundations of the secretary’s role, it was ZiyÅd ibn AbÈ SufyÅn (known patronimically as ZiyÅd ibn AbÈhi) (d. 53/673), an apparently gifted individual of the Umayyad period, who took the profile and responsibilities of the scribe into new realms by assigning governmental duties to the role in Iraq.11 From that point the power and remit of the secretary grew significantly beyond basic scribal and copying duties, and gradually developed into a sophisticated administrative role in the service of the state. These developments are also reflected in the general shift of focus in secretarial manuals from descriptions of the physical attributes of the secretary and the tools of his trade to his intellectual qualities and responsibilities. The rise in this type of literary output was almost certainly a mirror for the growing range of works on rules for Kings and Rulers which appear to have been founded in two complementary, but distinct categories: one of these being ‘affairs of state and the conduct of the ruler in his official capacity’; the other being that of ‘the ethical principles of self-mastery, [a pre-requisite] for the proper exercise of power’.12 By the 8th/14th century at the very latest (the MamlËk period) the hierarchy of power

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in Islamic society, based in Cairo, looked as follows: (i) the Caliph; (ii) the Ruler (al-sul†Ån); (iii) the Ruler’s deputies (in the towns and cities); (iv) the secretaries of the Composition and Epistolary Chancery and judges, and so on.13 During the course of this chapter a clear profile of the background and status of the secretary should emerge. Although the secretaries were just one group of professionals – along with soldiers and merchants, for example – who became fully recognised members of the scholarly community, it was apparently the secretaries who maintained an identity that kept them apart from the ‘ulamÅ’ more than any of the other social groups, particularly up to the 4th/10th century. Since a number of the earlier secretaries were non-Muslim, they continued to admire and adhere to many of the pre-Islamic models of secretarial culture, preserving ‘the continuing ethos of imperial service, without strong reference to Islamic motives and purposes’.14 It was this different ethos that perhaps contributed to the tension between the secretaries and members of the ‘ulamÅ’. Yet in spite of this tension secretaries were an integral part of what Martin Irvine calls the ‘textual community’, contributing in a major way to the ‘textual culture’ of that community. The humanistic subjects of that culture, such as epistolography as a body of artistic prose texts, were as important as any other. In this connection it is worth noting the role of what Irvine classifies as grammatica, the body of grammatical texts that ‘had a status unlike the other medieval arts and sciences since [they] functioned as the only point of access to all of the orders of textual knowledge’.15 Irvine goes further: ‘Grammatica functioned to perpetuate and reproduce the most fundamental conditions for textual culture, providing the discursive rules and interpretative strategies that constructed certain texts as repositories of authority and value’.16 In this context it is no surprise, then, that grammar was first on the list of things the secretary had to know. I would also propose here that the secretaries were an essential part of the ‘imagined political community’, a term used by Anderson in the context of what defines a ‘nation’.17 Although the secretaries were prima facie part of a much smaller, immediate community of intellectual religious and humanistic scholars, they were nonetheless essential components of the much wider Islamic ‘nation’ (Ar. umma), never actually knowing most of their fellow-members but living ‘the image of their communion’, as Anderson puts it.18 Financial matters were one of the more significant aspects of the background and activities of the secretary. Even as early as the the time of ZiyÅd ibn AbÈhi secretaries began to exact privileges which, as Sellheim and Sourdel describe it, were ‘mostly acquired through the relationship of dependency. The kÅtib had to submit himself to his master and comply with his moods.’19 If this assessment is correct, the fate of the secretary appears to have rested heavily on the whims of his patron, and the privileges he exacted may well have been one of the causes of envy among others in the scholarly community, as well as one of the inspirations for the literary debates between the sword and the pen which, I have argued elsewhere, were as much a reflection of deeper social issues as they were compositions of frivolity and expositions of linguistic and literary dexterity.20 Privileges for the secretaries were not unique to the Arab-Islamic tradition, in fact, since they were also evident in

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the Persian tradition, which has been credited with providing much of the early influence and stimulus for the development of the secretarial class and literature in Arab-Islamic society. In his important work on tracing these influences al-JahšiyÅrÈ tells us that only Kings, secretaries and judges rode the himlÅj, a particular kind of ambling horse, in the days of the Persians.21 Therefore, the secretaries of the Islamic period inherited a system of entitlements that in many cases they appear to have preserved. It is difficult to establish from the sources exactly how financially lucrative the position of secretary was. Many well-known scholars of the day, such as al-TibrÈzÈ, who was a master of Arabic language and adab at the NiΩÅmiyya Institute in Baghdad, never became secretaries. It is not clear whether this was because he was never considered appropriate for the position, or whether he decided it was not the right profession for him. Perhaps he concluded that the remuneration was inadequate. There were other scholars, such as Ibn ZakÈ al-DÈn al-DimašqÈ, whose competence in letter-writing was celebrated, but who chose to follow another profession, in this case that of the judge of Damascus, possibly because it was better paid. It was not until the MamlËk era, in fact, that the status of the secretary was recognised as being more or less equivalent to that of senior judges.22 In earlier times government secretaries normally began as apprentices at a fairly early age, and were paid their salaries by heads of departments who were acknowledged later on in the life of the secretary as the original patrons. One example of this is Ibn al-FurÅt from the late ‘AbbÅsid period, who apparently said the following: ‘One’s obligation to his superior is not forgotten, and one’s debt to him is not discharged.’23 With the establishment of the Chancery came the opportunity for higher honour. The secretary now had the chance to take on the most sophisticated and highest administrative responsibilities in the land. The growing importance of the Chancery in the running of the state seems to have mirrored the rise of the Papal Chancery in Europe in the 11th century ad, in which ‘the production of letters passed from the office of the Librarian to a new official with the Frankish title of Chancellor, who, like his imperial counterpart, was personally attached to the Ruler and travelled with him’.24 The Arabic sources reveal that the close relationship between the Ruler and the secretary was never in doubt. Over a period of time – and depending on who the source was – it became a question of the degree of closeness. One scholar who took advantage of the opportunities available to the secretary was ÎiyÅ’ al-DÈn ibn al-AtÈr, one of the most influential secretaries of the day. Ibn al-AtÈr’s contribution to our understanding of the role of the secretary in the AyyËbid period was enhanced by the position he held. He was himself a highranking secretary although unpopular amongst men of state. A number of his remarks about other scholars were far from complimentary, and his manner throughout the al-Matal al-SÅ’ir is didactic and often supercilious.25 Before moving on to examine Ibn al-AtÈr’s perception of what constituted a good secretary we can, from looking at his relationship with others, draw some general conclusions about the climate in which the secretary operated. Ibn al-AtÈr was evidently entrusted with a considerable degree of power and authority during his career. He made the acquaintance of al-QÅ∂È al-FÅ∂il, who

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was not only one of the most highly esteemed secretaries of the pre-modern period, but also considered to be ÍalÅ˙ al-DÈn’s right-hand man during the Crusades. Ibn al-AtÈr seems to have benefited greatly from his encounter with al-Qa∂È al-FÅ∂il, for the latter established a place for him in the service of ÍalÅ˙ al-DÈn. Yet it was not long before Ibn al-AtÈr angered al-QÅ∂È al-FÅ∂il, who consequently left Damascus for Egypt. Although not yet 30 years of age Ibn al-AtÈr was subsequently offered the choice of serving either ÍalÅ˙ al-DÈn or his son, al-Af∂al NËr al-DÈn ibn AyyËb. He chose to serve the latter, who looked after him very favourably. The historical sources seem to concur that all matters of state were then placed in the hands of Ibn al-AtÈr.26 But in spite of the authority he acquired Ibn al-AtÈr was frequently on the move, seemingly never settled in any one place, and when he eventually returned to Mawßil he became the secretary of NÅßir al-DÈn ibn NËr al-DÈn ArsilÅn ŠÅh, for whom he wrote inšÅ’. It can also be ascertained from the sources that the AyyËbid period in which Ibn al-AtÈr lived was one that provided Islamic society with much recreation and entertainment in the form of books,27 and that the number of secretaries, poets and scholars increased considerably, particularly during the rule of Sanjar (late 5th–mid-6th/11th–12th centuries) and his brothers.28 The intellectual climate at that time seems to have been sufficiently fertile for the secretaries to promote their importance through their scholarly work. That climate would have also generated considerable interest in their epistolary production. The greatest need for secretarial output came perhaps during the AyyËbid and MamlËk periods in the wars against the enemies of Islam, especially during the Crusades. Evidence for this can be seen in the examples in the epistolary literature calling for Holy War (Ar. jihÅd), or upon the necessity of obedience. It is worth pausing here to reflect on this aspect of the secretarial literature, because it is such an important complement to the theoretical elements of this book. The prescriptions for different categories of letter were set out very clearly by Ibn Halaf in particular, and later recounted in detail by al-QalqašandÈ. Volumes 8 and 9 of al-QalqašandÈ’s Íub˙ are full of theoretical prescriptions and practical examples of the thematic content of a letter. In the volume devoted to ‘formal’ letters (rasÅ’il dÈwÅniyya) there is a category in the section for Caliphs, Kings and those of equal rank impelling Muslims to fight a Holy War, for example. In that section Ibn Halaf observes that calling to religion is one thing, but protecting its domain from enemies who would wish to conquer it is another. He goes on: Therefore, God has imposed a holy war and made it a duty, and has confirmed and strengthened the issue regarding it. So the Ruler, on account of what happens in the way of violaters penetrating certain borders, or launching attacks on the people of Islam, needs to call for a holy war and [to call for] a fighting of the enemy, and protecting of the sanctum of the religious community, and preserving the organisation of the state.29 Following this, the letter should contain an appropriate doxology, and examples in detail of when the Prophet Mu˙ammad took part in a holy war, and how he dealt with heresy, and so forth. In sum, the skill of the secretary manifests itself in the way that he combines his service to the Ruler with acquiring a share of [eternal]

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reward. When a letter is sent from the Ruler to the border people, alerting them of an impending attack from the enemy, the epistle should follow a specific style, namely that of describing their intentions and the strength of their designs, their intense passion for religion, the abundance of their soldiers, and so on. To encourage his own people he should fortify their hearts, and expound on their hopes and goad them into being vigilant, for example. All of this should be expressed as eloquently as possible, and in a courageous and strong way, far removed from the manner of softness and elegance.30 This example gives the reader a clear idea of the sort of parameters set by secretaries for their peers on how to construct a letter in accordance with its objective and theme. ‘Scholarly careers could not be advanced by the pen alone’,31 notes Michael Chamberlain in his outstanding work on knowledge and social practice. Chamberlain cites the case of one scholar who was supposedly the greatest polymath of his age, with a sharper pen than tongue, but who ‘had little good fortune in the world’ and never attained a salaried position. It is not surprising that this competitive environment contributed to a climate of rivalry among the secretarial class, just as it had done among the grammarians.32 While the intellectual exchanges between scholars mentioned at the beginning of Chapter 1 demonstrate the vibrancy of the time, they also reflect a spirit of competition among the secretaries, in which each tried to gain intellectual precedence over the other. One such example is the exchanges between al-QÅ∂È al-FÅ∂il and ‘ImÅd al-DÈn al-IßfahÅnÈ during the late Fņimid/early AyyËbid period.33 Another is the story of two rival poets in the company of the Caliph al-Ma’mun who were vying for his favour. One of those poets was required to improve the quality of his poetry in the company of his rival and the Caliph until he silenced the criticisms of the former and satisfied the latter.34 One point I should underline here is that, in order to become a secretary, literary talent – that is to say, the ability to influence mens’ minds with originality and eloquence in speech – was still far more important than a noble background, although nepotism and maintaining favour with the Ruler often played a role. The relationship between the Ruler and the secretary from the BËyid period onwards (4th/mid-10th century) is quite complex. One the one hand there is sufficient evidence to support the notion that patronage was an important element in the professional advancement of the secretary. Yet it has been suggested elsewhere that ‘clerks do not seem to have become the protégés of rulers’.35 Mottahedeh argues that Rulers were not the ones who fostered the careers of secretaries; rather, that role was the preserve of the head of department or section in which the secretary was employed. Mottahedeh takes his argument one stage further, noting that by maintaining – or being obliged to maintain – a distance from the Ruler the secretaries ‘were better able than the soldiers to survive changes of dynasty and to enter the service of new masters’.36 Since the evidence contained in the following discussion does not explicitly state that any influence exploited by the secretary was through the Ruler directly, Mottahedeh’s argument needs to be taken seriously. He claims that ‘he [the Ruler] would have felt embarrassed to disgrace his ministers – an embarrassment no effective ruler would want’.37 But there appears to be an ambiguity in his thinking when he states later in his work that the secretaries, like the soldiers,

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‘were so vulnerable to the manipulation of the king that they were forced to divide into internal factions’.38 The historical annals are an important source for our understanding of the wider social context in which the secretaries operated. These sources tell us, for instance, that the secretary was able to rise to a position of responsibility through a recommendation of a fellow writer; in the case of Ibn al-AtÈr through an introduction by al-QÅ∂È al-FÅ∂il, which the former had actually sought out. We know from biographical sources that Ibn al-AtÈr was an educated man, and that he had trained in the requisite skills of secretaryship such as memorisation of the Qur’Ån and many Traditions of the Prophet Mu˙ammad. But Islamic society at that time had many scholars possessing this level of erudition, so it seems that one often had to manufacture an opening, be the lucky recipient of the generosity of someone in power, or have access to someone in a position of authority. Those annals also illustrate how a secretary could continue to hold his position in spite of widespread unpopularity, and despite having a disagreeable personality. Such was the intensity of resentment toward some of Ibn al-AtÈr’s criticisms of great intellectuals like Ibn JinnÈ and AbË al-‘AlÅ’ al-Ma‘arrÈ that at least two refutational tracts were written against him. I would not go so far as to say that the secretary could easily abuse his position, not on this evidence alone at any rate, but it is difficult to resist the notion that levels of accountability were limited, especially where the secretary had reached his position through a personal connection of some sort. In pre-modern Islamic society what might today be considered a form of plagiarism was ultimately a form of preservation, as scholars sometimes copied works of their predecessors, especially eminent ones, or relied heavily on their work. Similarly, although certain types of appointments in those days might now be regarded as a form of nepotism it was not unusual for scholars of any discipline in pre-modern Islamic society to find a comfortable niche within their given field of expertise through the assistance of another scholar, or even a family member who, in many cases, would have been a scholar. It is not surprising, therefore, that scholars like Ibn al-AtÈr reached the position they did with the assistance they received, or through the connections they had. The historical sources give ample evidence of this process. One of the most famous secretaries of the MamlËk period was Ibn Fa∂l AllÅh al-‘UmarÈ (d. 750/1349), on whose work al-QalqašandÈ relied heavily in his Íub˙. Al-‘UmarÈ appears to have learned the trade from his father, whom he went to help in Egypt when he was the ‘Confidential’ secretary. Al-‘UmarÈ would practise elements of the profession by reading the mail to the Ruler, al-NÅßir Mu˙ammad, and by carrying out various duties.39 Al-‘UmarÈ also learned the craft of writing from ŠihÅb al-DÈn al-ÓalabÈ, author of the Óusn al-Tawassul, who was himself a fine secretary.40 Al-‘UmarÈ eventually reached the position of Confidential secretary, a rank that was achieved only by the finest secretaries,41 and which continued to be the highest achievable position for a secretary throughout the MamlËk period.42 By contrast there is sufficient evidence to show that it was possible for someone to have a very influential role in governmental issues without actually being given an official position as secretary. One such case in point is Ibn al-Muqaffa‘ (d. 138/756), who lived in the latter part of the ’Ummayad era and early part of the ‘AbbÅsid era.

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He imposed his profound knowledge of the Iranian traditions on political matters at that time.43 In one of his written tracts he addressed the Caliph on some very sensitive issues of politics, such as the notion that religion should be subordinated to the emir. But such examples are rare, and it is most unlikely that this would have been possible in later times as the role of the secretary changed, and the distribution of power spread among viziers. Learning one’s trade from a master was also seen in pre-modern Islamic society as something highly meritorious. The father of al-QÅ∂È al-FÅ∂il, for example, was a judge,44 a position of high rank that would have surely helped his son move through the ranks more quickly. It should also be noted that secretarial works relying to a large extent on their own authority and the personal experiences of the authors – as opposed to al-QalqašandÈ’s Íub˙, for instance, which comprises innumerable quotations from other sources – were often able to acquire that authority from information passed on to the authors by their own family members. A case in point is the work of al-UmarÈ, for which he gleaned his knowledge of the organisation of the postal system from his uncle, who was the Composition secretary in Damascus.45 While such authority could work to the advantage of the secretary, presumably it could also have led to the writer’s being accused of misusing such information. Leaving aside the cultural question of whether nepotism in a Western sense is equivalent to similar behaviour in more tribal cultures, there seems little doubt that some form of nepotism did occur in the secretarial profession. Droubi notes one case of favouritism listed by Escovitz: ‘This nepotism took several forms. At the simplest level, a kÅtib al-sirr ‘Confidential secretary’ would arrange for one of his children (or relatives) to have a position in the chancery.’46 If nepotism was a driving force in this culture at the time, it might have been one of the reasons for the extended periods of employment enjoyed by some families involved in secretaryship. One good example of long-term stability is that of the BanË Fa∂l AllÅh family, who served in the administration of the MamlËk dynasty for more than a century. They were apparently despised by a rival family, the BanË al-AtÈr, who wanted them removed from power. Yet the BanË Fa∂l AllÅh held on to their position for a remarkable length of time.47 They might have been good administrators who could be trusted – a pre­requisite of the position of secretary, as we have seen, and one that was probably easier to find among family members – but they must also have benefited from some level of familial assistance and support to remain in a position of power for that length of time. There were, in fact, no fewer than twenty-five MamlËk Rulers during the first 150 years of their rule, but many of them were in power for extended periods; for instance, al-ÛÅhir Baybars ruled for 22 years.48 This gave the dynasty a certain degree of stability. Another secretary who appears to have manipulated his position successfully is ‘ImÅd al-DÈn al-IßfahÅnÈ (d. 597/1201), a master at composing poetry in praise of any Ruler with whom he sought a position. He also wrote some praise poetry in favour of al-QÅ∂È al-FÅ∂il asking him to give him a position.49 As is well known, al-QÅ∂È al-FÅ∂il was firmly acquainted with the famous Ruler ÍalÅ˙ al-DÈn. As a result of his manoeuvring, al-IßfahÅnÈ was given the responsibility in Damascus of writing for the Ruler in the absence of al-QÅ∂È al-FÅ∂il whenever the latter was in

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Egypt. It is obvious from this and other reports in the history sources that the relationship between al-QÅ∂È al-FÅ∂il and al-IßfahÅnÈ was a major factor in the latter’s appointment as an epistolographer to ÍalÅ˙ al-DÈn. Yet, in spite of this, al-IßfahÅnÈ managed to abuse the enormous trust that had been placed in him. It is reported that on one occasion al-QÅ∂È al-FÅ∂il found him recovering from some drinking sessions involving the presence of women.50 In the epistolary literature, particularly from the 4th/10th century, the expression ‘mawlÅ, or ‘client of the Commander of the Faithful’ is frequently cited. Far from being a deferential way of referring to authority, it appears that the secretaries employed this expression as a means of elevating their own position. Such an interpretation comes, in fact, from one of the prominent secretaries of the pre-modern Islamic period, HilÅl ibn al-Mu˙assin al-ÍÅbi’, author of the Ghurar al-BalÅ©a. In his important work on the rules and regulations of the ‘AbbÅsid court he notes the following: Among those who used the title of ‘client of the Commander of the Faithful’ were those who had titles from among the secretaries, administrative officers, and the retinue. They considered this title to be a promotion of their status and an avenue to a better rank [emphasis added].51 All this is not to deny that those who were appointed to the position of court composer or stylist (Ar. munši’), or to the rank of secretary – especially those mentioned here who reached the highest possible ranks of secretaryship, that is, secretary of the Chancery, or even Confidential secretary – possessed the requisite skills to justify their appointments. However, what it does suggest is that their route to such positions was made easier by their exploiting the contacts they had, and by using different means to elevate their position. In contrast to this view, however, it should also be acknowledged that a number of secretaries appear to have climbed the ranks from very humble beginnings without any assistance at all. Indeed, these were deemed worthy of special mention by al-QalqašandÈ.52 But there is a more intriguing element in all this. The annals are unequivocal in their reports of acts of bribery by some members of the secretarial class during the MamlËk period. The DÈwÅn under al-NÅßir ibn QalÅwËn during the MamlËk period was in fact known as the ‘Chancery of Bribes’.53 It is alleged that ‘AlÅ’ al-DÈn ibn al-AtÈr (8th/14th century) attempted to bribe the Ruler al-NÅßir ibn QalÅwËn (d. 741/1341) to get to the position of Confidential secretary while trying to oust al-‘UmarÈ from his position. Another example is that of Aw˙ad al-DÈn ‘Abd al-WahhÅb al-MißrÈ (d. 786/1385), a ŠÅfi‘È jurist who became the Confidential secretary during the MamlËk era under al-ÛÅhir BarqËq. The sources tell us that when he declined to accept a ‘material’ reward for ‘assisting’ BarqËq in his rise to power he was appointed Confidential secretary instead.54 Even more interesting here is that al-MißrÈ was not generally recognised for his secretarial skills, so his promotion to that high-ranking position raises questions about the system of appointments to such positions. And the stories go on. It is alleged that the same BarqËq appointed Fat˙ al-DÈn ibn NafÈs al-TibrÈzÈ (d. 816/1414), a specialist physician, to the position of Confidential secretary after he treated him for an illness.55 Apparently al-TibrÈzÈ

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was then arrested under the new Ruler, al-NÅßir Faraj, and was only freed after winning the latter over with financial inducements.56 But bribery must have existed prior to the MamlËk era. The AyyËbid Ibn ŠÈt begins his Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba by stating that the two main qualities of the secretary should be the following: piety and the ability to give advice to the one he serves. He then follows these two fundamentals with a list of other requirements, the first of which is that he should avoid bribery.57 It should be noted here that the potential for bribery was not a challenge for the secretary alone, but extended to the treasurer (and probably others), who was responsible for the safe keeping of finished documents. He had to be totally trustworthy, of course, ‘for the reins of the whole Chancery were in his hand’. If he were susceptible to bribes the subsequent leaking of information could be very harmful to the state.58 The preceding discussion is not part of an attempt to vilify the secretarial class, nor to undermine its importance. Rather, it should be considered within the context not only of dependency as represented specifically in the epistolary literature, but also more generally as an overt manifestation of loyalty. These notions have been cogently described by Mottahedeh in his work on loyalty and leadership in an early Islamic society, namely that of western Iran and southern Iraq in the 4th–5th/10th–11th centuries. In return for their loyalty it seems that the secretaries had a certain degree of autonomy, as evidenced in a mutual act of fidelity between ÍÅbËr ibn Ardašir, at one point the highest civil official in Ba©dÅd (late 4th/10th century) under the BËyid king BahÅ’ al-Dawla, and the secretaries. In return for some information given by ÍÅbËr that saved the lives of the King’s vizier and his family, the secretaries allowed him to escape to the marshes. Mottahedeh puts it this way: ‘while clerks could not openly disobey royal orders to harm other clerks, they did have a shared interest in moderating violence against their own ßinf (‘social category’), and they often succeeded in doing so’.59 Although the relationship between the secretary and the Ruler was a critical part of the secretary’s life, his contact with others within the professional environment also impacted significantly upon his life. In this connection there were rivalries not only between the secretaries themselves, but also between the secretaries and the military,60 particularly the soldiers, in the later ‘AbbÅsid period, with whom the Ruler closely associated. During this period ‘clerks failed in their effort to acquire permanent control of the army officers’.61 But just as a secretary could draw on all manner of ways to improve his position, he could also fall from grace with ease. Ibn ŠÈt cites one example where a secretary failed to take advice from the Ruler to change a particular expression in one of his compositions, and consequently lost his position.62 In fact, the literature is full of tales of secretaries who did not meet the expectations of their superiors. One such example is the vizier A˙mad ibn ‘AmmÅr, who could not define the meaning of a particular word for the Caliph al-Mu‘taßim (8th/14th century) and was replaced by another secretary, Mu˙ammad ibn ‘Abd al-Malik al-ZayyÅt, who happened to be on hand and was able to define it.63 Another example concerns one of the most prominent heads of the Chancery in Egypt and Damascus during the MamlËk period. BahÅ’ al-DÈn ibn Ya˙yÅ al-AzdÈ al-MuhallabÈ served under Najm al-DÈn al-AyyËb

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(d. 568/1173) in Egypt but was banished when the latter decided that he was too quick to anger and delusion.64 The assumption we might make here – in accordance with practice in some other medieval cultures, of course – is that a Ruler would not tolerate any forms of behaviour that might put his own credibility or position in jeopardy. In some cases the fate of a secretary appears to have been at the hands of a capricious Ruler, as was the plight that befell Badr al-DÈn ibn AbÈ Bakr ibn Muzhir (d. 916/1510), who was deposed by his brother from his position as Confidential secretary, then reinstated upon the change of Ruler, only to be double-crossed by that same Ruler and die from the effects of torture.65 To reinforce the point that the position of the secretary was often precarious, we need look no further than the Af∂aliyyÅt of Ibn al-ÍayrafÈ, author of some of the most important works on the FÅtimid chancery and also large collections of epistles. That work begins with apologies and seeking pardon from the Ruler al-WazÈr al-Af∂al. Such things were not uncommon during the pre-modern period, of course. Poets also wrote in praise of their patrons, as evidenced in Ibn al-ÍayrafÈ’s long letter to al-Af∂al in which he included some verses written in praise of him by a poet. Whatever the reasons for a secretary’s insecurity – for example, fear of scurrilous rumours spread by envious parties – there is no doubt that he often went to some lengths to maintain favour. One further illustration of this is the rather unusual work by Ibn al-’AbbÅr (d. 688/1289) entitled I‘tÅb al-KuttÅb ‘The Forgiving of Scribes’, which offers a historical, anecdotal approach to the circumstances in which various secretaries fell from grace with their patrons. In that work Ibn al-’AbbÅr, who had himself fallen out of favour with his patron, sets out to show the compassion of Rulers towards the mistakes of their secretaries.66 On one occasion during his tenure as chief of the Chancery Ibn al-’AbbÅr failed to carry out an instruction to leave a blank space in official documents for a mark of authentication, and was consequently dismissed and put under arrest in his own house, only to be pardoned and reinstated later. However, this forgiveness was not to last long, for the successor of the Ruler who pardoned him had him tortured and eventually killed.67 Secretaries as a professional class did not always enjoy popularity. Al-JÅ˙iΩ’s attack on the secretarial class for their arrogance and support of Iranian tradition may well have been politically motivated,68 but there are sufficient examples in the literature to confirm that the secretaries were often despised for their superciliousness. One good illustration of this is the following example from al-SubkÈ: and among them – the secretaries – [was] one who was absorbed in adab, and most of his speech was in balanced rhyming prose, until it happened to him that he fell into a privy. So they brought him a pair of manacles and one of them spoke to him to see if he was alive, and he replied: ‘Get me a thin rope and pull me out of here well and truly.’ So one of the two said: ‘By God I shall not save him, for he is up to his neck [lit. throat] in shit, yet he will not stop talking it.’69 Another possible example of the arrogance of secretaries can be found in HilÅl al-ÍÅbi’s tract on the regulations of the court. In a tale about the Caliph al-Ma’mËn there is a likely sneer, or at the very least a humorous jibe, at the behaviour of secre-

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taries. It goes like this: ‘Al-Ma’mËn gave permission to the secretaries and the leaders to come in, and Faraj came in with them. The secretaries conversed in their general manner [emphasis added].’70 The unpopularity of secretaries is well represented by Ibn al-AtÈr, who, if the accounts of his life are correct, appears to have been so preoccupied with the literary aspects of his duties that he neglected the political ones. As a consequence of this misplaced attention – at a period of history when, we are told, ‘time did not permit any experimentation or error’ – he appears to have brought about his own death: ‘He was more stupid in the way he went about his business than a dumb ox, until the people of Damascus set about murdering him.’71 In an effort to balance such a negative image of the secretary perhaps, as well as to promote his own standing, Ibn al-AtÈr provides a strident denigration of some of his own secretarial class, and at the same time censures governments for appointing ignorant people to such important positions: I have seen some of those who lag behind in this art [of the secretary], who concentrate their attention on words of no substance and on no significant underlying idea. And when one of them produces a passage in rhymed prose of whatever thinness and inaneness, he believes that he has given birth to a momentous thing.72 Ibn al-AtÈr goes on to say that ‘today secretaryship has fallen into the hands of people more in need of instruction than the boys of elementary school’.73 The preceding discussion relates in many respects to the second section of Chapter 3, since both arguments are in slightly different ways part of the notion of authority. In Chapter 3 I argued that Ibn Halaf assigned to writing an unprecedented and exalted place within the relationship between expression and meaning. In the foregoing discussion here, I have demonstrated that the questions of background and status of the secretary in pre-modern Islamic society were of great significance; in fact, there was so much at stake that secretaries would take various measures to ensure that they reached a high position. Chartier, in his valuable work on correspondence in Western society from the Middle Ages to the 19th century ad, observed the following, which seems to be particularly relevant to the secretary in pre-modern Islamic society: ‘Those who are in a position to dominate writing always conceive of it as something capable of imposing discipline on everyday life.’74 He goes on: ‘The monopoly of legitimacy, so hotly disputed by professionals of the written word … is a mark of the powers that the ability to write could confer, in a society still only partially literate, on those who exercised it either on their own or on others’ behalf.’75 Let me take this issue one stage further. That a system of elitism existed in pre-modern Islamic society is undeniable.76 The voluminous collection of literature (and the lists of non-extant works) on all the Islamic and humanistic disciplines provides conclusive evidence that most of that literature was compiled by scholars for scholars. It is also clear that this body of literature represents the authority of its compilers over the community of readers at any given point in history. Yet in the case of the secretaries there seems to have been a paradox in the precarious position they often held and their control over the most powerful form of writing – namely,

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artistic prose – for several centuries. In this connection I very much subscribe to Chartier’s term ‘specialized literature’, of which letter-writing was an integral part. Chartier argues that its aim ‘was to regulate and control ordinary forms of writing, first by explaining and instilling in people the difficult techniques that writing entailed and then by setting out the rules and conventions proper to each written genre’.77 The secretaries in pre-modern Islamic society played an integral role in this process. The field of bureaucratic scholarship still requires, however, a full study of the similarities between the remit of the secretary in pre-modern Islamic society and the secretary of Western Europe, ‘whose humanist milieu likewise comprised the court, statecraft and diplomacy’.78 Chartier also notes that not only was the notion of hierarchy in epistolary writing very much in evidence, but also the hierarchies of formalities and conventions attached to it ‘accorded with the traditional criteria of dependency and protection’.79 It is certainly no coincidence that the main focus of ‘official’ letterwriting in pre-modern Islamic society was the social relationship between the writer – or the initiator of the letter – and the recipient. Although the theoretical elements of epistolary literature do not explain precisely why there were so many stylistic restrictions in formal, official epistles,80 – such as the need for brevity or prolixity depending on the topic or the social rank of the addressee – one of the main reasons might have been the fear of error. In other words, the more liberal the style the more likely that the writer would displease the Ruler. In accordance with Chartier’s observation, the whole of the preceding argument would suggest that secretaries were indeed part of a dynamic of ‘dependency’, and that they also relied within that environment on protection from the Ruler. Such conclusions can be compared and contrasted with the office of the secretary in 16th-century Renaissance England in which Thomas Cromwell was a significant representative. The office of secretary at that time represented ‘the sphere of individual power and genius’, mirroring perfectly the situation in the Islamic Middle period. Although trust between the secretary and the Ruler was the most important factor in holding the office together in both those societies,81 the secretary’s authority in Islamic society was quite restricted, whereas in England at that time there seem to have been few limits attached to the power of office. Standard accounts of the status of secretaries, such as that by Sellheim and Sourdel in the Encyclopaedia of Islam, tend to take the sources at face value, without considering the implications of what is actually not said.82 It is true that some secretaries reached very high positions in the Chancery, particularly in the AyyËbid, and especially in the MamlËk, period. But a reflection on the vibrant intellectual activity of these two periods reveals that the large schools, which were more like universities, were home to professors of almost every discipline – Prophetic Tradition, exegesis, language and literature, history, philosophy83 – but there was no such official position as professor of secretaryship. Of course, the secretaries would explain this away by claiming that in order to be a secretary you had to be proficient in all these disciplines, and more. Ibn al-AtÈr said exactly that when he discussed the eight requisites for the art of composition, which he said are relevant only for those to whom God has given natural disposition, or talent (Ar. †ab‘).84 He even stated

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that only when the one versed in this craft has learnt the eight requisites should he begin to consider the contents of his book.85 He says: the secretary must be associated with every science to the point that it has been said: Every person who has knowledge of a science can relate himself to it and say ‘so-and-so the grammarian, and so-and-so the jurist and so-and-so the theologian’, but he can not relate himself to writing and say ‘so-and-so the secretary’ [lit. ‘writer’] because he needs to go deeply into every discipline.86 This thesis about the uniqueness of the secretary is in one sense flawed because it opens up the charge by critics of the secretarial class of the generalist nature of his knowledge, and his lack of expertise in any one particular discipline. Besides, the highly integrated nature of the Islamic and humanistic sciences meant that any scholar aspiring to excellence had to train and become proficient in all disciplines. Ibn al-AtÈr’s argument stated above may in fact have been influenced by Roman thought, such as the views on oratory of Cicero, who stated that no man could be complete in all points of merit if he had not attained knowledge of all important subjects and arts.87 The position of the secretary in relation to the other main scholarly groups is also fascinating. Although he would seem to fit more comfortably into a category of, say, literary humanists, than into that of philosophical or intellectual humanists, the claims of prominent secretaries like Ibn al-AtÈr suggest that he had a foot in many camps, so to speak.88 The fact that a great deal of poetry – with which the secretary was not concerned nearly as much as he was with prose – was excluded from the realm of literary humanism89 supports the notion that the secretary did have a very clearly defined place amongst the mainstay groups of Islamic and Arab thinkers, in the broadest sense. A sine qua non of the secretary’s repertoire was eloquence, especially the ability to express the appropriate words at the precise moment and in the exact context. Ibn al-AtÈr puts it like this: The tongue of his pen should be more eloquent than Sa˙bÅn,90 and clearer than the sun to the eye … When he [the secretary] is asked a question he replies, and when he asks a question he is agreeable, and when he speaks he hits the mark …, [and he should be] cognisant of the rules of writing, wellversed in the way of reaching his aim.91 Makdisi makes the important connection between the scholastic and the humanist (of which I would argue that scholars such as Ibn al-AtÈr were both) when he says that the scholastic was known for his expertise in ‘forensic dialectic and disputation’, whereas the humanist was renowned for his expertise in ‘eloquence and extemporality’.92 Carter, in his brief assessment of language as a means of social interaction within the context of adab, puts it like this: ‘It [that is, language] is part of a person’s external appearance, both the form and the content being learned in the same way that appropriate dress and behavior for the court were learned.’93 There is no need to go into detail about the eight requisites of knowledge for the

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secretary set forth initially by Ibn al-AtÈr, since they have already been noted and written about to varying degrees elsewhere.94 But in brief, these eight requisites were as follows: (i) grammar; (ii) lexicography; (iii) proverbs and battles; (iv) writings of the ancients and memorising of many of them;95 (v) public administration; (vi) memorising of the Qur’Ån, and training in how to use its verses and how to incorporate them into one’s own discourse;96 (vii) memorising of a large number of narratives transmitted from the Prophet Mu˙ammad;97 (viii) the sciences of metrics and rhyming (of poetry). Although al-ÓalabÈ did not add any further requisites in his Óusn al-Tawassul, it is worth noting that he put memorisation of God’s word as the first requirement, together with sustained reading and study of it, and reflecting on its motifs, ‘so that it remains as an image in his mind, circulating on his tongue, assimilated in his heart, a mnemonic to him of all that comes to him in the way of events which need to be cited from it’.98 As with many of the scholarly disciplines of this period – grammar being another one – absorbing, memorising and recalling the text guaranteed not only the preservation of the living word of God at any given point in time, but also its transmission as the very verbal act in which the sacred text had been revealed by God through the Angel Gabriel to the Prophet Mu˙ammad. The description by al-ÓalabÈ is a very good example of this process, in which there is always the potential for a dynamic re-enactment of the text. His instructions bear much resemblance, in fact, to those of ‘Abd al-ÓamÈd al-KÅtib from the 2nd/8th century, who believed that ‘repeated recitiation of the Qur’Ån makes one pass from passive admiration of its art into active emulation of it’.99 From al-QalqašandÈ’s list of subject matter with which the secretary had to be fully conversant, it is evident that his remit eventually went some way beyond that noted by al-ÓalabÈ and Ibn al-AtÈr. Knowledge of each of the following subjects was required so that the secretary could describe them, either as the main focus of a letter, or as a relevant insert in a letter on a different theme: heroes and brave men; singing girls and slave boys; horses and camels; all species of birds and winged creatures; weapons and their types; numerous types of implements, including those for travel and hunting; cities; forts; mosques; natural things such as trees and flowers; geographical subjects such as valleys, seas and mountains; celestials such as the stars, the sky, the clouds, the winds and rain; the elements.100 At the beginning of the second volume of the Íub˙ al-QalqašandÈ describes some of these subjects in great detail. There we learn much about the most distinguishing features of a man and a woman, for example, or how to differentiate between one type of horse and another. In fact, many of the words pertaining to these categories were classified as ‘unusual’ (Ar. ©arÈb). Such words can be found in the rich collection of lexicographical works, of which many were written during the first few centuries of Islam, on the unusual and strange words and expressions in the Arabic language. As further evidence of this al-QalqašandÈ tells us that the first requirement of the secretary in his learning of the language was to know the ‘unusual’ (Ar. ©arÈb), a command that had as much to do with the notion that unusual equals beautiful, and that it displays an innovative mind, as it did with the perception that ‘unusual’ equalled ugly. To underline the importance of this requirement, learning the ‘pure’, that is, non-dialectal, language (Ar. faßÈ˙), was only the third requisite.101

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The term ‘unusual’ in this context did not always mean beautiful, however. First of all, it was generally agreed by scholars of the language that certain unacceptable forms of ‘unusual’ expression were considered barbarous. These had no current usage in the language, and also conveyed unclear meanings. As for those ‘unusual’ expressions that were of customary usage, there appears to have been some level of disagreement about how acceptable they were. Ibn al-AtÈr, for instance, minimised the importance of ©arÈb expressions by appealing to the fact that the Qur’Ån is the ‘purest of speech’, and that the number of ‘unusual’ expressions in it is very small. Yet in spite of this, it is fairly clear from Ibn al-AtÈr’s discussion elsewhere that it was indeed this category of expressions that separated out the general nature of the Qur’Ån – which was accessible, in his view, to the highly educated and to the masses – from its collection of ‘unusual’ expressions, which were only accessible to the elite.102 In this context the ©arÈb, on which whole scholarly tracts were written, can be seen only as something positive. While al-QalqašandÈ seems to have been more accommodating of the ©arÈb expressions, he was only talking about the context of the Qur’Ån, Prophetic Tradition and poetry. He noted that between the three sources there were a great deal of ‘unusual’ expressions, but most of them occurred in poetry.103 Al-QalqašandÈ also failed to note Ibn al-AtÈr’s first reference to this subject, where he lists the eight requisites themselves, stating that the type of ‘unusual’ expression to be avoided is the ‘barbarous’ one.104 Within this context of classifications of eloquence, or rhetoric in the traditional Western sense, comparisons between principles of rhetoric in Western cultures and those of the theory of eloquence in Arab-Islamic society should be advanced with caution. But similarities between the two, such as the effect of a piece of discourse on the audience and the intentions of the orator can not be disregarded. In his paper on Rhetoric and the New World, Fitzmaurice examines the effect of expressions of wonder upon the audience. He puts it like this: ‘the orator will not only appeal, that is, to what is familiar, but also exploit what is strange … In rhetorical theory …, wonder performs a role which derives from the psychology of the audience.’ He then goes on to quote Erasmus: ‘the more unfamiliar the things are, the more pleasure the description will give and the longer one may dwell on it’.105 Fitzmaurice continues by elaborating on what is essentially an Aristotelian concept: ‘To deviate [from prevailing usage] makes language seem more elevated; for people feel in regard to lexis as they do in regard to strangers compared with citizens. As a result, one should make the language unfamiliar, for people are admirers of what is far off …’.106 It is within this context that I believe the Arabic expression of epistolary discourse should be viewed. One of the many challenges for the secretary lay in his ability to reach the audience from time to time with unusual expressions without alienating it. To sum up on this point, then, whether a word or expression in pre-modern Islamic epistolary texts was deemed to be beautifully unusual, or hideously strange, it is clear that the secretary had to be familiar with this type of expression, either to incorporate the best of it, or to reject the worst of it. That is why this particular aspect of epistolary writing was given such prominence. Al-QalqašandÈ broadened the eight requisites for the secretary into fifteen, in fact, but his contribution was more expansive than original.107 However, it is

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worth citing them here in the order he gave them. The first is knowledge of the Arabic language. The second is knowledge of foreign languages, such as Turkish, Persian, Byzantine, Frankish (sic), Berber, Sudanese. There is at least one example in the biographical literature illustrating the importance of knowledge of foreign languages. Badr al-DÈn Ma˙mËd al-KalistÅnÈ (d. 801/1399) was allegedly appointed to the position of head of the Chancery, then Confidential secretary, because he was the only one who could read a book in Turkish for the Ruler after he had gone to Aleppo.108 Knowledge of grammar was another of the requisites, as was morphology; so too were the three rhetorical sciences. In this list were also the following: memorising the Qur’Ån; memorising of a large number of Prophetic Traditions; memorising of a large number of orations and developing expertise in the style of orators; memorising of a significant amount of correspondence and communication from the early Islamic period; memorising of the best of Arabic poetry; memorising of a large number of proverbs; knowledge of lines of descent of Arabs and non-Arabs; knowledge of the ‘boasting’ and ‘debate’ literature;109 knowledge of battle literature; knowledge of extraordinary [pre-Islamic] activities; knowledge of customs and traditions of the Arabs. The presence of grammar as a requisite for Ibn al-AtÈr and al-QalqašandÈ should not be taken for granted. Generally undervalued as an intellectual discipline, grammar was indeed the foundation for accurate and complete communicative eloquence. A secretary could produce the most eloquent of speech but still be guilty of solecisms (Ar. la˙n), a concept that could only be applied to incorrect use of grammar, not the wrong choice of word. As al-QalqašandÈ puts it, when this occurs, ‘everything that he has embellished is nullified’.110 Another important aspect of grammar brought to the fore by al-QalqašandÈ was its connection with the increased use and length of honorifics in later epistolary texts. It was incumbent on the secretary to be fully conversant with desinential inflections (Ar. i‘rÅb) in order to record the correct genealogy in those honorifics.111 Yet Ibn al-AtÈr’s position on the superiority of eloquence over formal grammar is never in doubt as he minimises the role of grammar in reaching the sublime depths of communicative eloquence.112 Ibn al-ÍayrafÈ made a significant contribution to the above list of requisites. Within the context of the requirement to know the narratives of the Prophet and his descendants he placed considerable emphasis on the secretary’s being a reciter, not just a memoriser, of narratives of Kings, especially those of ancient times, and from other cultures.113 This information was no doubt used to embellish letters and public occasions, to remind Kings and Rulers of glorious bygone times, and to encourage them to emulate the work and achievements of their predecessors. It is worth dwelling here for a moment on the addition to al-QalqašandÈ’s list above of the learning of foreign languages, for it appears to reflect the extension of diplomatic duties required of the secretary at least by this time. Competence in foreign tongues was necessary not only for travel, which included travel by spies working in foreign communities, but also for interpreting official documents sent to the Ruler. It was also essential for daily communication in different languages, such as Turkish in Egypt, where it had become a dominant language, Persian in Iraq and surrounding areas, where it was the dominant mode of communication, or

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Berber in the countries of the Maghreb. The emphasis on this requirement in the later literature is not surprising, owing to the increased necessity to learn Turkish under the MamlËks. But there would seem to have been a more political motive for this, evidenced in the amount of power the MamlËks held. Although the MamlËks would have been expected to learn a certain degree of Arabic – indeed, some of them became deeply involved in the transmission of basic elements of the Islamic religion114 – there was clearly much to be gained by the educated classes, including the secretaries, in learning the language of the MamlËks. Since the MamlËks, as Berkey puts it, ‘controlled the major sources of wealth and revenue’,115 it made good sense for the educated elite to live harmoniously alongside them. We are considering this point from the opposite angle from Berkey, but the effect is the same. Each social group needed the other. Not only were there sound financial reasons for the educated classes to integrate with the MamlËks as comprehensively as possible, but there were also enormous religious benefits. Crone notes Ibn HaldËn’s acknow­ ledgement of the MamlËk institution as being ‘a gift from God for the salvation of Islam’. She then goes on to say how it enabled Turkish tribes ‘to embrace Islam with the determination of true believers’.116 A consequence of the satisfaction with the way the MamlËks embraced Islam can be seen in the system of honorifics that developed in epistolography, particularly during the MamlËk era. Al-QalqašandÈ noted that the greater the number of descriptives used in correspondence to the Ruler, the more eloquent the result.117 Yet although the number of Islamic honorifics bestowed upon many Rulers may have seemed excessive – and possibly almost frivolous – there is no doubting the positive and appropriate effect they would have had in pleasing the Ruler. Ironically, that needs to be set against the fact that some Rulers may not have been proficient enough in Arabic to appreciate the full import of those honorifics.118 It will be observed from the above list of languages cited by al-QalqašandÈ that there is no mention of any non-Islamic languages. In the distant past there appears to have been some reluctance in the Muslim world to study non-Muslim languages. This situation seems to have continued well into the Ottoman period, if Lewis’s argument is correct. Lewis argues that the Muslim world ‘rejected’ the study of non-Muslim languages, and states that it was the Europeans who learned foreign languages for the purposes of diplomacy.119 It may well have been the case, therefore, that the requirement for the secretary to learn foreign languages was not only subject to considerable practical restrictions, but was also exaggerated and based more on an imaginary ideal than on a reality. During the Ottoman period interpreters played an important role. According to Lewis they comprised ‘either renegades, that is to say Western Christians who had settled in a Muslim country and embraced Islam, or else dhimmis, that is to say non-Muslim subjects of the Muslim state’.120 It is not inconceivable, therefore, that much interpreting work in an earlier period had been carried out by MamlËks themselves or those of similar status described by Lewis, who goes on thus: ‘Little is known about the dragomans employed by the Mamluk sultans of Egypt and other Muslim rulers of the Middle Ages, though what evidence exists indicates that these were, for the most part, renegades from Europe.’121 If Lewis is correct, therefore, is it too much to hypothesise that the call for the secretaries

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to learn foreign languages was in fact a predominantly false one, inspired by the increasing demand for diplomacy in lands further afield among an ever-increasing diversity of peoples and cultures? In other words, if the profession of the dragoman was dominated by non-Muslims, did the secretaries actually need to learn foreign languages? Ibn al-AtÈr’s list of eight requisites preceded al-QalqašandÈ’s list of fifteen. Administration, the fifth requisite on Ibn al-AtÈr’s list, demands some elaboration here because it encapsulates the essence of the relationship between epistolary writing and the affairs of state from which the former derives much of its importance. Ibn al-AtÈr makes it abundantly clear that although a secretary must be fully conversant with the rules of government, including the regulations on appointments of Kings and princes, for instance – and must have enough knowledge to be able to deal with unforeseen circumstances in changes of government, so that he can draw up a meaningful letter – the issue goes beyond a mere prescription of the legalities of a matter which could have been taken care of by ‘sending a legal manual instead of a letter’. Of equal importance to the issue in hand was how the letter was constructed. The secretary should include in his composition ‘invitation and intimidation, tolerance in one place and contention in another, making it full of religious allusions presented in the moulds of communication and eloquent discourse’.122 In other words, each letter should be constructed according to specific communicative aims. This was one of the greatest responsibilities of the secretary. A rather interesting omission from Ibn al-AtÈr’s list of requisites is a knowledge of the three rhetorical sciences of bayÅn, ma‘ÅnÈ and badÈ‘. Some of the most prominent literary theorists, such as al-‘AskarÈ, Ibn al-AtÈr and al-ÓalabÈ, suggested that knowledge of them was unique to the art of writing, but al-QalqašandÈ presents a more balanced view when he says that they are a ‘tool for any discourse requiring the art of communicative eloquence’.123 It is also clear from comments made by al-ÓalabÈ, for instance, that each of the above requisites was equally important. On the subject of the battles of the Arabs, for example, he says the following: if the one versed in this discipline is not conversant with each [and every] battle, cognizant of what took place in them, he does not know how to reply [in writing] to such subjects that are communicated to him, nor what to say when he is asked about them. Enough is his inadequacy and deficiency in what he ought to know and be able to respond well to when asked about it.124 In Chapter 3 I showed how writing and its tools were highly revered. But the pen could not fulfil its potential without the assistance of the secretary (and vice versa, of course). So it should be of no surprise that al-QalqašandÈ compared what he said about the merits of writing in relation to other crafts to the virtues of the secretary in relation to other people. In the same way that he extolled the qualities of the pen he provided a long list of citations about the merits of secretaries, from different cultures throughout history, and he included some quotations from Rulers to give his list some additional prestige. Ibn al-Muqaffa‘, one of the finest prose writers in early Islamic society and one of the essential contributors to the mirrors for princes literature, made the important statement that Kings need secretaries

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more than secretaries need Kings. Yet in spite of this Ibn Halaf, who used all means to promote anything to do with the secretary – whether his pen, the craft of writing, or the status of the secretary himself – above all other ranks, had to acknowledge the limits of recognition accorded the secretary: it is well known that a mediator is essential between Kings and subjects because of the distance between the two classes – the high and the low – and no class of people shares the same loftiness of rank and weightiness as Kings, nor shares the same level of modesty and economic status as the masses, as the secretaries do.125 In Ibn Halaf’s final comment here there is a large degree of irony and humour, for the secretary does not appear to have received the levels of remuneration for his work that he would have liked, as I suggested earlier. Moreover, the attempts of al-QalqašandÈ and some of the earlier, prominent secretaries to conceal the importance of the Financial secretary vis-à-vis the Correspondence secretary are not convincing. For instance, al-ÓarÈrÈ’s maqÅma on secretaryship stands as unequivocal evidence of the value of the Financial secretary, whose profession might well have been viewed as ‘more useful’. In order to promote the merits of the Financial secretary al-ÓarÈrÈ even went so far as to say that the art of finance was based on ‘correct ascertainment’, whereas the art of inšÅ’ was based on ‘misleading fabrication’.126 The activities of the secretary in the first couple of centuries or so after the advent of Islam were as much concerned with finance as they were with correspondence.127 Al-QalqašandÈ’s attempts to acknowledge the relative merits of each form of secretaryship, then to assert the value of correspondence over finance, are not unexpected. He says that secretaryship concerned with correspondence requires a knowledge of all forms of secretaryship, since the work of the former impinges upon all other types, which included financial secretaryship of course. It is enough for al-QalqašandÈ that the rightful scholars of adab gave prominence to secretaryship concerned with correspondence over all the other forms. He then reinforces his views by illustrating linguistic reasons for the distinction, such as its being based on [the art of] eloquence, which ‘indicates the subtleties of motifs that are the quintessence of thoughts and expressions’, and also by underlining the closeness of the secretary’s relationship with the Ruler, who depends on him in important matters. He also claims that the Composition secretary is more worthy of blamelessness than other men of the pen in dealing with financial matters, this being most likely a reference to accusations aimed at the latter of financial corruption, especially in the area of taxation.128 Our understanding of the intellectual output and bureaucratic duties of the secretary in the pre-modern Islamic period tends to be restricted to the activities of a few important individuals. The same names recur in the secondary literature as examples of high-ranking secretaries who made their mark as heads of the Chancery, for instance, and also as literary figures. Al-QalqašandÈ’s Íub˙ is an invaluable source for information about the main duties carried out by secretaries of different rank, and also for describing in detail the personal and professional qualities necessary to perform one’s secretarial service to the highest level. But it is short on biographical information.

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In fact, a homogenous collection of biographical literature listing significant details about the more important secretaries of that period is generally lacking in the primary and secondary sources. The Arab and Islamic literary tradition is possibly unique among all literatures in its rich collection of biographical sources. These sources cover almost every discipline imaginable, particularly the Islamic sciences, but also some of the humanistic ones, such as grammar. They constitute an invaluable repository of information about the intellectual lives of scholars from those disciplines, highlighting in particular where they studied, under whom they learned their trade, and details of their major intellectual works. The concept of discipleship was an especially important element in pre-modern Islamic society, for the credibility of a scholar was perpetuated or destroyed on the basis of his intellectual background and training. These sources pay no attention to the personal lives of their subjects except perhaps with reference to the number of sons they had; a reflection in itself not only of an essentially patriarchial environment but also of the fact that male offspring often continued the work of their fathers. In the main, when information about secretaries of that time is desired, it must be sought in more general biographical works, but there are a few exceptions. I shall discuss one of these now. In this chapter and the previous one I have attempted to show how the secretarial profession was viewed in pre-modern Islamic society, and how the secretaries themselves sought to promote their discipline to ensure for it an equal place among other Islamic and humanistic disciplines. There is no doubt that the importance of each of those other disciplines had been reinforced by the availability of detailed biographical works (in grammar, law and lexicography, for instance) that captured a sense of the volume of activity in each field. But the lack of a specialised collection of biographical data on the secretaries underlines the importance of the task fulfilled by the editor of al-MawßilÈ’s al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ. I should note here that the biographical data in al-MawßilÈ’s work covers only the AyyËbid and MamlËk periods, and to my knowledge there is no such detailed record of secretarial life and activity preceding those periods, although some information is found in a few major works that contain a limited amount of important biographical data on secretaries but do not devote themselves exclusively to the secretarial class.129 Many important facts and points of intrigue come to light in the biographical data in al-MawßilÈ’s work, however, which makes it an essential source for some of the significant bureaucratic developments and events in the Islamic Middle period. Equally fascinating is that events which could, or did, have a major impact on the course of history, are normally recorded in a very matter-of-fact way. Thus, numerous examples of bribery and corruption in the court among very influential figures are recounted as though they were normal events. Some of this information has been given already in this chapter, and a few further examples are provided below. Let us look now in more detail at the contribution of the editor of al-MawßilÈ’s work to the classification of the biographical literature.130 The arrangement of biographical data in al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ on the more influential secretaries of that time is actually a little confusing. The editor has created four biographical categories of secretaries from the AyyËbid and MamlËk periods,

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which are as follows: famous Confidential and Composition secretaries in Syria and Egypt; famous Composition secretaries in Egypt; famous Confidential secretaries in Syria; and famous Composition secretaries in Syria. It is not immediately clear how the first category differs from subsequent ones, but there does not appear to be any repetition of information. Therefore, I assume that the first category contains information about secretaries who held both positions; but this still does not explain why al-MawßilÈ did not include a separate classification of Confidential secretaries for Egypt, as he did for Syria, unless the first category comprises only secretaries who held both positions. At all events, what is instantly apparent from these groupings is that there were numerous influential secretaries during the time span of the few hundred years covered in al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ. In the first category there are 38 secretaries, in the second there are 115, in the third there are 64, and in the fourth there are 112. Biographical data appear to be given chronologically rather than according to the importance and contribution of each secretary. In the following section I shall focus on a few important secretaries and a selection of events and facts pertaining to the life of secretaries at that time. The first secretary to be listed in al-MawßilÈ’s ‘hall of fame’ is al-QÅ∂È al-FÅ∂il, a very famous and influential secretary and vizier under ÍalÅ˙ al-DÈn (al-AyyËbÈ). His prose style – specifically in his epistolary literature – appears to have been so influential that it was called ‘the al-FÅ∂il method’ (Ar. al-†arÈqa al-fÅ∂iliyya). It has been suggested that more than one hundred volumes of his epistolary collections are scattered across the libraries of the world.131 The second secretary listed in the first category is ‘Abd al-Mu˙sin al-TannËhÈ (d. 643/1246), who was the third secretary to take up the position of the head of the Chancery in Egypt. He also became a vizier to ‘Izz al-DÈn Aybak. What is significant about al-TannËhÈ is that he was also a prolific literary figure, and although he does not appear to have left any collections of epistles some of his works of adab are very well known. Thus we are reminded once again of the important relationship between bureaucratic responsibility and literary output in the lives of many prominent secretaries. In spite of the obvious qualities required of the Confidential secretary (outlined in this and the next chapter), and the rather more imaginary, or at the very least preferred, ones, there is hardly any mention of them in the biographical literature. Moreover, such recognition as ‘he excelled in adab and poetry’, or even in inšÅ’ itself, which one might have expected for the highest rank of secretary, is not that common. The overt acknowledgement that a secretary was also a memoriser of the Qur’Ån is similarly not that common, even though it was one of the foremost requisites of the secretary. So what can one assume about the level of knowledge of the Qur’Ån among those secretaries whose proficiency in this discipline is not mentioned? Should we take it for granted that they would all have memorised it, and that only those who were particularly skilled in this area were mentioned in the biographical sources? Is the omission of such information actually significant or not? Was there a degree of disregard and even disdain for the secretarial class that resulted in many of their achievements being overlooked in the later sources? A detailed reading of the biographical sources reveals a frequent degree of instability at the headship of the Chancery, or in the position of Confidential secretary. It

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was not so much that positions changed hands regularly, for the tenure of most secretaries was at least two years, and often much longer. Rather, there was sometimes a temporary change after the death of a Ruler, or upon the dismissal of a secretary for a particular reason, or as a result of his departure to another country. Yet the same secretary would sometimes be reinstated. One such case in point is A˙mad ibn Fa∂l AllÅh al-HarawÈ (d. 829/1426), who assumed the position of Confidential secretary, was dismissed, and then reinstated to the position one month later.132 The second category of secretaries on whom biographical information is given by the editor of al-MawßilÈ’s work is that of the Composition secretaries in Egypt during the AyyËbid and MamlËk eras. This section gives a clearer picture of the distinction between the Confidential and Composition secretaries in terms of their academic credentials. Here again the biographical literature offers a unique insight. In this particular case it has demonstrated that the role of the Confidential secretary was more of a bureaucratic and diplomatic position, whereas that of the Composition secretary required superior literary skills. This is perhaps an obvious distinction in one sense, but it is not one that makes itself immediately evident from a source like al-QalqašandÈ’s Íub˙, for example. Moreover, there is evidence to suggest that there was far more intrigue and controversy associated with the rank of Confidential secretary, a position which might have been more highly sought after, yet given to individuals who were not necessarily best suited to the position. One of the most obvious facts about the Composition secretaries is that many of them were equally competent in poetry and prose. It was most unlikely that a master of epistolary prose, for example, would not have been competent in poetry too, if not highly skilled in it. But it was the secretaries themselves who made judgements – perhaps for personal motives – on how proficient a particular secretary might have been in one or the other of these disciplines, or indeed how deficient he might have been in another, as I attempted to show in Chapter 2. Among the many examples from the biographical literature is ‘Abd AllÅh ibn QalÅqis al-AzharÈ (d. 567/1172), ‘a distinguished poet from among the most eminent of epistolographers’,133 or Ma˙mËd ibn ÓamÈd al-DumyÅ†È (d. 553/1158), who was given the nickname ‘the one of the two forms of eloquence: poetry and prose’ by al-QÅ∂È al-FÅ∂il.134 It could also be surmised from this that outstanding poets were often excellent candidates for the position of Composition secretary because of their ability to write praise poetry for the Ruler or the ruling family. One case in point is ‘AlÈ ibn Mu˙ammad ibn al-NabÈh (d. 619/1222), who wrote eulogies for the AyyËbid family and became head of the Chancery.135 Other characteristics of the Composition secretary highlighted in the biographical literature are piety and a love of books. Ibn ŠÈt, who has been mentioned frequently in this study, was known particularly for his pious nature. We may recall that in his major work Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba he listed piety as one of the two principal qualities of the secretary. Another famous Composition secretary and historian, ‘AlÈ ibn YËsuf al-Qif†È (d. 646/1249), apparently ‘liked nothing in life apart from books’.136 Others, such as ‘ImÅd al-DÈn al-ŠÈrÅzÈ (d. 682/1284), were noted for their excellence in handwriting. Al-ŠÈrÅzÈ ‘turned to writing, and people benefited from him’.137 Mu˙ammad ibn ‘UtmÅn Badr al-DÈn al-DimašqÈ (d. 703/1304), a Composition secretary in Syria,

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was known for his excellent handwriting but ‘committed in composition some unpleasant things’.138 Another secretary, YËsuf ibn Mu˙ammad JibrÈl (d. 741/1341), was renowned for his poor handwriting skills, yet was trustworthy,139 a quality that seems to have assisted him considerably in his appointment as secretary. It is unfortunate that we do not find more instances in which qualities of integrity might have prevailed over professional skills, for this would have given us further evidence of an already plausible hypothesis: that Rulers were as much interested in whom they could trust as in the administrative capabilities of their secretaries. Evidence suggests that bureaucratic circles in pre-modern Islamic society were sometimes environments of mistrust and even corruption, as I tried to show earlier in this chapter. What is missing, however, is more proof of the type relating to YËsuf ibn Mu˙ammad JibrÈl’s character to strengthen this hypothesis. The last two examples cited above illustrate the usefulness and the frustrations offered by the biographical literature. On the one hand it offers invaluable information about the life of scholars in pre-modern Islamic society; but on the other, the lack of supporting detail leaves us asking major questions either about how influential a given individual was, or whether on other occasions an individual would have had the opportunity to become a Composition secretary mainly because of his handwriting skills, not just because he was trustworthy. Intellectual diversity is a key element of the background to the secretarial class. Scholars with specialisms in many different disciplines became Composition secretaries. These specialisms included history, law and medicine, in addition to the more obvious literary disciplines. A knowledge of foreign languages is rarely mentioned in the profiles of the Composition secretaries, although one example, that of Šaraf al-DÈn al-Zar‘È (d. 711/1312), adds weight to the notion that a knowledge of foreign languages became more important during the MamlËk period. The religious persuasion of a given secretary seems to be mentioned only in the case of his renouncing his religion to embrace Islam. One example of the former is al-As‘ad ibn MammÅtÈ (d. 606/1210), the famous cultural historian who was a Christian, then embraced Islam at the beginning of ÍalÅ˙ al-DÈn’s rule. MÅjid ibn al-Na˙˙Ål Majd al-DÈn (d. 843/1440) was from a Christian family in old Cairo, and served the Ruler NËrËz al-ÓÅfiΩÈ, who ‘compelled him to embrace Islam’.140 Even though he might have had some choice in his conversion he was probably obliged to conform for professional reasons. Another example is Mu˙ammad ibn Fa∂l AllÅh (d. 732/1332), a Copt with one of the most outstanding reputations as a Composition secretary during the MamlËk period. He was initially coerced into embracing Islam and resisted, but after a period of reflection took up his new faith.141 We know that Copts held influential positions in the court of the Ruler during the Fņimid period, but their influence appears to have become less significant after that. One of the few sources to explicitly take non-Muslims into account in the secretarial literature is the KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ of Ibn al-AtÈr. In that work a small section is devoted to the type of invocations used in correspondence to nonMuslims. Such information is rare, however, and the biographical literature would seem to represent the spirit of much of the literature, which tends to underline the

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quintessential Islamic nature and identity of society at that time. Earlier in this chapter I gave some examples of the various ways in which secretaries reached their positions. There is no doubt that, in principle, they had to satisfy a certain number of intellectual and personal criteria so that they could represent the court as avatars of eloquence and erudition, as well as be trusted by the Ruler. It is not clear, however, to what extent each secretary excelled in all the areas that Ibn al-AtÈr, for instance, lists as requisites for the position. But there is little doubt that although the system appears to have functioned well, with no evidence of serious rift to bring about a change of focus, the route for some secretaries to reach their position was facilitated in a number of different ways. One of the ways in which this occurred was through parental connection, as this chapter has already shown. Connection by marriage was another form of guarantee in this regard, as was the case with YËsuf ibn As‘ad ÍalÅ˙ al-DÈn (d. 749/1349). He was related by marriage to al-ÍÅ˙ib ˝abriyÅl who procured for him a position in the composition Chancery, but when his marriage was dissolved he was impounded and dismissed from the Chancery.142 Holding on to one’s power was certainly not the right of any secretary, it seems, as A˙mad ibn ‘Abd AllÅh ibn al-˝anÅm discovered when he and his brother were appointed as Composition secretaries in Egypt by their father, but then dismissed by the [new] Ruler after the death of their father.143 Intrigue was often attached to the life and fate of a secretary too, as was the case with Šaraf al-DÈn al-DamÅmÈnÈ (d. 803/1401). After an illustrious beginning to his career, in which he reached high positions in the finance ministry, he worked in the composition Chancery, where he attempted to gain promotion to the rank of Confidential secretary. However, according to the sources ‘he was not capable of doing so and was arrested, then released. However, he then died from being poisoned.’144 The foregoing discussion has attempted to demonstrate the influential role of the secretary in the administration of state affairs in accordance with some of the fundamentals of his background and status. In order to become a secretary one needed to have reached a certain level of erudition. However, one should be cautious in accepting wholeheartedly the opinions of Ibn al-AtÈr, for example, who attempted to show that the secretary’s level and breadth of knowledge was unique. Various factors seem to have enhanced the ability of the secretary to maintain a very high status in the entourage of the ruler. But at the same time, his position often appears to have been precarious. But it must be said that one of the reasons why the secretaries made such an enduring and deep impression in the literature, and on society at the time, was their homogeneity. Given what we know about personal rivalries in Islamic society, it would be foolhardy to suggest that no disputes existed amongst them. However, what al-˝azÅlÈ said with regard to their strength as a group should be taken seriously: ‘In historical fact, military upheavals seldom disturbed the position of the secretaries, who formed a more or less close corporation …’.145 By contrast, we see that the viziers were, at times, far from harmonious in their relationships with one another. For example, al-˝azÅlÈ notes how al-ÍÅ˙ib ibn ‘AbbÅd, one of the twelve viziers of ShÅhanshÅh (‘A∂ud al-Dawla) of Rayy, was ‘cursed and maligned’ by eleven other viziers.146

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The next chapter is in some ways an extension of this one because it goes further into the background of the secretary, focusing in particular on the inner, moral and spiritual qualities required of him. It also evaluates his relationship with the vizier and the chamberlain.

Notes   1. al-Šaka‘a, al-UßËl al-Adabiyya, p. 78. This is part of an anecdote to illustrate the nature of the relationship between the Ruler and the secretary. These words come after the secretary ‘AlÈ ibn Zayd had requested three things of the Ruler before setting his own side of the deal, so to speak. They illustrate an enormous level of trust between the two parties.   2. See Gully, Grammar and Semantics in Medieval Arabic, Chapter 3 esp.   3. For a general account of the development of the secretarial class see Sellheim and Sourdel, ‘KÅtib’ art., pp. 754–757.   4. al-QÅ∂È, ‘The impact of the Qur’Ån’, p. 286.   5. SallÅm, al-Adab fÈ l-‘Aßr al-AyyËbÈ, p. 179.   6. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, p. 274.   7. al-QÅ∂È, ‘The impact of the Qur’Ån’, p. 287. ‘Abd al-ÓamÈd’s contribution to our understanding of the role and requirements of the secretary can not be overestimated. By including knowledge of arithmetic in his list he was already forestalling the need for a good level of numeracy which became an essential foundation for the secretary’s increasing involvement in financial matters, as we shall see later in this chapter. Similar information can be found in Ibn Qutayba’s ‘UyËn al-AhbÅr, where he cites the Persian view that ‘no man was properly qualified as a secretary unless expert in irrigation and canal-digging, astronomy and the calendar, weights and measures etc.’. See al-GhazÅlÈ, Book of Counsel for Kings, p. 114, n. 4. Some of these requirements were related to the secretary’s duty of assessing taxes.   8. Horst, ‘Besondere Formen der Kunstprosa’, p. 225.   9. Beeston, ‘The Role of Parallelism’, p. 180. 10. See also Chapter 6 and reference to Schönig’s work in particular. 11. Sellheim and Sourdel, ‘KÅtib’ art., p. 755. 12. al-Azmeh, Muslim Kingship, p. 96, and pp. 94–101 esp. 13. Editor’s introduction to al-ÓalabÈ, Óusn al-Tawassul, p. 14. 14. For this and much more see Mottahedeh, Loyalty and Leadership, p. 143. 15. Martin Irvine, The Making of Textual Culture, introduction, p. xiv. Irvine does not mention Islamic society in the context of his notion of ‘textual community’, but the parallels and relevance to this study are too obvious to ignore. 16. Ibid., p. 2. 17. Anderson, Imagined Communities, p. 15. 18. Ibid., p. 15. 19. Sellheim and Sourdel, ‘KÅtib’ art., p. 755 20. See Adrian Gully, ‘The Sword and the Pen’, pp. 407ff. 21. al-JahšiyÅrÈ, KitÅb al-WuzarÅ’ wa-l-KuttÅb, p. 9. 22. SallÅm, al-Adab fÈ l-‘Aßr al-MamlËkÈ, vol. 2, p. 5. 23. Mottahedeh, Loyalty and Leadership, pp. 90–1. 24. Perelman, ‘The Medieval Art of Letter Writing’, p. 100. 25. There are a number of similarities between his style of approach and that of Ibn HišÅm al-AnßÅrÈ, the famous 8th/14th century grammarian. Their respective techniques, in

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particular the way they deal with the tension between the stylist and the grammarian and their respective domains, would make fertile ground for further study. For insight into this see Gully, ‘Two of a kind?’, passim. 26. For all this see the introduction to al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 1, pp. 12–13. 27. SallÅm, al-Adab fÈ l-‘Aßr al-AyyËbÈ, p. 85. 28. Ibid., p. 78. 29. Al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 8, p. 246. 30. Ibid., p. 247. 31. Chamberlain, Knowledge and Social Practice, p. 138. 32. For this see Gully, Grammar and Semantics in Medieval Arabic, Chapter 3. 33. See al-MawßilÈ, al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ, p. 207. 34. Makdisi, The Rise of Humanism, p. 286. 35. Mottahedeh, Loyalty and Leadership, p. 91. 36. Ibid., p. 92. 37. Ibid., p. 92. 38. Ibid., p. 110. 39. al-‘UmarÈ, al-Ta‘rÈf bi l-Mu߆ala˙ al-ŠarÈf, p. 5. 40. SallÅm, al-Adab fÈ l-‘Aßr al-MamlËkÈ, vol. 2, p. 67. 41. al-‘UmarÈ, al-Ta‘rÈf bi l-Mu߆ala˙ al-ŠarÈf, p. 6, n. 1. The position was apparently so influential that the secretary sometimes preceded the vizier in his closeness to the Ruler. More will be said on this later in the chapter, and also in Chapter 5. 42. al-MawßilÈ, al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ, p. 18. 43. Sellheim and Sourdel, ‘KÅtib’ art., pp. 755–6. 44. SallÅm, al-Adab fÈ l-‘Aßr al-AyyËbÈ, p. 192. 45. al-‘UmarÈ, al-Ta‘rÈf bi l-Mu߆ala˙ al-ŠarÈf, p. 10. 46. Droubi, A Critical Edition, vol. 1, p. 9. 47. Ibid., p. 8. 48. SallÅm, al-Adab fÈ l-‘Aßr al-MamlËkÈ, pp. 18–20. 49. It was not uncommon for poets to write in praise of the secretarial class per se; witness the citations by such eminent poets as Ibn al-Mu‘tazz in al-Šaka‘a, al-UßËl al-Adabiyya, p. 83. 50. For all this see SallÅm, al-Adab fÈ l-‘Aßr al-AyyËbÈ, pp. 213ff. Such privileges were not the preserve of the epistolary secretaries. A clerk by the name of ŠihÅb al-DÈn A˙mad ibn ‘UbÅda al-ÓalabÈ (d. 710/1310) appears to have assumed great personal power as a result of the favour from the Íul†Ån al-NÅßir, to the extent that when al-ÓalabÈ was criticised by the encyclopaedist al-NuwayrÈ, the former managed to procure the flogging of al-NuwayrÈ. For this see Little, ‘Notes on the early naΩar al-hÅßß’, p. 242 esp. 51. al-ÍÅbi’, RusËm DÅr al-HilÅfa, p. 99. 52. al-Šaka‘a, al-UßËl al-Adabiyya, p. 80. 53. For this see SallÅm, al-Adab fÈ l-‘Aßr al-MamlËkÈ, vol. 1, pp. 54–5. 54. al-MawßilÈ, al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ, p. 212. 55. Ibid., p. 215. 56. Ibid., p. 215. 57. Ibn ŠÈt, Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba, p. 1. 58. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, pp. 135–6. 59. Mottahedeh, Loyalty and Leadership, p. 110. 60. Gully’s article on the literary representations of the sword and the pen attempts to bring this point out more emphatically than previous references to the subject. See Gully, ‘The Sword and the Pen’, passim.

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61. Mottahedeh, Loyalty and Leadership, p. 170. 62. Ibn ŠÈt, Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba, p. 85; see also Chapter 1 of this study. 63. al-Šaka‘a, al-UßËl al-Adabiyya, p. 86. 64. See al-MawßilÈ, al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ, p. 208. 65. Ibid., p. 224. 66. See Ibn al-AbbÅr, I‘tÅb al-KuttÅb, p. 14 and p. 25 esp. 67. Ben Cheneb and Pellat, ‘Ibn al-AbbÅr’ art., p. 673. 68. See Pellat, ‘Une charge contre les secrétaires d’Etat attribuée à GÅ˙iΩ.’ My thesis here is supported by al-JÅ˙iΩ’s general admiration for the secretaries in the way they exploit the language, and his preference for them over poets, in spite of his political views. See, for example, al-ÓalabÈ, Óusn al-Tawassul, editor’s introduction, p. 34. 69. For this see SallÅm, al-Adab fÈ l-Aßr al-MamlËkÈ, vol. 2, p. 42. The humorous extent of the situation is lost a little in the translation, which fails to capture the element of pompous, rhyming prose in the speech of the helpless secretary. 70. al-ÍÅbi’, RusËm DÅr al-HilÅfa, p. 40. 71. Ibn al-AtÈr, KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ, editor’s introduction, p. 26. It seems that the story was much less clear cut than this. Ibn al-A†Èr was apparently despised by ‘ådil, one of the brothers of ÍalÅ˙ al-DÈn, and retained his high position only as a result of the protection of al-Af∂al, the king and brother of ‘ådil . However, when al-Af∂al was eventually expelled from Damascus by ‘ådil, Ibn al-AtÈr was forced to leave, hiding in a box and fearing for his life. 72. For this see Makdisi, The Rise of Humanism, Appendix A, p. 364. 73. Ibid., p. 364. 74. Chartier et al., Correspondence, p. 7. 75. Ibid., p. 7. 76. In spite of Edward Said’s apparent dislike of the word ‘elite’ because he claimed it was part of the Orientalist discourse on Arab and Islamic society, it is difficult to find a more appropriate way of describing the environment in which the secretary operated. 77. Ibid., p. 1. 78. Carter, ‘Humanism in Medieval Islam’, p. 31. 79. Ibid., p. 4. 80. As opposed to the informal, unofficial letters. Boureau puts this very nicely when he describes ‘friendship’ as being ‘understood as a relationship that was freely chosen, as opposed to a relationship of (economic, social or political) dependency’. See Boureau, ‘The Letter-Writing Norm’, in Chartier et al., Correspondence, p. 51. 81. Goldberg, Writing Matters, pp. 258–9, although Goldberg does not mention Islamic society, of course. 82. Sellheim and Sourdel’s article is, in spite of its general informativeness, rather unhelpful in deconstructing the complex levels of secretaryship that developed in later times, that is, in the later period of the time scale being studied here. 83. SallÅm, al-Adab fÈ l-‘Aßr al-AyyËbÈ, p. 81. 84. Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 1, p. 28. It is worth noting here that Ibn al-AtÈr uses the word fann ‘art’ to refer back to the craft of composition, which can only refer to epistolography in general, given the context of his discussion. For more discussion of †ab’ as natural disposition, probably borrowed from poetry, see, for example, Abbas, Arabic Poetic Terminology, p. 211, or Ouyang, Literary Criticism in Medieval Arabic-Islamic Culture, pp. 176–7. 85. Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 1, p. 48. 86. Ibid., vol. 1, p. 27. Interestingly, in another of his works – al-Wašy al-MarqËm fÈ Óall

100 ]   87.   88.

  89.   90.   91.   92.   93.   94.   95.

  96.

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  98.   99. 100. 101. 102. 103. 104. 105. 106. 107. 108. 109. 110. 111. 112. 113.

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al-ManΩËm – Ibn al-AtÈr acknowledges that the secretary can not possibly be expected to become an expert in all disciplines; rather he must be able to ‘smell the essence’ of each one. For this see KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ, editor’s introduction, p. 13. Cicero, De Oratore vol. 1: Books I and II, pp. 13 and 17. A very neat and plausible categorisation for five distinct categories of humanism in medieval Islam has been proposed by Carter. They are as follows: philosophical; intellectual; literary; religious; and legalistic. See Carter, ‘Humanism in Medieval Islam’, passim. Ibid., p. 37. But this argument should not be accepted unreservedly, especially as it runs contrary to Makdisi’s view that poetry was indeed one of the true humanistic disciplines. More research is needed on this topic. Sa˙bÅn was allegedly the orator of the Arabs par excellence in the early pre-modern period. Ibn al-AtÈr, KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ, p. 51. Makdisi, The Rise of Humanism, p. 335. Carter, ‘Humanism in Medieval Islam’, p. 31. For example, Sellheim and Sourdel, ‘KÅtib’ art., p. 755; van Berkel, ‘A Well-Mannered Man of Letters’; Makdisi, The Rise of Humanism, Appendix A, pp. 355ff. Note al-ÓalabÈ’s suggestion that the letters of the Ancients should be consulted and most certainly used for their ability to train the mind and for their wonderful expressions, but they should not be memorised; see Óusn al-Tawassul, p. 93. He clarifies this point later by saying that these finer elements of speech ‘should be preserved but not memorised’. Ibid., p. 94. To this requisite al-QalqašandÈ added the other Qur’Ånic sciences such as knowledge of the seven canonical ‘readings’ (Ar. qirÅ’Åt) and the anomalous ones, as well as full acquaintance with the men associated with them; and a knowledge of the leading exegetes. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, p. 204. Unlike many scholars of his time, Ibn al-AtÈr claimed that most Prophetic Traditions were in current use but that they needed to be memorised. He also describes how he memorised the Prophetic narratives so that he could recall them like a concordance. al-ÓalabÈ, Óusn al-Tawassul, p. 72. al-QÅ∂È, ‘The Impact of the Qur’Ån’, p. 288. As al-QÅ∂È puts it, the secretary should master not just the contents of the Qur’Ån but its ‘literary formulations’. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, pp. 146–7; also p. 152. Ibid., p. 150. Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 2, p. 120. Compare al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, pp. 150–1 and vol. 2, p. 215. Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 1, p. 29. Fitzmaurice, ‘Classical Rhetoric and the Promotion of the New World’, pp. 232–4. Kennedy (transl.), Aristotle on Rhetoric, p. 197. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, pp. 148ff. al-MawßilÈ, al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ, p. 214. This category was necessary because secretaries needed to be aware of how eloquent scholars could boast of the attributes of their people, and refute those of others. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, p. 168. Ibid., p. 175. For an evaluation of this, see Gully, ‘Two of a Kind?’, passim. Ibn al-ÍayrafÈ, al-QÅnËn fÈ DÈwÅn al-RasÅ’il, p. 11.

The composition secretary (i): background and status 114. 115. 116. 117. 118.

119. 120. 121. 122. 123. 124. 125. 126. 127. 128. 129. 130. 131.

132. 133. 134. 135. 136. 137. 138.

139. 140. 141. 142. 143. 144. 145. 146.

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Berkey, ‘The Mamluks as Muslims’, p. 164 esp. Ibid., p. 163. Crone, Slaves on Horses, p. 90. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 7, p. 19. In making this point I am not intending to undermine the military emphasis of some honorifics, or ‘titulature’, as Hillenbrand describes it, but am more inclined to see the military and the Islamic elements as interrelated, since rulers such as Baybars were indeed regarded as defenders of the faith. For more details see Hillenbrand, The Crusades, p. 230. Lewis, The Muslim Discovery of Europe, p. 77. Ibid., p. 78. Ibid., p. 78. Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 1, pp. 46–7. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, p. 185. Ibid., vol. 1, p. 396. See ibid., vol. 1, pp. 43–4. Bosworth, ‘A maqÅma on secretaryship’, pp. 293–4. Sellheim and Sourdel, ‘KÅtib’ art., p. 755. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, pp. 54–5. For instance, al-SuyˆȒs Óusn al-Mu˙Å∂ara fÈ AhbÅr Mißr wa-l-QÅhira and Ibn Ta©rÈ BirdÈ’s al-NujËm al-ZÅhira. See al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ, pp. 205ff. At first glance the ‘special supplement’ containing the biographical data could be the work of al-MawßilÈ himself. But closer inspection reveals that many sources quoted there could not possibly have been known to al-MawßilÈ. This information is given by JurjÈ ZaydÅn, and quoted by the editor of al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ. The accuracy of this data is, however, open to scrutiny. A number of sources doubt that many of al-QÅ∂È al-FÅ∂il’s works are extant; and I have certainly found difficulty in obtaining his works. al-MawßilÈ, al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ, p. 217. Ibid., p. 229. Ibid., p. 229. Ibid., p. 231. Ibid., p. 232. Ibid., p. 234. Ibid., p. 289. These references underline the importance of excellent handwriting even in the later Islamic tradition. Handwriting was certainly one of the main foci of the early secretarial literature, as evidenced for example by Ibn Qutayba’s RisÅlat al-Ha†† wa-l-Qalam ‘Essay on Handwriting and the Pen’ (3rd/9th century) and al-ŠaybÅnÈ’s listing of it as one of the principal requirements of the secretary (Ibn ‘Abd Rabbihi, al-‘Iqd al-FarÈd, vol. 2, part 4, pp. 226–7). Ibid., p. 240. Ibid., p. 250. Ibid., pp. 238–9. Ibid., p. 241. Ibid., p. 242. Ibid., p. 245. al-GhazÅlÈ, Book of Counsel for Kings, translator’s introduction, p. xlvi. Ibid., p. 115.

CHAPTER

5 the composition secretary (ii): moral and inner qualities

Before moving into a description of what I broadly term the moral characteristics and inner qualities of the secretary I would like to review briefly the context from which they derive. It has already been demonstrated that the first chapter of the MawÅdd al-BayÅn was devoted to a large degree to Ibn Halaf’s attempts to settle the argument about the supremacy of writing and epistolography over all other crafts, and the secretary over all other administrative professions. His descriptions of the responsibilities of the secretary are statesmanlike, as he portrays the relationship between him and the Ruler and the positive effect good writing has on society. The following description illustrates this: He [the Composition/epistolary secretary] is the adornment and ornamentation of sovereignty because of the clarity of expression that emanates from him. This clarity of expression raises the status of sovereignty and elevates its reputation. It glorifies its business, and signifies the virtue of its Ruler. [The secretary] is the one who deals on behalf of the Ruler in matters of promise and admonishment, and drawing people to him, and in praise and blame, and in the instinctive interpretation of ideas which ensure that the follower follows him and obeys him, and which soften the rebellious enemy from his enmity and rebellion. Nonetheless, one of the radicals promoted financial secretaryship over the secretaryship of correspondence by citing erroneous facts and falsehoods which he adorned and embellished. But this would not fool the discerning person, nor be concealed from one with a sound mind.1 In this quotation the tension between the offices of Composition secretary and Financial secretary shows itself again. It came at a time when the different roles of the secretary per se (kÅtib) had been expanded to fifteen in number. The epistolary secretary fulfilled just one of those roles, which included secretaries of finance, the military, the postal system, land tax, and expenditure.2 This should be compared to the situation less than two and a half centuries earlier, when only five secretarial

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posts were identified.3 The threefold increase in the number of secretarial posts reflects the expansion of the administration during that period. It is also essential to distinguish at this point between the descriptions of the role of the Composition, or epistolary, secretary, and the head of the Composition Chancery, who oversaw all epistolary activity (see later in this chapter for a description of all secretarial roles involved with the production of letters). Some scholars of the pre-modern period discussed only the role of the head of the Chancery (Ibn al-ÍayrafÈ, for instance) while others talked more generally about the role of the Composition, or epistolary, secretary (Ibn Halaf, for example), of which there were seven types (see also below). Ibn Halaf then goes on to describe the epistolary secretary in even more glowing terms: There is no one among the ranks of those who serve the Ruler, nor deal with his affairs, who is more special than the Epistolary secretary, for he is the first to go in to the King, and the last to leave him. He is indispensable in conferring with him about his opinions, and in communicating with him secretly about his important business, and in drawing him close to him throughout the night and day, and appearing with him in public, and in times of solitude, and in his being fully conversant with state events and urgent matters regarding his sovereignty. Therefore, he [the King] does not trust in anyone from his special officers the way he trusts in him, and does not depend on any relative or kinsman the way he depends on him.4 He then moves on to describe the different ways in which he is the heart, the tongue, the ear and the hand of the Ruler. In his work on the Fņimid state, Ibn al-Êuwayr gave an equally important description of the privileged position of the epistolary secretary; for example, only the most revered of the secretaries in balÅ©a would assume the position, and only members of the special officers of the Ruler were permitted to enter his dÈwÅn and to meet with any of his secretaries. He would also be allocated a chamberlain from among the older princes, and would have the best bench, covered with a mattress, complete with cushions and pillow. His inkwell would also have particular significance, and would be carried by one of the intellectual masters of the Caliph’s special officers whenever he [the secretary] attended one of the sessions of the Caliph’s office.5 The rank and status of the secretary was also reflected in the clothes he wore,6 which distinguished him from the unemployed secretary, for instance. Not only was the employed secretary’s robe made of more expensive material than that of the unemployed secretary, but the robe and the cap worn under the turban by the unemployed secretary were comparable to those worn by minority Christians. The distinction in quality of robes was no doubt part of a deliberate marking of the more lowly status of the unemployed secretary compared to his employed counterpart. The relationship between the secretary and others in the royal entourage was a very important part of the secretary’s life, as will be discussed later in this chapter. Al-QalqašandÈ maintains that the rank of secretary was most highly revered during MamlËk times. He stated that no one employed in the military or the ministerial

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dÈwÅn, or in the private dÈwÅn, was able to assume the responsibility of the royal insignia the way the secretary did.7 When interpreting the detailed descriptions by al-QalqašandÈ of the qualities required of the Composition secretary, it is important to distinguish between the ‘qualities’ (Ar. ßifÅt)8 and the ‘(learned) moral characteristics’ (Ar. ÅdÅb). In some cases the distinction is quite subtle, but it is worth making because it has important significance for the Islamic perception of what was intrinsically good, and what was also good, but had to be learned. The first of ten essential ‘qualities’9 listed by al-QalqašandÈ by which a Composition secretary should be known is, perhaps not surprisingly, Islam, ‘so that what he writes and dictates can be believed in’. The secretary is, among other things, ‘the one who frightens the enemy with the impact of his words, and the one who wins hearts with the delicateness of his message’, just as the most noble subject on which a secretary can write is calling for people to come to the religion of Islam.10 Al-QalqašandÈ adds that an infidel can never be appointed to such a position because ‘he would be an eye for the infidels against Muslims’. Having established that the same criterion applies in a legal context, that is, within the employ of judges and governors, al-QalqašandÈ claims that this criterion should be even more stringently applied to the secretary of the Ruler because he is more useful and potentially more harmful. Ibn al-ÍayrafÈ underlined this view in a number of ways, emphasising how composition and letters would become devoid of meaning, beauty and adornment if the secretary were a non-Muslim, or, more specifically, a dimmÈ. Before even discussing the Islamic side of the requirements he rejects categorically the appointment of a dimmÈ as secretary. He says that if the secretary is a dimmÈ then he will never be able to speak ‘the irrefutable truth of God’ in his letters. Moreover, his letters would be ‘washed of the most virtuous of speech, empty of what the people who believe in Islam are blessed with, devoid of the quality of perfection’.11 It will be shown later that the requirement for the Composition secretary to be a Muslim was not negotiable at the time of al-QalqašandÈ at least, and that at best non-Muslims were only taken into account in terms of how letters to them should be addressed. Yet in another part of the Íub˙ al-QalqašandÈ himself notes that during the Fņimid period in Egypt a secretary could be either a Muslim or a dimmÈ, a free non-Muslim subject living in a Muslim country.12 It must be remembered that Ibn al-ÍayrafÈ lived at a time when ŠÈ‘sm represented a major challenge to orthodox Islam. The secretarial literature was bound to reflect this important shift, and Ibn al-ÍayrafÈ’s work is a good example of this reflection. He declares that the secretary (in this context, the head of the Chancery) should ‘follow the faith of the ruler’, and that even if the word Islam has united Muslims, each Muslim has his own denomination that distinguishes him from others. But this has led to serious differences between them, he notes. Therefore, he adds the following: In the same way as the one qualified for this position should be a Muslim, at the same time he must be of the denomination of the Ruler who is distinguished by it from among the other denominations of the Muslims, so he

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[the secretary] can be assiduous in his service …, for the Ruler has chosen well for himself …13 The attempts by Ibn al-ÍayrafÈ here to justify the position of adherents to the ŠÈ‘È faith are undeniable, for here he sets the parameters of religious acceptability in secretarial manuals in an unprecedented manner. The second of the ten essential qualities required by the secretary was ‘maleness’. Once again al-QalqašandÈ notes that this was a minimum requirement for the secretary of a judge, for example, so in the case of the Ruler’s secretary it was even more essential. In spite of some anecdotal evidence that ‘A’iša, one of the wives of the Prophet Mu˙ammad, possessed some of the literary talents of the epistolary secretary, al-QalqašandÈ concludes that any letters associated with her input must have benefited from her dictating some of the key elements, not from her actually writing them. The last word on this in fact appears to belong to ‘Umar ibn al-Ha††Åb (d. 23/644), the first of the Rightly Guided Caliphs, who allegedly said the following: ‘avoid giving them [women] [the responsibility of] writing, and do not give them abode in the chamber [of administration]’. This evidence appears to be supported by the absence of women from any of the biographical sources on the secretarial class in Islamic society throughout the pre-modern period. The third quality required by the secretary was freedom, that is, being emancipated [from slavery], since ‘a slave can not be depended upon in all matters, nor trusted in every circumstance’. The fourth quality was being of an age of legal responsibility. The fifth quality was that of integrity, a particularly important quality because the secretary is appointed as judge, through his high rank, of peoples’ souls and finances. If he errs, through the misinterpretation of one word, for example, ‘it leads to harming him who does not deserve to be harmed, and to benefiting him to whom harm must be done’. The underlying Islamic legal motif in these qualities is again very clear. The sixth quality was a [thorough knowledge of] the art of communicative eloquence. More will be said on this topic in Chapter 6. The seventh quality was an abundance of intelligence and profusion of wisdom. Al-QalqašandÈ was unwavering in the importance of this quality. He tells us that ‘he who has no intelligence is useless’. Moreover, ‘if he is full of intelligence and wisdom he will arrange things in his letters and correspondence in their [rightful] places … and address each ruler in accordance with what the circumstance requires’. In many respects this quality is linked to the previous one, confirming the relationship between the art of communication and intelligence, and illustrating that the natural disposition (Ar. †ab‘) required for the former is not enough by itself to produce writing of the highest standard. The eighth quality was knowledge of the subject matter of religious duties and the humanistic disciplines. The ninth quality encompassed the characteristics of strength of resolve, highest level of determination and an honourable spirit. The final quality was competence in all that he assumed responsibility for, since ‘the incompetent one will bring about harm to the country and create weakness in the affairs of the Muslims, and perhaps his incompetence will result in evil consequences, or his weakness will lead them to unrest and disturbance’.

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There is a further set of qualities, listed as ‘unofficial’ or ‘conventional’ (Ar. ‘urfiyya) by al-QalqašandÈ, that pertain mainly to appearances and eloquence, and to a combination of these two qualities. Some of the physical descriptions of the ideal secretary are very detailed, and although they appear to be anecdotal they give some idea of how such descriptions either developed or remained static over a long period of history. The description attributed to al-ŠaybÅnÈ (mid-3rd/9th century), for example, of the ideal secretary focuses more on his physical appearance, a trend that can be associated with the ‘AbbÅsid period, whereas Ibn MammÅtÈ (d. 605–6/1209) places more emphasis on his intellectual and personal qualities. Neither of the two authors cited here excludes the intellectual or the physical attributes, but the emphasis is clearly different. A very important comparison between two men of equal levels of eloquence, but of very different physical appearance, is attributed to Sahl ibn HÅrËn (d. 215/830), the secretary of the Caliph al-Ma’mËn in the ‘AbbÅsid period. He makes the point that the majority of people would be more attracted to the unmemorable, small, emaciated and grubby man, initially because of his equal competence in speech, than they would to the smart, well turned-out man. Their admiration for him would then increase because the beauty of his speech was not what they were expecting, and ‘as the beauty of his speech doubled in their hearts he would grow in their eyes’. In essence, Sahl ibn HÅrËn’s argument is based on the Arabs’ love for the unusual, which for them was always a sign of innovation, as I demonstrated in Chapter 4 in the discussion on the ©arÈb, the ‘unusual’ in speech and writing. Al-QalqašandÈ divides the second category of qualities, which comprises the ‘rules of conduct’ or ‘manners’ of the secretary (Ar. ÅdÅb), into two types. The first type pertains to good behaviour and and honourable manner. Within this type were such qualities as the following: depending on the fear of God in concealing information and in making it public; and seeking reward by what He grants through the grace of his Ruler, and what He bestows of his abundant blessings. This was the most correct objective of all, achieved through the sound intention of the secretary in all he assumed responsibility for in the Ruler’s affairs. Another of these rules of conduct was avoiding suspicion and being purged of it, because ‘it angers God and destroys human dignity’. One of the interesting points al-QalqašandÈ made in this connection was that the secretarial class was in the best position to fulfil this because of its special position with the Ruler. He asserted once more the superiority of secretaries over judges and governors, stating that secretaries have always been selected from the elite of the jurists, and the most outstanding and pious religious scholars. They are distinguished from judges and governors by the following: their knowledge of the Islamic sciences; their various types of literary knowledge; their training in the etiquette of Rulers and their intimacy with them; the rules of their companionship with them; and their adherence to abstemiousness and preserving it in all the Ruler’s business for which they have responsibility. As part of this abstinence they had to avoid fatty and rich foods, for instance, and raise themselves above dirty profits. They were also required to behave appropriately in the presence of subjects. Not seeking praise was another of these rules of conduct, as was being economical in seeking pleasures, for ‘restricting oneself to what sustains manhood is one of the

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most meritorious and honourable of ethics’. But in a clever and amusing manner al-QalqašandÈ made sure that he did not sign away all rights in this regard, for he was, after all, a fully-fledged member of the secretarial class himself. Consequently he noted that secretaries were not expected to avoid all hedonistic pleasures, as the following quotation demonstrates: those of such rank have to indulge in their share of them, because of the natural disposition they have been given for inclining towards them and enjoying their blessings and pleasures. After all, each disposition has a share commensurate with its rank. He adds that the relationship between the secretaries and Rulers, and their sharing in their customs, obliged the secretaries to retain enough pleasures, appropriate to their rank and position with the Ruler, to sustain their manhood.14 Two things are clear from the rules of conduct set forth above. The first is that the list encapsulates some of the principal manners and behavioural matters that had to be learned and implemented by the secretary. Many of them relate to ethical matters, which is an important part of what the term ÅdÅb conveys. The second point is that al-QalqašandÈ takes the opportunity here to present the moral aspirations of the secretary in a very positive light, thus raising his profile through a legitimate listing of the requirements of his character and profession. The second type of rules of conduct described by al-QalqašandÈ pertains to the relationship of the secretary to those with whom he comes into contact. The principles of this category are concerned broadly with diplomacy. The key to this section is the Arabic word ‘išra ‘companionship, intimacy’. This term conveys a very Arab, possibly Islamic, concept relating to the level of intimacy achieved by spending time with someone, and by building a companionship based on trust and fidelity. Indeed, the first of the principles listed under intimacy with Rulers and other great men is that of sincerity (Ar. ihlÅß), ‘the mainstay of companionship’. The second principle is [the giving of] advice, which is ‘the companion of sincerity’. Other principles included being industrious in involvement in the business of the Ruler, and the preserving of secrets, which is the most meritorious of manners and the one that brings most prosperity to the one who adheres to it. According to al-QalqašandÈ, the divulging of secrets is one of the most common human characteristics, so great care must be taken not to reveal them. As Ibn al-AtÈr put it, ‘his heart (lit. ‘chest’) must be a grave on account of what is stored in it’. His natural disposition should cause him to forget what he hears in his writing sessions and not to divulge it in times of anger.15 A further rule of conduct here is the giving of thanks, for this is the only way that one can reward a Ruler, unlike with friends, who can be rewarded in other ways. Giving thanks to the Ruler is even more essential than thanking one’s peers and equals. Fidelity (Ar. wafÅ’ ) was another rule of conduct, for it was ‘the reason for which Rulers desire his [the secretary’s] company’. Fidelity manifests itself in many different ways, such as in the disclosure of advice, or in the exerting of efforts on the Ruler’s behalf. Fidelity has conditions, such as the secretary’s standing by the Ruler in every situation, whether in times of happiness, such as when he takes over government, or when it is taken from him. He should also ensure that he does

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not transfer his affections to another Ruler in whom he may see more benefit. He should also avoid arrogance, ‘since haughtiness towards the Ruler and head is one of the greatest battlegrounds of destruction, and one of the things most likely to bring about the cessation of blessings’. He should also adhere to the rules of conduct of service through diligence, since that is the greatest way to gain status and to reach [one’s] objectives. One of the main ways in which he should achieve this is by being available for the Ruler at all times. If, however, he were unavailable at a time of urgent need then he would incur the wrath and censure of the Ruler, from which he would not soon be freed, even after an apology. Moreover, it is very possible that the Ruler would need to replace him with someone to assist him at that time, even if that person were not as highly qualified and skilled. However, if the secretary were to hasten to offer assistance he would gain favour and induce the affection of the Ruler. At this point the views of Ibn al-Muqaffa‘ need to be noted. Ibn al-Muqaffa‘ was executed around the middle of the 2nd/8th century, almost certainly for political reasons. His early contribution to our understanding of the relationship between the secretary and the Ruler is inestimable, as is his conspectus on friendship, which also helps to shape the way later epistolary writing should be viewed. Latham offers an excellent analysis of Ibn al-Muqaffa‘s life and his influence on early Arabic prose, but perhaps the most important point for this discussion is what Ibn al-Muqaffa‘ said about friendship: You will reap a handsome reward from having as your friend and companion one who is superior to you in learning, so that you may acquire learning from his learning; superior to you in power, so that he may protect you with his power [emphasis added].16 This early summation of the importance of friendship – and particularly the emphasis on the type of friend one should select – gives a very full background to much of what Chapters 4 and 5 of this study are attempting to show. The relationship of the secretary with the Ruler was clearly not based on a fortuitous allegiance, or merely on a natural accession of the secretary to one of the most important positions in the land. The following examples emphasise this further. Another specified rule of conduct for the secretary was greeting the Ruler or the head in a private or public meeting by showing him great honour and esteem; as was behaving in accordance with the mood and desire of the Ruler. If the Ruler were in a mood of gaiety, all obscenity and indecency should certainly be avoided. If he were in a mood of low spirits the secretary should also be of that way. He should be modest in his attire, wearing the same neither as the Ruler nor as the masses; not dressing in an ornate way such as in ornate silk brocades, which is a mode of dress unique to the Ruler, unless he has been honoured in that way. He should give full attention to cleanliness and smelling sweet, using the best perfume and incense, ‘for Rulers believe that he who neglects to look after himself will be more neglectful in other matters’. The final rule of conduct in this list was avoiding a show of eloquence and profusion [of speech] in addressing his superior. Rather, he should address him with expressions that express ideas simply, together with a lowering of his voice and gaze, and stillness in his limbs.17

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Subsequent to this discussion, al-QalqašandÈ lists some of the rules of conduct required when the secretary engages with peers and those of equal rank. For this section al-QalqašandÈ relied heavily on Ibn Halaf, who notes that the way to act justly in this area is in fulfilment of [the requirements of] brotherhood and equality in honesty. Following this is a short account of how to treat subordinates (Ar. atbÅ‘), this being the type of subordinate of a lower secretarial rank. Although they are inferior in rank they should, by their intrinsic association with writing, be treated with deference, and given sufficient time for rest and recreation, for instance, in order to get the best out of their service to the superior secretary. It should be a service based on friendship, not on fear and terror, says Ibn Halaf. The fourth category of people for whom al-QalqašandÈ describes intimacy with the secretary is true subjects (Ar. ra‘iyya). According to Ibn Halaf this is a matter of great benefit, since ‘living with the hatred of subjects and their aversion is not pleasant for anyone, even if his rank with the Ruler was higher and he thought to himself that he could do without them’. He should focus his attention on reconciling them to him peacefully, just as he does with the Ruler and his policies. In this way he can be considered the true intermediary between the two classes, ‘so that he can be spared the stab of the stabber, and the blame of the blamer, and saved from hatred and enmity, and can direct them towards unity and affection and away from what evil characters hasten to do in the way of envy and harm’.18 The relationship between the secretary and those below him was important not just for civil human relations, but also because good relations between them were beneficial to the state. One scholar put it like this: The secretary is not immune from error or solecism or haste of the pen. Others can see the imperfection of a person that the person himself cannot see. What others come to understand of solecism and error puts the secretary in order and alerts him to it so that he can subsequently be aware of [making errors] like it …, since the greatest objective is that everything written on behalf of the king should be of total excellence in terms of handwriting, expression, ideas and grammatical inflection, so that no stabber can find a way to stab him. If the secretary slips up on something then so too does the head of the Chancery, nay the Ruler, nay the whole state.19 To sum up so far then, the qualities required of the secretary seem to be divisible into three categories: physical, intellectual and moral. These qualities served the secretary in his professional duties, including his personal relationships with those around him. Outstanding conduct and ethics were essential if he were to carry out his duties for the benefit of the state. In his discussion of the head of the DÈwÅn al-InšÅ’ (the Composition Chancery) al-QalqašandÈ gives a brief history of the Chancery, followed by a description of twelve of the most important administrative duties associated with the position of head. I will only comment here on a small number of matters relating to these duties. The head of the Composition Chancery had assumed significant authority by the time of al-QalqašandÈ. In addition to having taken over from the Ruler the duty of signing off on petitions and correspondence, he was also assigned the duty of reading

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every piece of correspondence received by the Ruler. The sources suggest that this task was increasingly delegated to him as the Ruler became busier, as the amount of correspondence proliferated, and as distances between corresponding countries and governments grew. It was also his responsibility to deal with replies to letters promptly. AbË Fa∂l al-ÍËrÈ says the following in this connection: One of the most important duties of the head of the Composition Chancery was to impart to the King what he judged to be appropriate counsel, and to convey to him one of the most weighty [pieces of counsel], which is that a response to each letter received should be sent out on the same day and not delayed until the following day.20 The dating of a letter could have great significance in a legal context, for example, since an undated communication could conceal the exact timing of a pledge (Ar. ‘ahd). This problem might be exacerbated when the letter had to be taken long distances. The process of responding to letters was not just carried out for the sake of formality, of course. It would bring great deference to the King, and show that he was in total control of, and fully conversant with, affairs of state. Another important aspect of the duties of the head of the Chancery was monitoring the assigning of honorifics to Rulers and other important personalities. The history of honorifics for Rulers is a complex one, as I shall show in the next two chapters, so it was important for the secretary entrusted with this role to ensure that each individual was assigned the appropriate number and type of honorifics. The head of the Chancery had to maintain caution in the assignment of honorifics to other members of the secretarial class. The head of the Composition Chancery also fulfilled the role of an editor-in-chief for such documents as unsealed decrees (Fņimid period), diplomas for land grants (MamlËk period)21 and general correspondence that came out of the Chancery. His other duties were no less intriguing. He was responsible for overseeing all matters relating to mail and messengers, and played an important role in what was apparently a very effective courier system. The selection of messengers, and the briefing of them, was a delicate task. It has even been suggested that the diplomatic role of the messenger, or envoy, was more important than the text of the letter itself. Hachmeier puts it like this: ‘It was thus the envoy and not the letter that stood in the centre of diplomatic negotiations, to which the diplomatic missive served as a kind of introduction.’22 In addition, the secretary was also instrumental in the selection of spies. His responsibility in this, in fact, was even greater than it was in postal issues because, as al-QalqašandÈ states, ‘a letter may be directed towards a friend, or maybe towards an enemy, but the spy is only directed towards the enemy’.23 Other duties of the head of the Composition Chancery included assuming responsibility for lighthouses that were lit up during times of war between the Tartars and Kings of Egypt to warn of imminent attacks, and for the so-called ‘fire officers’, who were entrusted with the task of creating fires in fields in the vicinity of Tartar territory. In order to do this they would douse rags in oil and tie them to the tails of snakes, which would then move uncontrollably through the fields, spreading fire to every part. The remit of the head of the Composition Chancery, the chief secretary so to

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speak, was, therefore, fairly broad by the time of al-QalqašandÈ. He was not just the overseer of administrative matters related directly to writing and written communication, but was also the person responsible for the smooth running of affairs of state, especially through his input in matters of personnel.24 There were below him seven grades of secretary, each with a slightly different type and level of responsibility from the others. These categories ran broadly as follows. The first type was the secretary responsible for formal state documents (Ar. kÅtib yunši’ mÅ yuktab min-a l-mukÅtabÅt). He would compose correspondence and letters of appointment (wilÅyÅt), and was required to have very similar qualities, levels of erudition and knowledge, and characteristics to the head of the Chancery. The second type was responsible for the composition of letters to Kings on behalf of the Ruler. The third would take care principally of correspondence to dignitaries and governors in the provinces, deputies and judges and such like; also letters of appointment (Ar. taqlÈdÅt) for those with minor duties, and documents for safe passes (Ar. ÅmanÅt) and oaths [of allegiance] (Ar. aymÅn/qasÅmÅt). According to al-QalqašandÈ this was the most common form of correspondence, so the secretary responsible for carrying out these duties had to be quick of hand, and needed good handwriting. The fourth type was responsible mainly for unsealed and unaddressed documents/diplomas for land grants (Ar. manÅšÈr), letters of goodwill (Ar. kutub li†Åf),25 and copies of all correspondence. This category was very closely related to the previous one, and because it created more work than any other in the Chancery, this secretary required a junior assistant. The fifth type was that of the fair copy transcriber, a role that required the transcribing, in excellent handwriting, of documents composed by the secretary responsible for formal state documents, such as the mandates from the Ruler to his successor (Ar. ‘uhËd), or truces (Ar. bay‘Åt). According to one eminent scholar, it was rare to find a secretary who was a master of communicative eloquence yet who also had a fine hand; hence the need for a transcriber who could take care of these issues. Such enhancement of documents was, of course, seen as being of immense benefit to the state. The sixth category was that of copy editor, who was responsible for verifying and checking every linguistic and grammatical detail of a text. The final category was that of a scribe who wrote chancery registers and records.26 There was also a light-hearted side to how the secretary viewed his role, however. Evidence of this can be found in a list of typologies provided by Makdisi in his work on Islamic humanism. The seven categories comprise a typology of secretaries with regard to writing ability and list the names – some of which are derisive – by which secretaries of varying ability were known. After the ‘perfect’ secretary came the ‘deficient’ one, who was excellent at composition and dictation but had poor handwriting. Next came the ‘speechless’, who had beautiful handwriting but could neither write composition nor dictate. After that came the ‘patcher’, a secretary who could patch together short compositions only. Next was the ‘handicapped’, who relied on good memory but was unable to compose a letter. Then came the ‘muddler’, ‘who, in his writing, mixes pearls with bits of dung, marring the beauty of the composition’. Finally came the ‘taciturn’, one who is compared to the last horse in the race; that is to say, he will eventually reach his goal, but after much exertion.27 Let us look now in more detail at two of the essential inner qualities of the

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secretary. ‘Natural disposition’ (Ar. †ab‘) was discussed earlier in Chapters 2 and 3. First of all, it is important to remind the reader that in addition to the probable origins of the concept in poetry, Ibn Halaf had discussed it more than a century before Ibn al-AtÈr. At the beginning of chapter 6 of his MawÅdd al-BayÅn Ibn Halaf states that ‘innate talent’ and ‘perfect natural disposition’ are the mainstays of this venerable craft [of writing] and its organising principle. Although he cites the word †ab‘ in the title of the chapter the main focus in the narrative is on the word ©arÈza, which also encompasses the sense of an instinctive, natural quality.28 The following summarises what Ibn Halaf has to say about this: Man may strive to learn the precepts of the rules of conduct, and spare no effort in acquiring [knowledge of] the [Islamic] sciences, but at the same time not be blessed with natural disposition in the composition of speech,29 so what he has acquired is of no use to him. However, if his natural disposition is flawless, and his mode of thinking sound, then he can still be joined to the circles of those specialising in this craft, even if he is lacking in the acquisition of knowledge [of those sciences]. According to Ibn Halaf, the abundance of natural disposition in some people, and the lack of it in others, can not be explained; in other words, it is a divine gift.30 Ibn AbÈ al-Aßba‘ supports this view, with the following remarks: Among people are those who are more innovative in spontaneous intuition (badÈha) than they are in their reflective thinking (rawiyya), just as there are those who master reflective thinking but do not have a spontaneous intuition. Rare is it that they are equal.31 The other essential inner quality of the secretary was ‘[the power of] invention’ (Ar. i˙tirÅ‘), a term used by al-QalqašandÈ and applied by him to Ibn al-AtÈr’s argument on this topic, although the latter does not actually use that term.32 In Chapter 1 I showed that the art of composition (Ar. inšÅ’) depended on invention and innovation. In Ibn al-AtÈr’s view, the path to innovation (Ar. ibtidÅ‘) was essentially part of a spiritual process. He begins his description of the three routes through which a secretary can learn the craft of writing by stating that God had communicated to him on this matter, and that he had not seen anyone else deal with it in this way. He then goes on to list the three routes,33 each deriving for the secretary a greater share of the spiritual realm, it would seem,34 and underlining the apparent link between what was essentially Islamic and what was more indicative of an Arabic humanism. The first route for the secretary – which Ibn al-AtÈr calls the lowest level – is to study the writings of the Ancients, scrutinising closely their use of expressions and ideas, then to follow their example. The second route, being the intermediate level, is to blend the writings of the Ancients with what the secretary deems good in the way of ornate addition, either in the embellishing of expressions or ideas. The third route – which we can assume is the highest level, although that is not stated explicitly – is for the secretary not to study the works of the Ancient writers at all, nor to become thoroughly acquainted with them; but rather to direct all his

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attention to memorising the Holy Qur’Ån, a number of the Prophetic narratives and anthologies of the greatest poets who mastered the use of expressions and ideas. By manoeuvering through the use of these passages, sometimes hitting the mark, at other times making mistakes, he will develop his own way, which should be highly innovative and bear no similarity to the way of the Ancient writers. This is the way of ‘independent judgement’ (Ar. ijtihÅd), whose practitioner is considered a leader (Ar. imÅm) in the craft of writing. Only he whom God has blessed with a bold tongue and an imaginative mind is capable of it. Ibn al-AtÈr goes on to say how much he toiled to reach this lowly stage, but states that ‘the precious value of things is only in the power of their acquisition and the toil involved in achieving them’. However, this does not mean that the secretary is so bound to extracting the material and citing it in his compositions that he must incorporate these extracts alone – although we do know from Ibn al-AtÈr himself that he claimed to include at least one reference to the Qur’Ån in some form in every single letter he wrote. What should come out of this intense scrutiny and memorisation of these sources is that they guide him in his writings, and that he can draw on them as a complement to his natural instinct.35 In order to complement the function and implementation of the two inner qualities of the secretary described above, some debate took place about the optimum time and place in which composition or memorising should take place. As for the time, some said that it should be just before dawn, when the mind is relatively free from concerns and well rested. Others claimed that the middle of the night was preferable, not only because the body has rested and the mind is healthy, for instance, but also because the outside world, specifically the animal kingdom, is quiet and will not disturb the composition process. With regard to the place, it should be free from sounds and purged from frightening things and disasters. It should be spacious, clean and provided with flowers, plants and water to create a pleasant working environment. Some even went so far as to insist on its being free from paintings and attractive visual pieces that might distract the mind and heart.36 It is clear from a number of references to Ibn al-AtÈr in this work so far that he was a pivotal source of information about the secretary’s craft. Another writer of great value is Ibn ŠÈt, author of the Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba. Although the number of references to that work in al-QalqašandÈ’s Íub˙ is few, they are nonetheless significant.37 It is worth pausing here to note some of the important contributions Ibn ŠÈt made to our understanding of the role of the secretary during the AyyËbid period. Although he lived during the same era as Ibn al-AtÈr, their approaches to the subject were vastly different. Some have referred to Ibn ŠÈt’s work as the most important monograph on secretarial etiquette and diplomacy written during AyyËbid rule, although there was, in truth, not a great deal of competition for that accolade since AyyËbid rule only lasted for 79 years (1171–1250 ad). Ibn ŠÈt is a character about whom little appears to be known, except that he was an Egyptian ŠÈ‘È who lived in the 6th/12th century. We also know that he worked as a secretary in the Chancery, and spent a lot of his life in Alexandria, then in Jerusalem. In addition to being a prose writer he was also a poet.38 But the sources do record the significant point that al-Qa∂È al-FÅ∂il used to rely on him in matters pertaining to the science of letter-writing.39

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Ibn ŠÈt’s Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba appears to signal a temporary return to an old tradition, since it emphasises the moral and ethical exigencies of secretaryship more than the intellectual and literary requisites that preoccupied Ibn al-AtÈr and later al-ÓalabÈ. In simple terms, it was not a work of literary criticism, although it does contain a fairly brief section on balÅ©a. It was much more a handbook of manners and rules of conduct than either of the works by Ibn al-AtÈr or al-ÓalabÈ. It does, however, display some common ground with other works from the 4th/10th century onwards which dealt with linguistic matters such as synonyms, proverbs and wrong use of expressions. It even includes a section on key words containing certain consonants which, the author claims, were misused by some secretaries. In Chapter 3 I noted that avoidance of bribery was one of the principal requisites of the secretary according to the Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba. The first two stipulations given by Ibn ŠÈt were that the secretary show a clear manifestation of piety, and that he give appropriate advice to whom he served. The ensuing list in that work, containing more than a dozen stipulations, is based on a series of negatives, that is, what the secretary should not do in his relationship with the Ruler. The legalistic tone of the list suggests that the relationship between the secretary and the Ruler at the time of the compilation of Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba was based either on a great deal of reverence, or on fear. Given Ibn ŠÈt’s frequent reminders about the ways in which the secretary could fall from grace, it was probably more a result of fear, especially as there is a widespread belief that ŠÈ‘ites at that time were keen to reduce the power of the Caliph and increase their own levels of control.40 In other words, their aspirations might have induced the Caliph to increase his scrutiny of their activities. Among the instructions Ibn ŠÈt gave was that the secretary should avoid rushing impulsively to the Ruler with a response [to a previous correspondence]. He should not listen in on a conversation of the Ruler he serves if he is in the process of confiding in someone else, unless it is of direct concern to him, and he has been indicated in it. He should not interrupt his master before he completes the giving of an order, since not only does this show a lack of etiquette, but it also gives the [false] impression that the secretary has understood what is being asked of him before it has been fully explained. Also, he should not be distracted while being addressed, and should be fully attentive, even if he has prior knowledge of what is being spoken about. Ibn ŠÈt then adds two rather interesting requirements pertaining to vulgarity. The first of these relates to personal hygiene and habits. The secretary should not pick his teeth in the company of the Ruler, and he should not expectorate, nor blow his nose or spit. In order to avoid this he should not get excited in his presence. He should not yawn, nor strut around, and must not eat foods that create foul-smelling breath. If he is obliged to eat with the Ruler – something he should try to avoid – he should be a ‘dignified, skilful practitioner’ in the way he eats. Ibn ŠÈt appears to have been influenced in this by HilÅl al-ÍÅbi’, especially in his emphasis on the physical traits and mental faculties required of the secretary. There is a rather interesting distinction in this description, however, for al-ÍÅbi’ makes it incumbent on anyone who comes into contact with the Caliph that he have clean teeth and fresh breath.41 Yet Ibn ŠÈt applies this only to the secretary, as if to highlight the special relationship between him and the Caliph or Ruler. Even more intriguing is that

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al-ÍÅbi’ provides exactly the same description of some of the other prescriptions for etiquette, such as the ban on nose-blowing and spitting, but he applies it only to the vizier,42 a distinction which will be explained later in this chapter in an attempt to delineate the responsibilities of the secretary and the vizier. The second point relating to vulgarity and manners concerns avoidance of pronouncing certain expressions that were considered unacceptable, such as in the following amusing anecdote: It is said that a certain secretary ridiculed the secretary Ibn Wahb in the presence of his master, and said that he had farted. So he [his master] said to him: ‘Pffuff, you have done with the upper part of your body [the mouth] what he did with the lower part [his buttocks] In other words, there is no difference between the fart and the word chosen by the secretary to describe it, which could have been replaced by a number of euphemisms. In typical sycophantic fashion, Ibn ŠÈt adds that the secretary in question here fully deserved this particular censure.43 Issues of digestion also precluded the secretary’s entering the bathroom with his master, or places where he experienced discomfort with his large belly [sic]. Ibn ŠÈt deals also with a number of matters relating to integrity and probity, in which the secretary should make a diplomatic choice of behaviour. For example, he should not reveal secrets of the Ruler even if he were given permission to do so, for ‘he should make his secret dead, buried deep within him’ (cf. Ibn al-AtÈr above), and if the Ruler agrees with him on something he should behave as if he is the one agreeing. He should not jest with his master, even if the latter is encouraging him to do so.44 As I mentioned previously, certain principles, styles and rules of conduct that applied at a particular point in history may not have always been applicable. One good example of this is the question of whether the secretary was the first person at the beginning of each new day to go into the Ruler. Ibn Halaf noted that in the Fņimid period the secretary was the person closest to the Ruler, the first to go in to him, and the last to leave. However, according to Ibn ŠÈt, he should not be the first person to go in to him, for events could happen on some days whereby the one who experiences them regards the first person he sees as an evil portent. In this case the secretary should avoid his master.45 It is not clear whether this was a genuine stipulation that developed during the AyyËbid period, inspired by ŠÈ‘È superstition, or whether it was merely a recommendation of Ibn ŠÈt’s based on personal, private beliefs. In either case it does seem to raise a question about the nature of the personal relationship between secretary and Ruler, since it is probably the most intimate detail that we have in the sources. Ibn ŠÈt adds that the secretary should not enter upon his master when he is in private unless he is asked to do so, even if this was his custom in gatherings, and he should certainly not interrupt him when he is praying, thinking that he is doing him a service, ‘for that has been the downfall of many’. This last quotation supports my earlier hypothesis that secretaries could quite easily fall out of favour with the Ruler. After some basic descriptions of dress code, Ibn ŠÈt then makes some important

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and quite specific observations on the inkwell and its relationship to the secretary. For instance, the secretary should always be armed with his inkwell, whether he has been commissioned to write or not, just as the soldier should never be without his sword. It should never be overfilled with ink, however, in case some of it should spill. Invoking more superstition, perhaps, he notes that the cotton or silk flakes placed in an inkstand often became scattered, which for those present represented an evil omen. The inkwell should not be deemed ugly for its largeness, or exceptional in its smallness, ‘for large ones show the high rank of the secretary, and [therefore] his folly, while small ones show the extent and depth of his conceit’.46 The inkwell should be of medium size, and not crammed with pens and other implements. This pre­occupation with the physical details of the inkwell should not be dismissed lightly. Its status was considered important not only because of its association with the pen, but also because it seems to have held, for some writers at least, a special significance of its own. In one instance a poem was composed in praise of the inkwell as ‘an instrument of knowledge’.47 Humility towards the Ruler could be demonstrated by the secretary in many ways. The secretary should avoid writing from the well of his master unless he had been given permission to do so for a particular reason. If he were to do this without permission it would incite ridicule and anger from others, and would bring disgrace upon his master from their verbal outbursts. Further, Ibn ŠÈt says that this is a behaviour which the secretary would object to from a fellow secretary, so how much more would it offend the Ruler or prince to whom the secretary ‘is obligated with humility and modesty’.48 In addition to some of the prescriptions described above the secretary would always sit, never stands, in the presence of the Ruler. Unsurprisingly, one area in particular in which the secretary had to set an example was that of the use of language. Although he should always strive to use the correct word or expression, there was nothing wrong with silence if he failed to find it. Silence itself conveys [hidden] ideas, notes Ibn ŠÈt, and the one who gushes forth with his speech is not [necessarily] the one blessed with richness and overflowing abundance; in other words, the secretary should choose his words wisely, and also give reflection to when he speaks. Under no circumstances should he give the impression to those present at a gathering – most of whom are illiterate, we are told – that he is not in total command of the language. If those present suspect him of committing solecisms, then they will laugh profusely, or they will prostrate themselves before him, believing that they have smitten him with an evil spirit. He should make himself believe as though he has been commissioned to write something which overwhelms his thoughts, and which will flow in abundance when he is with the one he serves, ‘so that his mind is ready for the race, saddled and bridled, and his thoughts charged and ready to burst with current and expected ideas’.49 According to Ibn al-ÍayrafÈ, the secretary responsible for the production of formal state documents – that is, the one serving under the head of the Composition Chancery – should be able to compose a long, detailed letter from a solitary word and one idea that might be given to him;50 in other words, almost at will. There were also rules pertaining to the reading of documents, and to the secretary’s licence to add material to letters in his own hand. In the case of reading, he

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had to develop a proficiency in skimming over the introductory and concluding formalities, in perusing each letter with great speed, and in extracting the essence of each letter, ‘so that it happened that as soon as he opened it he would have full comprehension of it’.51 As for adding to documents already approved by the Ruler, he was in no circumstances to do so without permission, even if it was clear that the situation demanded it. This was an integral part of the trust between Ruler and secretary. If the secretary did add something, he would have to indicate it with his own handwriting so that no one else could add to it and attribute it to himself. The preceding discussion gives the reader a reasonable picture of many of the aspects of the secretary’s duties during the AyyËbid period. It focuses mainly on the writings of Ibn ŠÈt for two main reasons. First, his description of the role of the Composition secretary in the AyyËbid period seems to reflect to a degree the intentions of much earlier writers from the 2nd/8th to 3rd/9th centuries who were concerned with two principal descriptions: the behavioural aspects of the secretary, and his philological expertise. Second, if we remove Ibn al-AtÈr’s al-Matal al-SÅ’ir from the equation owing to its heavy emphasis on epistolary theory, we find that Ibn ŠÈt’s work is possibly the most valuable source for our understanding of the secretary’s role in Islamic society during the AyyËbid period. The Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba appears not to have been given the attention it deserved by al-QalqašandÈ, either for political reasons or because he did not have full access to it, although this is unlikely. There is no doubt that the ŠÈ‘Ès in general had made their intentions very clear to reduce the power of the Caliph and to seize power for themselves. This brought the secretaries of that persuasion into direct conflict with orthodox Muslims who were working for the Caliphate. There is little doubt that al-QalqašandÈ would have been of the latter category. Yet Ibn ŠÈt’s emphasis on humility and the secretary’s obligation to please the Caliph suggests he was in full support of the Caliphate, not antagonistic to it, unless of course those prescribed behaviours were merely part of an overt lip-service to the Caliph. The Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba is much more than an imitation of previous works on this topic, since it appears to contain a lot of information and codes of practice that were very specific to the time. One further area of comparison can be seen in the way that during the Fņimid period the head of the Composition Chancery was not permitted to correct the Ruler on a particular matter or point of language in the company of others – since this had to wait until they were alone – but he could, very diplomatically, steer him towards what was correct.52 But one gets the strong impression from Ibn ŠÈt’s tract that such liberties would not have been allowed during his time. We learn that the secretary during the AyyËbid period was not even allowed to give people the impression that he had coerced the Ruler into doing a good deed, for instance.53 The elements of superstition mentioned above are also unusual in the secretarial literature. I will be returning to some more of Ibn ŠÈt’s important contributions later in this work. Alongside the Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba it is worth assessing some of the contributions of Ibn al-ÍayrafÈ, whose most famous work, al-QÅnËn fÈ DÈwÅn al-RasÅ’il, was written about a century before Ibn ŠÈt’s tract. If we agree with Björkmann that al-ÍayrafÈ’s work is more a description of the dÈwÅn towards the end of the Fņimid period than

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of its development, we can see that there were few significant developments in the later Fņimid and early AyyËbid periods. For example, the very first requirement for the position of head of the Composition Chancery was to be a man of ‘religion, piety and trustworthiness’.54 Among other things he was responsible for the following: peoples’ souls and their finances … If he added the slightest word, or elided the simplest consonant, or suppressed something he knew, or interpreted an expression with the wrong meaning or distorted its sense, he would bring about harm to him who did not deserve to be harmed, and benefit to him who did not deserve benefit.55 In a style not atypical of works of this type he indicates how such errors invert the Weltanschauung and lead to a chaotic order of things, whereby the King ‘thanks the blameworthy and blames the praiseworthy’. Just as Ibn ŠÈt said a century later, the head of the Composition Chancery must avoid accepting bribes, for these and other grave misdemeanours are ‘a curse upon the king’. Ibn al-ÍayrafÈ also talks in very explicit terms about the importance of incorporating not just God’s word into epistolary narrative, but also the ‘spirit’ of his word, the encapsulation of the total Islamic discourse, so to speak. He goes on: The epistolary secretary is the person who needs to cite God’s word (may He be exalted) most during his conversations and in the sections of his writings; and [the one who most needs] to cite his absolute authority [lit. ‘His prohibitions and commands’], His judgements and rebukes, for these are the adornment of letters, and embellishment of written compositions, being that which fortifies the power of speech, and confirms its validity in the minds [of men].56 Ibn al-ÍayrafÈ also makes some significant remarks about this secretary being the mouthpiece of the Ruler. In what could well be a further underlining of the nature of Fņimid propoganda, he describes how, whenever the King expresses a correct opinion, or performs a good deed or a laudable act of management, the secretary responsible for composition should announce it, make it public, extol it and emphasise it.57 Moreover, in letters about the King – which were his main responsibility – the more innovative he is in his composition and the more he penetrates the soul, the more glorified the position of the King becomes, and the more his status will be raised among the [Islamic] community.58 Indeed, it was no coincidence that during the Fņimid rule one of the themes of letters of felicitation became that of congratulating on the appointment of being entrusted with spreading ŠÈ‘È doctrine.59 The Composition secretary, who came next in rank after the head of the Composition Chancery, was the one responsible for corresponding on behalf of the King with other Kings, and those speaking different languages and following different creeds. One of the main additional skills he required was the sensitivity to be able to change his style of address. Therefore, when addressing Kings who spoke in a different tongue he should avoid using rhyming prose, for example, and also refrain from including proverbs and major literary devices such as ‘metaphor, or borrowing’

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(Ar. isti‘Åra) and ‘simile’ (Ar. tašbÈh), unless such things were understood in that language.60 The supremacy of the secretary was stated in very emphatic terms by Ibn Halaf when he said that the lower classes [or, the masses] do not preserve the status of [grammatical] attributes and verbs, so their expressions do not correspond completely to their meanings. However, secretaries could not possibly be guilty of this, he says, because they write on behalf of Rulers who are not pleased when what is written in their name deviates from virtuous arrangement.61 It is now time to consider the position of the secretary in relation to two other very important positions: those of the chamberlain and the vizier. There is no doubt that there was an ongoing tension between the secretaries and the viziers, not least because secretaries were normally selected from among the ‘men of the pen’, that is, the bureaucrats, while viziers were often taken from the ‘men of the sword’, that is, the military. In what follows I shall give a brief comparison of their respective roles, and will also look at the role of the chamberlain in this context. Some of the duties they carried out appear to have been common to all three positions, while some were specific to each. The role of the chamberlain is fairly well defined in the sources. He did not compose letters or general correspondence on behalf of the Ruler but he held a very important position. The chamberlain was the intermediary between the King and anyone who wished to see him, and would arrange the people in front of the King accordingly.62 He would be a man of great logic and morality, of awesome appearance, intelligent and wise, neither sullen nor compliant. He would need to know the exact ranks of those entering upon the King, and be able to position them in accordance with those ranks. He would have to know the conduct of Kings, their precepts and their private and public business. He would also need to know the times when they were in gatherings, and the times when they were in private. He would look after the King’s entourage and give them hospitality, but would not allow anyone to enter upon him without his permission.63 As Sourdel puts it, he was the person ‘responsible for guarding the door of access to the Ruler’.64 He should also refrain from showing civility and friendship to anyone who was not in favour with the Ruler. It is also clear from the samples of letters written in his favour, such as the ihwÅniyyÅt epistles congratulating individuals on their appointments, that his position was held in considerable esteem.65 Under the Umayyads in the early Islamic period the chamberlain held a position in the Caliph’s entourage equal to that of the secretary, but, significantly, he had ‘no pretension to equal in dignity the representatives of the Arab aristocracy’. Under the ‘AbbÅsids, however, it seems his position in the Court became even more elevated, becoming second in importance only to that of the vizier. 66 Thus was his status in Eastern Islamic society. However, his status in Islamic Spain was superior even to that of the vizier. Here the chamberlain assisted the prince in administration and government, acting as chief minister.67 As I attempt in what follows to unravel briefly the complex relationship between secretary, chamberlain and vizier, it is important to note that during the first two centuries of ‘AbbÅsid rule there was ongoing rivalry between the vizier and the chamberlain. In turn, the chamberlains, who were former palace servants, became rivals of the secretaries.68 The rivalry

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between the secretaries and the chamberlain was certainly not concealed in the literature. One very good example of how public the issue became can be found in a work by Ibn MammÅtÈ, a Christian who became a Muslim after ÍalÅ˙ al-DÈn’s conquest of Egypt. After fleeing to Aleppo in Syria he wrote a satire which was almost certainly about ÍalÅ˙ al-DÈn’s favourite chamberlain, QarÅqËš.69 So what of the relationship between the secretaries and the viziers? The history of the vizier’s contribution to life in pre-modern Islamic society is complex, but fascinating. Zaman puts it like this: ‘the institution of the wazÈr seems to have its origins both in the position of the secretary as well as in that of the royal counsellor’.70 This important fact may help to clarify why the early tension was between the chamberlain and the vizier, not the chamberlain and the secretary. In ‘AbbÅsid times there is some evidence that the qualifications required to perform the role of vizier were equivalent to those demanded for the position of Caliph itself.71 But it was really only during the Fņimid period, according to Ibn al-ÍayrafÈ, that the vizierate as a system became stable in Egypt, unlike in Aleppo, where the vizierate appears to have enjoyed a degree of stable continuity.72 During the AyyËbid period, the vizier was appointed by the Ruler to head the adminstration and the dÈwÅns. In Egypt, however, AyyËbid Sultans often did without a vizier. A good example of this is ÍalÅ˙ al-DÈn, who did not appoint a vizier in an official role. The great prose writer and epistolographer al-QÅ∂È al-FÅ∂il, for instance, in spite of his closeness to ÍalÅ˙ al-DÈn, was never officially a vizier, although Ibn al-AtÈr, who served al-Af∂al, held the position for three years from 589/1193 to 592/1196.73 An important similarity between the secretary and the vizier is found in the way in which they often reached their positions. In much the same way as the secretaries often seemed to fall into the position, or at least were frequently assisted by some personal connections, viziers in the AyyËbid period at least often learned their skills on the job, having begun their careers as secretaries. Eddé says this: ‘There was no specific, theoretical training for the post of vizier. Family tradition was important for most official positions.’74 These are intriguing claims which underline what I was attempting to show about the secretary in Chapter 4. The distinction between some of the respective duties of secretary and vizier is not always clear, however, particularly in the later period. Some of this lack of clarity seems to centre on the political power the vizier held in relation to his role as patron of cultural, intellectual and religious life during the ‘AbbÅsid period. Ibn AbÈ al-RabÈ‘ is clearly describing the Private secretary of the Ruler (lit. ‘secretary of presence’), one of the four types of secretary at that time,75 when he speaks of the requirements of intelligence, lucidity, thorough knowledge of grammar and balÅ©a, and full cognizance of the ranks of Kings and letter-writers, with an ability to give each of them their due. However, there are two other well-known sources – both attributed to al-MÅwardÈ – that describe the vizier and some of his duties as being similar to those of the secretary. For instance, he states that he should be wise, patient, a theologian, humble and upright. Al-MÅwardÈ advises the vizier, in his capacity as the person with the most direct role in managing the King’s affairs, to have probity, and to be just and charitable, to have patience, to be rational, and not to rise to anger. He should extend his views and counsel to the King, and be

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his ‘eye’, clarifying everything for him, for ‘he is the tongue of the King when he speaks, and his eye when he looks’.76 But then al-MÅwardÈ remarks that this is all in addition to the similar accounts of the role of the secretaries, suggesting an overlap between some of these important duties. Therefore, leaving aside literary matters, the contributions of al-MÅwardÈ and Ibn AbÈ al-RabÈ‘ suggest that there was no clear-cut distinction between some of the duties of the secretary and the vizier. Yet, in spite of some similarities in the duties associated with the two roles, there is evidence that the ‘men of the pen’ (secretaries) actively sought to distinguish themselves from the military in quite radical ways. Al-ÍÅbi’ recounts a story in which a secretary deliberately showed a lack of power and courage in the presence of the Caliph, hiding from a loose beast even though he claimed he perceived no real danger in the situation. ‘Nothing is worse for the people of the pen than to appear courageous or to assume the attributes of the military’, says al-ÍÅbi’.77 Al-MÅwardÈ’s above emphasis on the role of the vizier may have been part of an attempt to take some credibility away from the secretaries, and to impute those excellent qualities and noble duties to the vizier. During the ‘AbbÅsid period, in fact, the rank of head of the Chancery became elevated to the extent that the incumbent was given the honorific title of vizier.78 This elevated rank is reflected in an important comment from al-˝azÅlÈ (d. 504/1111) in his work on Counsel for Kings. The King is to observe three principles in his treatment of the vizier: ‘not to punish him in haste when vexed with him, not to covet his wealth when he grows rich, and not to refuse him a [necessary] request when he makes one’.79 It is significant that al-˝azÅlÈ – himself a philosopher and theologian – should have promoted the position of vizier over that of the secretary, who often clashed with the theologians and jurists as a result of their dependence on the spoken word in preference to the written.80 That having been said, the importance of the secretaries for the survival of the Fņimid administration is beyond doubt, as is the tolerance they showed to those Coptic or SunnÈ secretaries whom they effectively inherited from the ‘AbbÅsids. Al-Imad puts it like this: ‘The Fatimids, out of their tolerance, but more accurately out of expediency, were aware that without the know-how of the indigenous Egyptian class of kuttÅb, they would never be able to build their administration.’81 It is also worth noting that the administrative acumen of the Copts in particular brought them to high positions in the Fņimid bureaucratic system, to ‘even the highest position in government, the vizierate’.82 This attainment of high rank by Copts continued well into the MamlËk era, as evidenced by the 8th/14th century al-Našw, the nÅΩir al-hÅßß of Sultan al-Malik ibn QalÅwËn.83 The role of the nÅΩir al-hÅßß, according to Little, was ‘to administer the affairs of the common people and appoint functionaries’.84 Al-Našw was one of four out of five of the most important holders of this position who were Coptic converts to Islam. Apparently the Coptic holders of this position would work their way up the bureaucratic chain by ingratiating themselves with others.85 Under the Fņimids at least, the distinction between the roles of the vizier and the secretary seems reasonably clear: the highest position was that of vizier, followed by secretary, then chamberlain. It is true that the head of the Composition

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Chancery was the only one privy to the incoming correspondence of the Caliph, and also responsible for replying to it. The Composition secretary was also served during this period by the Confidential secretary, who not only assisted the Caliph in such matters as repeating the Qur‘Ån, but also sat with the vizier when the latter presided over legal cases.86 But al-MÅwardÈ is unequivocal about the high-ranking nature of the vizier at this time, as shown in the following: ‘for he is an equal in kingship and power with the King. He is chosen to be especially close, and he is appointed to the highest administrative office.’87 The professional status and rank of judges vis-à-vis secretaries are also worth looking at briefly. During the ‘AbbÅsid period the secretaries’ superior rank over the judges was acknowledged in a number of ways, such as in the order of procession into the court of the Caliph. In those days the chamberlain led the procession, followed by the viziers, the chiefs of the dÈwÅns and the secretaries. The chamberlain then called for the generals, who were preceded by the chamberlain’s lieutenants, and then the judges.88 But this situation changed from the 5th/11th century at least, as noted by Sellheim and Sourdel: and from the 5th/11th centuries onwards, the secretaries, confronted with foreign elements of Turkish origin, belonged to the same social sphere as the men of religion but had slightly different preoccupations. During this period, the qÅ∂Ès came to fulfill functions previously reserved for the kuttÅb, to become involved in governmental affairs and to draw up chancery documents. At the time of the MamlËks, this tendency to unify the two spheres became much more accentuated; secretaries and men of religion constituted what were called ‘the men wearing turbans’.89 These were significant developments. The secretary was also obliged to yield some of his duties to the nÅΩir al-hÅßß. Although the rank of Confidential secretary was now firmly established – with well-defined and important duties, such as signing in the Justice Ministry what the vizier had previously signed – it appears that some of the earlier responsibilities of the secretary had been handed over to the nÅΩir al-hÅßß. The following quotation illustrates this: ‘The nÅΩir al-hÅßß enters the sultan’s presence every morning and speaks with him about everything the sultan wants to spend on his close retainers, his slave girls, and whomever he chooses.’90 In his late 9th/15th century work al-ÛÅhirÈ describes the roles of vizier and secretary under two distinct categories, but the exact responsibilities of each remain hazy. More importance appears have been accorded to the role of the vizier, a rank and responsibility that has its importance underlined in the sacred texts, according to al-ÛÅhirÈ,91 as does that of the secretary through the references to the pen in the Qur’Ån mentioned in Chapter 3. The significance of the rank of vizier was by now supported by the citing of the etymological derivation of the word wazÈr, which could signify one of three things, depending on which derivation one subscribed to: ‘burden’ (Ar. tiql) because the vizier carries the king’s burdens; ‘refuge’ (Ar. wazar) because the king takes refuge in the counsel of the vizier, and in his knowledge and management; ‘backbone’ (Ar. ’azr) because of the strength he provides, in the same way as the body is strengthened by the back.92 Whoever is appointed to this position

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should assume responsibility for the affairs of state and the kingdom, and should do away with its deficiencies, make good its circumstances, protect its men, and make its finances grow, for example. He should also look closely, secretly and publicly, at what the capable, trustworthy people are saying and doing, and correct those who have been negligent or careless and reward those who have done well in their work.93 Al-ÛÅhirÈ goes on, citing the alleged words of the Caliph al-Ma’mËn: ‘He [the vizier] has the authority of princes, the uprightness of wise men, the modesty of scholars, and the understanding of jurists … He enslaves the hearts of men with the beauty of his tongue, and his fine eloquence.’ It is clear, therefore, that the vizier was assigned a number of important duties, and that he was responsible for the administration of many affairs of state, including financial issues, as well as assisting with the general instruction and advancement of the people. His role within the realm of eloquence is less clear, however, for I am assuming that he did not make any contribution to letter-writing – a duty that appears to have been the exclusive preserve of the secretary – unless the vizier was himself also a secretary, as was the case with ‘AlÈ ibn Zayd al-KÅtib, who is quoted at the head of this chapter, or Ibn al-AtÈr, who was a vizier, albeit for a limited period, as well as head of the Chancery. There are many further important examples throughout Islamic history of viziers who were not officially secretaries but whose literary output was prodigious and famous. Two examples of these are al-ÍÅ˙ib ibn ‘AbbÅd (d. 385/995) and Ibn al-‘AmÈd (d. 360/970). Yet, with regard to the duties of the secretary, al-ÛÅhirÈ was equally positive. No country could do without him, he says. He goes on: [His role] was one of the King’s valuable possessions and fundamentals of the state … [and] considered to be one of the greatest powers and servants … for he is the one privy to secrets, the hidden things of experience being gathered in him …94 After outlining the main requisites of the secretary, which are very similar to those given by Ibn al-AtÈr, al-ÛÅhirÈ makes the following important observation: I saw one who had experience in the Composition Chancery and its workings say it is a condition of the private secretary95 that he not know Turkish, so that he does not become cognizant of some of the intentions of the King when he speaks in Turkish. But this contradicts our calling him ‘the private secretary’, for whomsoever can not keep a secret when he comes to know it in Turkish, then how can he keep it in Arabic when there is the quelling of sedition and spilling of blood [at stake], and so on?96 In al-QalqašandÈ’s Íub˙ there is an apparent conflict of judgement in the level of importance assigned to each of the two positions. On the one hand, al-QalqašandÈ seems to represent the school that ascribed more importance to the role of the head of the dÈwÅn, claiming that the head of the Composition Chancery was the highest possible rank next to that of the Ruler, and that he would know things which not even the most special viziers would know.97 On the other hand, he states very clearly later in the Íub˙ that the role of vizier was ‘in reality the most exalted of duties,

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and the highest in rank’.98 The use of the expression ‘in reality’ is significant here because it suggests that al-QalqašandÈ had to admit a fact with which he was not totally comfortable. This apparent contradiction of al-QalqašandÈ’s may have been a result of the fluid historical development of the role of the vizier, which I have already alluded to above. In the early period of the ‘AbbÅsid administration the role of vizier had not been clearly defined.99 However, many viziers later ascended to their positions from the administrative class of secretaries. Therefore, not only were the roles at times very closely related, but the head of the Composition Chancery sometimes came from the bureaucratic stratum, and was sometimes a vizier. The later distinction between the duties of the vizier and the chief secretary became even more complex when the official position of vizier was abolished in 729/1329 by the Sultan al-NÅßir, albeit for a limited, undefined period.100 During this period the duties were divided between the Confidential secretary and the newly created position of nÅΩir al-hÅßß, with the secretary taking over some of the duties of the vizier such as signing at the Office of Justice, sometimes through consultation, sometimes not.101 When the office of vizier was re-established, however, the Confidential secretary’s power of signature was limited to that of signing petitions (Ar. qißaß).102 It is clear from the foregoing discussion, then, that while the vizier and the secretary held very important positions, their duties often both varied and coincided. The final section of this chapter is devoted to further discussion of the question of confidentiality. I have already emphasised the point that the secretary was obliged not to divulge secrets orally, and that gaining the trust of the Ruler was paramount. But al-QalqašandÈ also gives us a fascinating insight into how secret information was to be preserved in writing. One situation that had to be avoided was where an enemy might get his hands on a communication between two Kings, for example, and prevent the letter reaching its destination. Contingency plans were always in place, therefore, which consisted of writing either with a particular substance that could not immediately be read, or in a type of code. As for writing in a substance that could not be read by an interceptor, once the letter reached the intended recipient he would, in accordance with a prior agreement between the two correspondents, put a substance on the writing, or wipe it with something, or hold it up to a flame, for instance. One such way was to write with milk mixed with ammonia, or with squeezed onion juice, which would only be visible when held up to a flame. Another way was to write with water mixed with vitriol so that the writing would not be visible, and when it was wiped with water mixed with crushed oak apples the writing would appear. The gall of turtle was also used so that the writing would only show up at night. But the most extraordinary form of writing – if we are to believe that all these techniques were actually deployed – was one used to send communications over long distances. A concoction of two equal parts of black lemon and stems of colocynth fried in olive oil would be ground together until soft, and to that was added the film of egg yolk. The mixture would then be used to write on someone’s body, and hair would sprout on the skin not covered by writing. Since this technique would only be used to send someone with a communication over a long distance, by the time he arrived the hair would have

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grown and the writing would have become legible [by following the shape of the hair, so to speak].103 The second way to maintain secrecy in correspondence was through crypto­ graphy (Ar. ta‘miya, lit. ‘rendering speech abtruse’). In general, this was achieved by the sender and recipient agreeing on a handwritten form of script not known by anyone else who might come across the correspondence. Various methods were used to achieve this. One way was to use characters from different languages unknown to the person who might intercept the correspondence, but this was a method restricted to very educated people. Another way was by agreement on secret conventions such as substituting one consonant for another, for which a mnemonic verse was composed, or writing words backwards. A third way was to swap the positions of the first and second consonants of a word and to make further changes of this type as the sentence progressed.104 Yet another method was to give consonants a numerical value. In al-QalqašandÈ’s Íub˙ there then follows a long and fascinating discussion about how to decipher such coding, which was tantamount to a linguistic game requiring considerable dexterity.105 There is little doubt that the Arabs used their appreciation of their own language – a fact acknowledged many times in the literature – to great effect in this regard. In conclusion, this chapter has focused essentially on the moral qualities, or rules and code of conduct, and the inner characteristics of the secretary. I have shown how, in addition to a long list of non-negotiable requirements, the secretary also had to possess the natural disposition for writing that was introduced in Chapter 2 of this work. Accompanying this ‘inner quality’ was the necessity for power of invention and innovation, the path to which was, according to Ibn al-AtÈr, a spiritual process. I then focused in more detail on some of the more personal aspects of the secretary’s character described in Ibn ŠÈt’s Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba. This work is generally considered the most important tract on this subject of the AyyËbid period, not only for the detail it gives, but because it represents the culmination of several centuries of secretarial activity in pre-modern Islamic society. It is true that it was followed one or two centuries later by other major works on this subject, but none of those later works contained as much detail on some of the subjects I have outlined in this chapter. The relationship between the secretary’s political position, within the power structure of the Islamic Middle period, and that of the vizier and the chamberlain has also been discussed here. Finally I looked at the significant issue of confidentiality and at how the secretary maintained it through various modes of cryptography. Trustworthiness and the ability to keep a secret were of course two of the most important qualities required of a secretary, although the literature did not normally list them as such. In a sense, they were requisites that did not need stating, or at least did not need repeating. But it is interesting to note that the official title of kÅtib al-sirr ‘the confidential secretary’ did not appear to be used officially until the latter part of the 7th/13th century.106 According to Makdisi this title was then used in Egypt as an equivalent in rank and status to the secretary of the Chancery of official documents (kÅtib dÈwÅn al-inšÅ’) in other places, such as Damascus and Tripoli. This chapter completes the exploration of the moral and professional character of the secretary. Without this background, the significance attached to epistolo­

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graphy in pre-modern Islamic society would not have been so obvious. The clearly defined role and good moral conduct of the secretary were essential ingredients in the success of the Islamic bureaucratic and diplomatic process. What the primary sources show is that literary skill and judgement were only part of the profile of a successful secretary, although some sources stress that aspect more than others. It is now time to focus in more detail on some of the more important epistolary aspects of the secretary’s profession.

Notes   1. Al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, p. 56, but also Ibn Halaf, MawÅdd al-BayÅn, pp. 46–7. The different terminology used by these two authors underlines the point that was made in Chapter 3; that is to say, composition and letter-writing were one and the same thing at least by the time of Ibn Halaf, who uses the title kÅtib rasÅ’il ‘Epistolary secretary’, as opposed to al-QalqašandÈ who uses kÅtib al-inšÅ’ ‘the Composition secretary’. This is not the first time we find some discrepancies between al-QalqašandÈ’s wording and that of Ibn Halaf in Sezgin’s facsimile version, suggesting therefore that they used different manuscripts. Sezgin himself notes the following on p. 2 of his introduction to that work: ‘It is evident upon comparison of the book with Íub˙ al-A‘šÅ that the manuscript used by al-QalqašandÈ was more complete than the Fatih version [used by Sezgin], perhaps having no lacunae at all.’ One small example of these discrepancies is that in al-QalqašandÈ’s Íub˙ the verb ta‘†ifu (translated here as ‘soften’) occurs whereas in Sezgin’s facsimile of MawÅdd al-BayÅn (p. 47) the verb tub‘idu ‘remove’ is used.   2. For a full list with a detailed description of their responsibilities see Ibn Halaf, MawÅdd al-BayÅn, pp. 42ff.   3. See Makdisi, The Rise of Humanism, p. 280.   4. For all this see al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, pp. 101–2.   5. Ibid., p. 102.   6. Sellheim and Sourdel, ‘KÅtib’, art., p. 755.   7. Ibid., pp. 102–3.   8. The translation of ßifÅt as ‘qualities’ barely does justice to the depth of the word in Arabic. In simplistic terms the word conveys the import of description or characteristics of the Composition secretary. But more than that, it carries the sense of fine attributes by which a secretary should be known and identified.   9. All the following ten qualities are to be found in al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, pp. 61ff. 10. These are the words of Ibn Halaf quoted in al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 8, p. 244. 11. Ibn al-ÍayrafÈ, al-QÅnËn fÈ DÈwÅn al-RasÅ’il, pp. 8–9. 12. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, p. 96. Overall it must be said that the sources suggest only a very small number of secretaries were non-Muslims. Copts clearly played an important role in Muslim intellectual society during this whole period, and it was not unusual to find prominent Coptic literary figures as poets, for instance. Ibn MammÅtÈ is one scholar who wrote books on regulations of the Chancery as well as composing poems. He was also well connected with al-QÅ∂È al-FÅ∂il. Copts worked in the Chanceries, but evidence that they often achieved higher status is very thin in the sources. For this see SallÅm, al-Adab fÈ l-‘Aßr al-AyyËbÈ, p. 53. 13. Ibn al-ÍayrafÈ, al-QÅnËn fÈ DÈwÅn al-RasÅ’il, p. 9. 14. For all this see al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, pp. 69–73. 15. Ibn al-AtÈr, KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ, p. 51.

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16. See Latham, ‘Ibn al-Muqaffa‘ and early ‘Abbasid prose’, p. 61. 17. For all this, see al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, pp. 73–81. 18. Ibid., vol. 1, pp. 83–4. 19. Ibid., vol. 1, p. 113. 20. Ibid., vol. 1, p. 111. 21. See Stern, Fņimid Decrees, pp. 85–7. 22. Hachmeier, ‘Private letters, official correspondence’, p. 150. 23. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, p. 123. A very interesting set of criteria for the role of spy are described by al-QalqašandÈ. These included predictable qualities such as trustworthiness, shrewdness and intuition, as well as less obvious ones like experience in travelling, knowledge of foreign languages, and loyalty to the state commensurate with an ability to endure punishment without divulging information about his Ruler and country if overcome by an enemy. 24. Ibn al-ÍayrafÈ gives a very detailed account of the role of the head of the Composition Chancery during the Fņimid period. He was involved in every stage of letter production, checking epistles for approval, passing them on to the most trustworthy secretaries for composition, editing them, and also selecting the most appropriate writer to compose the responses to correspondence received. He would eventually sign a letter and even pass it on to the person responsible for sealing it, and so on. See Ibn al-ÍayrafÈ, al-QÅnËn fÈ DÈwÅn al-RasÅ’il, p. 15. 25. This is an expression and letter type that also caused Björkmann a great deal of difficulty. See his Beiträge, p. 21 and p. 30. If the word li†Åf is synonymous with mula††if, then examples of them may be found from the Fņimid period in, for instance, al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 8, pp. 241–2. 26. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, pp. 130ff. Makdisi lists these categories as follows: the secretary who composes original texts of correspondence and investititures; the secretary who writes the letters of his sovereign (a ‘ghost writer’); the secretary who ‘ghost writes’ for government officials; the secretary who writes proclamations, brief letters, copies; the secretary who makes a clear copy of what was written by the composer of the original text, in need of a beautiful calligraphy; the secretary who proof-reads all that is written in the chancery, checking for grammatical errors, lapses of the pen, and so on; and the secretary who keeps chancery registers and records. See his Rise of Islamic Humanism, p. 281. 27. For all this see Makdisi, The Rise of Islamic Humanism, p. 281. 28. In his brief introduction to the MawÅdd al-BayÅn, Sezgin notes that the recension used by al-QalqašandÈ for his numerous references to this work was probably more complete than any that have come down to us. One interesting discrepancy between Sezgin’s facsimile manuscript and al-QalqašandÈ’s published Íub˙ is that Ibn Óalaf talks about ©arÈza as the element of natural disposition in a writer, whereas al-QalqašandÈ says that he is defining †ab‘. There are other interesting differences too, such as the deployment by Ibn Halaf of the term huyËlÅ ‘substance, matter’ in huyËlÅ al-kamÅl ‘the substance of perfection’, which Ibn Halaf uses as a predicate for al-qarÈ˙a al-fÅ∂ila ‘innate talent’ and al-©arÈza al-kÅmila ‘perfect natural disposition’. The use of this term, which is not found in al-QalqašandÈ’s recension where he cites mabda’ ‘principle’, underlines further my belief that much of Ibn Halaf’s thinking was influenced by Greek philosophy. 29. The Arabic for ‘speech’ here is ta’lÈf al-kalÅm which incorporates spoken and written language. 30. For all this see Ibn Halaf, MawÅdd al-BayÅn, p. 275. 31. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 2, p. 317.

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32. Ibid., p. 315. 33. Makdisi (The Rise of Humanism, Appendix A, p. 359) uses the term ‘steps’ rather than routes. I prefer the latter. What Ibn al-AtÈr appears to be saying is that the routes are not necessarily complementary, and that any one of the three routes is possible, by itself, but ultimately only the third route will bring true knowledge. 34. Ibn al-AtÈr’s mode of argument in this is particularly interesting for its hierarchical element, something which is missed by al-QalqašandÈ, who only cites the highest level, so to speak. 35. For all this see Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 1, pp. 91–3. 36. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 2, pp. 320–1. 37. Of the references that can be found see, for example, Íub˙, vol. 6, p. 290, or vol. 7, p. 19 or p. 87. 38. See the editor’s introduction to Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba, p. 3, and SallÅm, al-Adab fÈ l-‘Aßr al-AyyËbÈ, p. 161. According to SallÅm he was born in 507/1114. 39. al-MawßilÈ, al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ, p. 232. 40. Sellheim and Sourdel, ‘KÅtib’, art., p. 756. 41. al-ÍÅbi’, RusËm DÅr al-HilÅfa, p. 31. 42. Ibid., p. 32. 43. Ibn ŠÈt’s penchant for servitude is outlined in a number of ways in the early stages of his work in particular, but he is mindful of noting the distinction between the ‘ulamÅ’, of which he was one as a secretary, of course, and people of lower rank. For example, the term for servant (of the Ruler) used by the ‘ulamÅ’ of themselves was hÅdim ‘one serving a living ruler’, whereas those outside the caste, so to speak, were referred to as ‘abd or mamlËk ‘slave or servant of God’. See Ibn ŠÈt, Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba, p. 35. See also Guo, ‘Arabic Documents from the Red Sea Port of Quseir’, p. 172. 44. For all this see Ibn ŠÈt, Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba, pp. 9–13. 45. Cf. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, p. 101, and Ibn ŠÈt, Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba, p. 13. 46. Ibn ŠÈt, Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba, pp. 17–18 and pp. 22–3. 47. Heck, ‘The Epistemological Problem of Writing’, p. 107, n. 48. 48. Ibn ŠÈt, Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba, p. 21. 49. For all this, ibid., pp. 20–1. It is difficult to capture the true flavour of the original Arabic in translation. The style used by Ibn ŠÈt is laden with saj‘, and contains a number of archaic words, including adjectival couplets and repeated verb forms. But the effect is captivating, a result the author would have hoped for when he composed the text. 50. Ibn al-ÍayrafÈ, al-QÅnËn fÈ DÈwÅn al-RasÅ’il, p. 22. 51. Ibid., p. 21. 52. Ibid., p. 13. In fact, it appears that the Chief secretary had a significant amount of latitude in ‘educating’ the Ruler. See al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, p. 106, for instance. 53. Ibn ŠÈt, Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba, p. 21. 54. al-ÍayrafÈ, al-QÅnËn fÈ DÈwÅn al-RasÅ’il, p. 7. 55. Ibid., p. 7. 56. Ibid., p. 8. 57. Ibid., p. 13. A note is in order here about the ranking of secretaries, according to Ibn al-ÍayrafÈ. In terms of rank, the head of the Chancery is followed by the secretary who writes on behalf of the King to other Kings and those who speak a different language or follow a different creed. Next comes the composition secretary, followed by the secretary responsible for corresponding with men of state and VIPs, and letters of appointment for less important positions. See ibid., pp. 22, 25 and 27. 58. Ibid., p. 23.

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59. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 9, p. 18, that is, on appointment to the position of dÅ‘È l-du‘Åt, the chief propagandist. 60. Ibid., p. 26. 61. Ibn Halaf, MawÅdd al-BayÅn, p. 71. 62. His role has been compared by the editor of Ibn AbÈ RabÈ‘‘s work to that of the ­present-day master of ceremonies. But this seems to be taking things a little too far. See A˙mad Mu˙ammad ibn AbÈ al-RabÈ‘, SulËk al-MÅlik fÈ TadbÈr al-MamÅlik, pp. 36–7. 63. For all this, ibid., p. 37. According to HilÅl al-ÍÅbi’, his age should be between thirty and fifty, or else he should be a ‘sturdy, elderly man who has been tested and molded by time’. For this, see HilÅl al-ÍÅbi’, RusËm DÅr al-HilÅfa, p. 59. 64. Sourdel, ‘ÓÅdjib’ art., p. 45. 65. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 9, pp. 14–16. 66. Sourdel, ‘ÓÅdjib’ art., p. 45. 67. Ibid., p. 46. 68. Ibid., p. 46. 69. http://muslimheritage.com. Publication no. 4086, accessed 23 October 2006. 70. Zaman, ‘wazÈr’ art., p. 185. 71. Ibid., p. 185. 72. Ibn al-ÍayrafÈ, al-QÅnËn fÈ DÈwÅn al-RasÅ’il, editor’s introduction p. 13. 73. Eddé, ‘wazÈr (The AyyËbid period)’, art., p. 190. In Islamic Spain the situation was different again; see Carmona, ‘wazÈr (Muslim Spain)’, art., pp. 191–2. 74. Eddé, ‘wazÈr (The AyyËbid period)’, art., p. 191. 75. The other three types were the military secretary, the legal secretary, and the secretary of taxes. See Ibn AbÈ al-RabÈ‘, SulËk al-MÅlik, pp. 36–7. 76. Ibid., p. 36, n. 1. 77. HilÅl al-ÍÅbi’, RusËm DÅr al-HilÅfa, pp. 43–4. 78. al-Šaka‘a, al-UßËl al-Adabiyya, p. 94. 79. Adamec, Historical Dictionary of Islam, Lanham, Scarecrow Press, 2001, p. 270. 80. See above, Chapter 3. 81. al-Imad, The Fatimid Vizierate, p. 13. 82. Ibid., p. 14. 83. For an excellent account of al-Našw’s tenure in this position see Little, ‘Notes on the early naΩar al-hÅßß’, passim. 84. Ibid., p. 241. 85. Ibid., p. 240. 86. al-Imad, The Fatimid Vizierate, p. 18. 87. Ibid., p. 47. al-Imad describes two different ranks of vizier during the Fatimid period: one of these was the wazÈr al-tanfÈd ‘the non-contractual vizier’ who was responsible for executing the wishes of the Caliph but not for any initiatives of his own. The other vizier was the wazÈr al-tafwÈ∂ ‘the contractual vizier’ who was ‘given the power to initiate, if he deemed it necessary, any reforms to insure the smooth functioning of the state, from levying taxes to going to war’. Significantly, the latter type of vizier combined the power of the pen and the sword. For all this see al-Imad, The Fatimid Vizierate, pp. 46–9. 88. HilÅl al-ÍÅbi’, RusËm DÅr al-HilÅfa, pp. 63–4. 89. Sellheim and Sourdel, ‘KÅtib’ art., p. 756. 90. Little, ‘Notes on the early naΩar al-hÅßß’, p. 241, citing al-ÍafadÈ. It must be borne in mind that these were the words of an embittered ex-vizier who was without office after its abolition. Therefore, his speech here should perhaps be taken a little less seriously than it might appear to merit.

130 ]   91.   92.   93.   94.   95.

  96.   97.   98.   99. 100. 101. 102.

103. 104.

105. 106.

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See al-ÛÅhirÈ, KitÅb Zubdat Kašf al-MamÅlik, p. 93. Ibid., pp. 93–4. Ibid., p. 94. Ibid., p. 99. The head of the Composition Chancery, that is to say, the private secretary, was known at least by the time of al-ÛÅhirÈ as the kÅtib al-sirr or the kÅtim al-sirr, lit. ‘the concealer of secrets’. See ibid., p. 98. However, it appears that the roles had been divided during the Ayyubid and Mamluk periods. In his biographical section al-MawßilÈ notes some of the most famous Confidential secretaries and Composition secretaries, but their dates overlap. Moreover, the descriptions of individuals from each branch of secretaryship are generally slightly different. The Confidential secretary’s role seems to have been more political, or bureaucratic and diplomatic, whereas the role of the Composition secretary was clearly more literary, as evidenced by the details given about each of the secretaries. See al-MawßilÈ, al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ, pp. 207ff. al-ÛÅhirÈ, KitÅb Zubdat Kašf al-MamÅlik, pp. 99–100. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, p. 101. Ibid., vol. 4, p. 29. al-Imad, The Fatimid Vizierate, p. 98. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 4, p. 29. Unfortunately al-QalqašandÈ does not give the dates when the previous role was reinstated, but merely states ‘when the vizierate returned after that’. See also Little, ‘Notes on the early naΩar al-hÅßß,’, p. 241. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 4, p. 29. Al-QalqašandÈ distinguishes between duties of the vizier according to whether he was a ‘man of the pen’ or a ‘man of the sword’. If he were of the former he would be responsible for the three main duties of the vizier: naΩar, tanfÈd, and mu˙Åsaba (accountancy). However, if he were a man of the sword he would be entrusted only with the first two of these duties, therefore having nothing to do with the financial aspects of administration which were, of course, an integral, yet divisive, element of the secretary’s duties. Ibid., vol. 9, pp. 229–30. This particular technique reminds one of ‘back slang’, an underground cant that developed in London during the 20th century ad. Very briefly, words were constructed with the beginning of one word, often a whole syllable, being placed at the end of a word, then maybe given a flourish in pronunciation. For all this al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 9, pp. 230ff. Unfortunately I came across Bosworth’s article (1963) too late to include his discussion of codes and decipherment in this book. Makdisi, The Rise of Humanism, p. 279.

CHAPTER

6 Balˉ a˙ g a, epistol ary structure and style

Know that since the craft of writing is founded on following the ways of eloquence and imitating the customary practice of balÅ©a, and since these sciences [that is to say, ma‘ÅnÈ/bayÅn/badÈ‘] are the foundation of the pillars of eloquence and the cornerstone of balÅ©a, then the secretary must know them1 This chapter will focus on of some of the precepts of balÅ©a (communicative eloquence), especially those of bayÅn (clarity of expression) that are particularly important to epistolography and the structure of letter-writing. It is beyond the scope of this present study to analyse exhaustively the way in which the vast array of tropes and literary devices available to the secretary are used in the epistolary genre. However, I have identified a small number of devices that seemed to draw the attention of the most prominent literary critics, such as Ibn al-AtÈr and al-AskarÈ, and which reflected some of the unique structural and stylistic requirements of letter-writing. These devices will form the basis of the discussion in this chapter. Before evaluating these precepts I would like to comment on the rather complex issue of why in this work I have decided not to translate balÅ©a as ‘rhetoric’, as it has often been translated by scholars of the Arabic language and literary tradition. The focus on meaning in the Arabic tradition, and the etymological sense of ‘to reach the objective’ in the verb bala©a/yablu©u led me to select a different translation for balÅ©a. Since the term is intrinsically tied up with the notion of communicating to someone (in speech and writing) exactly what is appropriate to the context in the most apposite manner using particular literary devices, I have opted to render balÅ©a as ‘communicative eloquence’.2 There is also a cogent historical reason for moving away from the time-honoured term of ‘rhetoric’ as a translation of the Arabic balÅ©a. In the original Greek the term ‘rhetoric’ referred essentially to the delivery of speech, although it is true that ‘as a reflective, organized “art” or science … rhetoric was and had to be a product of writing’, as Ong points out.3 Another

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reason is that originally the term ‘rhetoric’ was, as Ong also suggests, ‘at the root of the art of public speaking, of oral address, for persuasion (forensic and deliberative rhetoric) or exposition (epideictic rhetoric) [emphasis added]’.4 I am yet to be convinced that the term balÅ©a in Arabic was coined to convey exactly the same function in all contexts. Plato, the early master of the art of communication, seems to have uttered some of the most universally relevant words on rhetorical discourse when he stated that rhetoric is tantamount to the art of winning the soul [of the listener or the reader]. The universal applicability of Plato’s words is reinforced several centuries later in the work of al-QalqašandÈ, who stated that the communicative aim of informal letters, which comes from deep within the soul, is to captivate hearts. Quintilian’s view that rhetoric is simply the art of speaking well is even more general.5 But how close the Arabic term balÅ©a comes to being equivalent to the original Greek interpretations of ‘rhetoric’ depends to a large degree on how one interprets the notion of ‘persuasion’ that seems to lie at its foundation. Ibn Halaf was clearly influenced by Greek thought in some areas of his writing, and for him persuasion was a key communicative objective of certain types of letters. For other Muslim writers, however, the notion of persuasion seems to have played less of a role, or at least it was embedded as much in the structure of the letter as it was in the wording. There is an important point to be made here about what al-QalqašandÈ said on the communicative aim of letters. If ‘captivating hearts’ was the closest the Islamic epistolary literature came to what Plato said, then it suggests there are major differences. If not, why did al-QalqašandÈ only include informal letters in his statement? If persuasion really was an integral part of Islamic letter-writing the same would have been said about formal letters, but it was not. The notion of persuasion would in principle have been much more relevant to formal letters in any case, since they were normally on more serious matters of state and often demanded action and response from the addressee. However, although al-QalqašandÈ’s view may represent the majority of Muslim scholars on this topic there were exceptions, such as Ibn Halaf. For Ibn Halaf, persuasion was an important component of a given letter, especially when it was coming from the highest human authority, namely, the Ruler. He lists the type of subjects on which the secretary should write when acting on behalf of the Ruler, such as ‘promises and threats … finding praiseworthy or judging blameworthy … and abridging the motifs that remove the enemy and the rebellious one far from his enmity and his rebellion’.6 He states explicitly that one of the many functions of balÅ©a, which was essential to all forms of writing, not least epistolo­ graphy, was ‘to reach the desired objectives and to convince [persuade] the listener’,7 a notion that was almost certainly borrowed from Aristotle. He then follows those words with a direct quotation from one of the Greeks scholars, thereby underlining his interest in the influence of that culture on communicative theory in Islamic society. He also cites a Byzantine and Persian [sage] on the same topic. I shall now talk in some detail about epistolary structure. Ibn al-AtÈr was one of the foremost writers on epistolary structure, since he maintained that each section of a letter was as important to the overall communicative aim as any other. For Ibn al-AtÈr, ‘writing’ was synonymous with epistolary prose,8 although no writer – no

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matter how developed his predilection for prose over poetry – could ignore poetry as an equally important form of literary communication. In his al-Matal al-SÅ’ir Ibn al-AtÈr includes a section on what he calls the five pillars, or foundations, of writing (Ar. arkÅn al-kitÅba). There is no doubt that epistolary prose required an adherence to a particular set of rules that were fundamental to its communicative success, and Ibn al-AtÈr was probably the first to crystallise them in this form in his literary criticism. But it is clear that however much he attempted to assert the superiority of prose over poetry he was bound to acknowledge that epistolary prose and poetry were grounded in some common elements. These shared characteristics went beyond the themes common to both genres, such as congratulating or apologising. Firm evidence of this can be found in the description of the five pillars of writing identified by Ibn al-AtÈr, of which three out of the five were common to both literary forms.9 Where Ibn al-AtÈr is comfortable with the similarities between the two literary forms his grievance is directed not towards the poets, but rather the grammarians, who judged literary language by the norms of correctness, not according to literary taste. As El-Salem notes, he appears to reproach commentators on poetry for their treating it as a philological document, ‘not as a verbal art to be analyzed in terms of literary quality’.10 For Ibn al-AtÈr the success of any given epistle came from within the structure of the text itself. The emphasis on the role of the addressee was subordinate to that objective in his literary theory in which each element of the text had to be interlinked with other components. This notion becomes clear, at a glance, from the five mandatory sections of any worthy communicative epistle. According to Ibn al-AtÈr the five pillars were as follows:11 i) the opening part of the letter (exordium), which should be elegant and original, or based on the intent of the letter; ii) the salutation (and invocation) (Ar. du‘Å’) in the initial part of the letter (fÈ ßadr al-kitÅb), which should also be derived from the theme on which the letter is based; iii) the secretary should move in his epistolary composition from one idea to another, but all ideas must be interlinked; iv) expressions used in a given letter should not be taken from commonly used ones; v) each letter should contain at least one rhetorical concept from either the Qur’Ån or Prophetic Tradition. The first pillar was considered so essential by Ibn al-AtÈr that he devoted a whole chapter to it entitled ‘Beginnings and Openings’. This chapter dealt with everything relevant to the initial section of a letter for the epistolary secretary and the poet. He stated that if the theme of the letter was a conquest, or a note of congratulation, for example, then the introductory section should indicate this very clearly.12 The second pillar reflected the level of skill and innate disposition (Ar. †ab‘) of the secretary. Ibn al-AtÈr claims that, unlike many other epistolary writers, he frequently incorporated a salutation in his letters that was derived from the theme on which the letter was based. Salutation was one of the two out of the five pillars of writing that was not

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among the requirements of poetry.13 Ibn al-AtÈr devoted quite a long chapter to pillar three in al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, in which he described in detail the communicative concepts of tahalluß and iqti∂Åb,14 which will be discussed below. With regard to pillar four, Ibn al-AtÈr was careful to distinguish between the ‘unusual’ in the sense of ‘strange’ – which should not be used under any circumstances – and expressions employed in an unfamiliar, but commendable, way, so that the listener believes that what he hears is not possible from fellow human beings even though it is of man’s creation. After discussing the term ‘expression’ (Ar. lafΩ), he proceeds to defend the role and supremacy of ‘meaning’ (Ar. ma‘nÅ), as though he had betrayed his preference by discussing ‘expressions’. Pillar five was unique to epistolary writing in Ibn al-AtÈr’s structure, and therefore not relevant to poetry. This notion has already been introduced in Chapter 2 and will be discussed below. Ibn al-AtÈr’s scheme requires some elaboration. The essence of pillar one is that the introductory section of a letter or a poem should clearly set out the theme (Ar. ma‘nÅ) of the discourse. In other words, if the intended theme is conquest, then the opening element should make that very clear. The importance of the introduction for setting out the purpose of a speech had in fact been stated much earlier by Aristotle, and later by other influential rhetoricians. Cicero, for example, cited the introduction and conclusion as the most important stages of a piece of oratory for persuading [the audience] and arousing emotion.15 Although the context for these rhetoricians was oratory, the same principle could be applied to epistolary prose since the two genres shared certain properties, as I noted in Chapter 2. The ‘rationalist’ approach to the function of written communications appears to have been propagated in the Islamic tradition by at least the 4th/10th century by al-JÅ˙iΩ, and was revived in the early modern period by al-ŠartËnÈ (see Chapter 2), who maintained that the introduction and conclusion should have a favourable effect on the heart of the listener (cf. Plato), whereas the aim of the middle section of a piece of oratory – namely, the section called ‘proof’ (Ar. itbÅt) – was to communicate the purpose to the intellect (Ar. ‘aql).16 One noticeable deficiency in the literature on the epistolary genre is a detailed discussion of the role of the conclusion (Ar. hitÅm). There is no mention of it in Ibn al-AtÈr’s five pillars of writing, for instance. The lack of theorising on this subject in the Islamic epistolary literature seems to mirror the treatises of the medieval ars dictamen, which provided very little theory about the role and structure of conclusions.17 Ibn Halaf included a short section on conclusions in his MawÅdd al-BayÅn, but it is restricted to basic historical, formal matters, and does not contain any substantive comment on their proposed content.18 Al-QalqašandÈ also provided a short section on conclusions in which he indicates the basic difference in a conclusion from a Ruler to a subject, or from a subject to Ruler, in terms of general theme – for instance when the Ruler wishes to compose a salutation (Ar. du‘Å’) – and also in terms of the type of language that should be used, that is, it should be easy of expression and clear. Yet the general lack of perspicacious discussion on conclusions is surprising for two reasons. First, it is clear that the whole epistolary structure was important to the secretaries and literary critics of the pre-modern period, as exemplified in Ibn al-AtÈr’s system described here. Second, if we are to take seri-

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ously the comment by Ibn ‘Abd Rabbihi that a secretary only comes of age when the beginning of his epistle can not be exchanged with its conclusion, it is evident that the role of the conclusion was important and that it had to be sufficiently refined and different from the introduction to complete the unity of the text.19 The category of ‘Beginnings and Introductions’20 in Islamic epistolography is clearly related to the concept of tahalluß (pillar three above), for it is at this point that the author can lose the listener in his address. The introduction should blend and feed in naturally to the next section, so that the instincts of the listener are stimulated into paying attention. Understanding the context and composing words relevant to the theme were critical duties of the writer, but for Ibn al-AtÈr (unlike some of those ‘rationalist’ scholars mentioned above) this was an instinctive fulfilment, not an intellectual one,21 based very much on the emphasis he places on literary taste throughout his work. Although Ibn al-AtÈr appears to have been stating the obvious in his examples of how an introduction should move naturally into the next section through the device of tahalluß, he emphasised the futility in the poet’s describing the encampment and its remains when he is supposed to be writing love poetry (Ar. ©azal), for example. However, ‘when the introduction is appropriate for the idea that follows it, the motives to listen to it become abundant’.22 Ibn al-AtÈr cites verses from the Qur’Ån as the best illustration of appropriate introductions, such as the doxologies or the mysterious letters at the very beginning of each sËra, or verses that begin with a command to ‘fear God’, for example, since they ‘induce [people] to listen to Him, because something out of the ordinary reaches the ear’.23 It is interesting that, in spite of Ibn al-AtÈr’s predilection for epistolary writing, there is a substantial emphasis, in this particular discussion at least, on the importance of a relevant introduction in poetry. One person was once asked about who the most talented poets were, and he replied: ‘The one who masters the introduction and the opening section.’24 Ibn al-AtÈr returns to the topic of the encampment, and says that if the poet wishes to mention it in his praise poetry he should do so like the poet in his poem to the Caliph al-Mu‘taßim, or ‘he should mention something like it’. He then cites an introduction from a poem by AbË NuwÅs which he claims is representative of some of the noblest poetry yet is deemed ugly as an introductory element. This was because it laboured on the topic of the remains of the encampment even though it was the introduction to a praise poem for a Caliph. Such inappropriateness was doomed to lose the attention of the listener, he says, particularly when addressing Caliphs and Kings.25 Such examples go some way to increasing our understanding of why poetry was such an integral part of epistolography in pre-modern Islamic society. Much of the Arabic poetic tradition had been conveniently canonised by linguists and literary critics, and there was a very clear perception of what was deemed good poetry. Therefore, instead of expending efforts in composing new poetry for inclusion in an epistle, it was safer and easier for secretaries to draw from existing and highly regarded poems – or sections thereof – to support the theme of the letter rather than compose something that might not meet the approval of their patron Kings or Rulers, or other prominent literary figures. Having discussed the topic of introductory components in poetry, Ibn al-AtÈr

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moves on to what is unequivocally his main focus – epistolary prose. Here he has much to say, particularly about his own contributions, which he often describes as unique and innovative. He begins with a discussion of the doxology (Ar. ta˙mÈd), an essential component of formal epistles written for and to Rulers, on such subjects as a difficult conquest or the defeat of an enemy army. It is in this context that Ibn al-AtÈr describes AbË Is˙Åq al-ÍÅbi’ as incompetent in the composition of doxologies, although he openly acknowledges his general skill as a writer. He notes how his doxologies are normally irrelevant to the theme of the letter, ‘since they are in one valley while the letter is in another’.26 He gives one example, written on the conquest of Ba©dÅd and defeat of the Turks, which he says would be more appropriate for a work on the foundations of religion. Ibn al-AtÈr is equally critical of the introductory sections deployed in his letters of appointment (Ar. taqÅlÈd).27 The du‘Å’ (‘salutation’) is of course one of the foundational elements of the introduction of formal and informal letters. It was accorded much attention in the inšÅ’ literature for two reasons. First, it reflected the degree of affection and respect of the writer towards the addressee, and was therefore often very elaborate in its language. Second, a good salutation demonstrated the writer’s understanding of the variety of language available to him in his address to the recipient. The style of the salutation, in particular, reflected the period of history in which a letter was written. Ibn al-AtÈr claimed that by basing the salutation on the central theme of the letter he had achieved something unique. In this claim he was also implicitly criticising other writers who wrote salutations that were personalised to the addressee but not relevant to the theme of the epistle. As an example of an appropriate salutation he gives the following from one of his own letters of congratulation on a conquest: This letter is transmitted orally with the purpose [lit. ‘service’] of congratulating so-and-so his high Excellency.28 May God create anew for him a conquest every day, and turn the throne of each of his men of rule into a castle, and make every stage of his deepest need and despair a day of breaking the fast and a day of immolation, and write for him an eternal eulogy and praise in accordance with the tongue of Islam and the tongue of [the passing of] days, and give him residence after a long life in a house in which he will never be thirsty nor exposed to the sun … He goes on: ‘Then I began to compose the letter comprising what the themes of that conquest require.’29 A further example of what Ibn al-AtÈr regards as a unique approach to the content of the du‘Å’, and ‘the intricacies of this art form’, is found in a letter of congratulation on the birth of a child: May God renew the happiness of so-and-so his high Excellency and connect the morning of congratulating him with its evening. May He allow him to enjoy his offspring whose arrival at night is auspicious, and give him a long life so that he can be illuminated by its light, and guide its arrow. May innovative ideas rejoice and be so pleased with him that they create similar ones on account of his creation. He has made him like a seed which sends forth

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its blade, then makes it strong; it then becomes thick, and it stands on its own stem [filling the sowers with wonder and delight]’. He adds: ‘Then I began to complete the letter by giving congratulations upon the birth in accordance with what that theme required.’30 Ibn al-AtÈr claims that this introduction is unique because the section ‘like a seed … own stem’ is taken from the Qur’Ån SËra 48: 29 and is built on a parable from the Gospel of Mark in the New Testament. According to ‘AlÈ, the parable used here is ‘much more complete’, and ‘the mentality of the sowers of the seed is expressed in beautiful terms’.31 In Chapter 1 I mentioned the Ciceronian structure of the six parts of speech which seems to have been the fundamental guide for Western epistolary models throughout the Middle Ages, although some adaptations to it were made. Those parts of speech were as follows: introduction, background, statement of parts, proof, attack against an opponent’s argument, and conclusion. By the 12th century ad the six main parts of a letter had become five. These were as follows: Salutation, Securing of Goodwill, Narration, Petition, and Conclusion.32 One of the essays on the principles of letter-writing in the 12th century ad stated the following: ‘Now if the Salutation is removed in some way, it is necessary for the Securing of Goodwill to be likewise removed, since they are contiguous and mutually connected’.33 Ibn al-AtÈr appears to have dealt with the initial elements of Islamic epistles in the same way. In other words, without the introductory element the salutation and invocation would have been meaningless within the framework of textual unity.34 The securing of goodwill in the Western epistolary tradition was not communicatively the same as the invocation in the Islamic one, even though structurally they were similar. In Western models the securing of goodwill – which was the second of Cicero’s introductory elements of a letter prescribed by the writers of ars dictamen – was tantamount to ‘a certain ordering of words effectively influencing the mind of the recipient’.35 One example of the securing of goodwill in that tradition runs as follows: ‘For I know that the wisdom of your good sense is so great that you are worthy of being praised not only by those bound to you by kinship, but also by everyone.’36 However, the Islamic invocation was essentially restricted to a blessing for the addressee, expressing a deep desire from the writer for a long life and other blessings upon the addressee. It may not have entailed a direct account of the praises of the recipient, but through its language it reflected the achievements of the recipient by referring to his positive qualities, and it also had the effect of reaching the heart. In the Islamic epistolary tradition the main focus of the salutation element was on the verb mÅ zÅla ‘to continue’ [lit. ‘not to cease’]. The writer would normally request that God immortalise the achievements, qualities and life of the recipient. The du‘Å’, therefore, was very culture specific, for it represented a common theme of Islamic discourse in which God’s blessing was invoked upon another person. The following example of an introductory section of a letter illustrates Ibn al-AtÈr’s technique for unusual introductions. It also shows how he deployed the literary device of allusion, for which he appears to have received literary acclaim. This text is the introductory section from a letter he sent from Mawßil to one of his brethren in one of the northern Byzantine lands:

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A star has risen from the horizon of his high Excellency. May his sovereign rule never be removed by an enemy or an envious one, nor disgraced by a sibling who tries to take it away from the only Ruler. May his rule never be bereft of good fortune that remains vigilant at times of repose, and may [this] world never [have to] grieve his glorious, eternal offspring. May he continue to be raised to a place in which he recognises that fate is a criticiser of people. Stars rise in the north and south, but they will always disappear regardless of from which point they rise. But the epistle of his Excellency is a Star whose point of ascent has never been seen before on this earth, even if its position is known from the heavens. When it appeared now to the servant he sang the glories of God and prostrated himself to him, and said: I have served Stars before, so no wonder that I am a worshipper of this Star. Here I am, having become one who has been seduced through my relentless worship of him. And the people said: This is Ibn AbÈ Kabša the epistle, not Ibn AbÈ Kabša the Dog Star.37 Ibn al-AtÈr claims that this introduction is highly unusual, with the most unusual element of it being the section ‘Here I am, having become one who has been seduced through my relentless worship of him. And the people said: This is Ibn AbÈ Kabša the epistle, not Ibn AbÈ Kabša the Dog Star’. Ibn al-AtÈr explains that AbË Kabša was a man in the pre-Islamic period who used to worship Sirius (the Dog Star), thereby violating the pagan religion of his people. In other words, what he did was something extraordinarily unusual. So what Ibn al-AtÈr means here is that his letter – which he refers to as Ibn Kabša al-KitÅb ‘Ibn Kabša the epistle’ – is even more unusual than the original Ibn Kabša’s behaviour in worshipping Sirius the Dog Star. The connection with the Prophet Mu˙ammad, which is such an integral part of Ibn al-AtÈr’s epistolary style, occurs because when the Prophet Mu˙ammad was sent the Qurayš said of him: This one has violated our religion, so they called him Ibn AbÈ Kabša (the son of the one who worshipped the Dog Star); in other words, they believed that he violated their beliefs as AbË Kabša had done to his people in worshipping the Dog Star. Ibn al-AtÈr goes on: ‘So I took this idea and inserted it into this letter of mine, and it turned out as you see it, an unusual innovation.’38 This referential adaptation of the name of a well-known figure in the Arab and Islamic literature represents a skilful form of intertextuality, and demonstrates how such references can be manipulated to highly successful literary effect. In Ibn al-AtÈr’s letter the maligned original figure has been transformed into a celebrated one, not only by the change of one key word, that is, kitÅb ‘epistle’ for ši‘rÅ ‘worshipper of Sirius’, but also by the textual content leading up to it. Ibn al-AtÈr’s devotion to the Ruler is shown here through his choice of language, and whereas in the case of the original AbË Kabša the worshipping of stars was considered a violation of religious beliefs, it is presented here as something commendable, for the ‘star’ is now the Ruler, not an inanimate entity worshipped by pagans. The reference to the Prophet Mu˙ammad is also significant because it implies how wrong the Qurayš people were in their initial judgement of him.

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The introductory sections of ta˙mÈd ‘doxology’ and du‘Å’ ‘salutation’, as described above, together with the notion of taqbÈl ‘greeting through kissing’ (see further, Chapter 7), formed what came to be known as the three principal components of barÅ‘at al-istihlÅl ‘the skill of introduction’, or ‘allusive openings’, as it has been aptly called.39 It is not clear exactly when this term came into use, nor why some writers preferred it over those employed by Ibn al-AtÈr. But even more puzzling is the way that the term was used by Ibn al-AtÈr in his KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ but not in his al-Matal al-SÅ’ir. One possible explanation for its omission is that Ibn al-AtÈr may not have been the author of that work, as El-Salem argues.40 At all events, it is worth noting what is said about barÅ‘at al-istihlÅl in KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ, not least because the wording is significantly different from that used by Ibn al-AtÈr in his al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, even if the general import is the same. It goes like this: ‘[It is] that you begin with the introduction of the letter you are writing with an innovative discourse which should signify the remainder of the letter.’41 One of the finest allusive openings (barÅ‘at al-istihlÅl) in the whole of the Arabic literature, according to one prominent Arab literary critic, is the opening of the recension of the text by Ibn NubÅta (d. 768/1366) from the self-glorification literature on the sword and the pen. In this particular example the sword and pen exchange verbal blows as each tries to assert its importance over the other, with each setting out its argument based on references to itself in the Qur’Ån. It was the equilibrium of the form and content of the argument that especially seems to have appealed to one particular critic.42 The essentially Islamic nature of the introductory component of a letter needs to be emphasised here. One of the most important aspects of the beauty of the introduction was when it related directly to the element with which the letter began, such as the doxology, ‘because souls yearn to praise God’, or the greeting; or by extolling the addressee through the taqbÈl or the du‘Å’, because the objective of epistolary communications is based on ‘flattery, captivating minds, and the unison of hearts’.43 Next in terms of beauty in the introduction came the linguistic considerations, such as the ease of expression and clarity of meaning. Al-QalqašandÈ elaborates more than Ibn al-AtÈr on the relationship between the nature of the introduction and the content of the letter, and it is worth noting some of his comments here. First of all, with regard to the Islamic nature of the introductory sections of epistles, a distinction was drawn between those communications that comprise so-called ‘venerable objectives’ (Ar. maqÅßid jalÈla), and those that do not. In the former category were such fundamental Islamic obligations as inciting to holy war, conquests, the levying of taxes, and so on. The introductory section of a letter calling to holy war also had to contain information such as its obligation on the umma, the promise that God gave of victory for its followers, and the defeat of its enemies and the suppression of heretics, and so on. A letter on a conquest had to begin by mentioning the achievement of God’s promise, and the granting of victory of His religion over all religion.44 Epistles on all such topics should have an appropriate introduction that paved the way for what was to come, and which acted as the foundation of the letter. In contrast to letters on Islamic concepts, introductions of letters on subjects such as objets d’art and gifts should not be elaborate nor tied in with the subject matter of the letter in the same way.

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The concepts of tahalluß and iqti∂Åb (see point (iii) above) are essential to the question of textual unity as explored by Ibn al-AtÈr in his work. They are also crucial considerations in the context of balÅ©a. The essential difference between the two concepts is one of continuity. Ibn al-AtÈr begins by describing the use of tahalluß in poetry, saying that tahalluß is when the composer of speech begins to talk about a particular concept, then begins on another one, but makes the first concept a link to it (Ar. sabab ilayhi).45 In other words the tahalluß constitutes a transitional move from the exordium to the main theme of the letter, or a subtle shift from one theme to another. By comparison iqti∂Åb is where the poet interrupts his discourse on one concept and recommences with another concept – of praise or satire, for example – which has no relation (semantically) to the first one. Ibn al-AtÈr notes that the prose writer, being free from the restrictions of metre and rhyme, ‘can roam where he likes’ in this regard, and that the demands on the poet are greater on account of the restrictions imposed by rhyme and metre.46 But he adds that the mu˙dat poets exploited the device of tahalluß to the maximum, unlike their predecessors, who employed the device of tahalluß occasionally but mainly followed the technique of iqti∂Åb. Before giving examples of the use of tahalluß in epistolary prose, Ibn al-AtÈr illustrates its frequent deployment in the Qur’Ån. His starting point is a refutation of the view of AbË al-‘AlÅ’ ibn ˝Ånim that tahalluß does not exist in the Qur’Ån. Ibn al-AtÈr states the following: ‘[but] what he says is false, because the essence of tahalluß is merely to leave one piece of discourse for another, with a delicateness that harmonises the discourse which has been exited from and the discourse which has been entered upon’.47 He cites examples from the Qur’Ån of the transition by means of a precise delicateness and of some ideas taking on the thread of others. These examples range from how the author moves from admonition to the giving of good news about paradise, or from commanding to forbidding, or from describing a sent Prophet or an empowered King, to censuring a rebellious devil or recalcitrant tyrant. Within the structure of a given epistle there was often a clear, physical point of demarcation between the salutation and the tahalluß. One of the main devices for this was the use of the discourse marker ammÅ ba‘d (lit. ‘as for what follows’) which leads to ‘what is intended’ through the tahalluß.48 A good example of how tahalluß was deployed in prose writing comes from Ibn al-AtÈr ’s own epistolary collection. He cites part of a letter in which he is writing to an Iraqi friend with whom he had renewed affection after they had met in Mosul, but the friend had gone on ahead of him. He wrote to him seeking guidance from him with tenderness: This letter speaks in the name of the tongue of ardent desire whose words blow gently like the leaves, and coo like those with rings [around their necks, (doves)], singing while resident in Mosul and making those hear who reside in Iraq. The clearest longing is that which comes from a separation where there is little distance in between, and a love whose embellishment has been renewed, for sweetness is linked to everything new. I hope that what has passed has not tarnished the new [lit. ‘the old days have not worn away the garment of this newness’], and that it is protected from the scrutiny

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of the jinn and mankind so that it does not fear madness or despair. It has been said that friendship has a taste, just as it possesses an imprint, and that the one with a heart befriends in the soul before he befriends in the body. Indeed, I find in the friendship of our master an enduring sweetness of which one never tires, for it has reminded me now of the sweet tenderness which comes from its foundation. It is not surprising, according to the compatibility of things, that some of them are a reminder of each other. However, this sweetness is obtained by speaking openly, and that one by secrets. There is a difference in the exalted place of rich returns between what is planted in the ground and what is planted in the heart.49 Ibn al-AtÈr claims that this is one of the highly stylistic examples of tahalluß, as he ‘steered the discourse’ toward the theme of seeking guidance tenderly, and made some of it take on the thread of other elements, ‘as though it were shaped into one mould’. As for the concept of iqti∂Åb, Ibn al-AtÈr gives no examples of it from epistolary prose, although he gives some from the Qur’Ån and also from poetry, in which he notes that iqti∂Åb occurs in abundance. Tahalluß, however, does not often occur in poetry.50 One important additional point he makes is that iqti∂Åb is close to tahalluß in one sense, that being in its function of ‘separation of the discourse’. Many scholars of eloquence argued that the best example of this was the discourse marker ammÅ ba‘d, particularly in religious texts where it separates the doxology from the main text. But other examples of it include the use of the demonstrative pronoun hÅdÅ ‘this [is]’, as in Qur’Ån sËra 38: 49: hÅdÅ dikrun ‘This is a message’, where, after singling out some of the ‘elect and the good’, such as IsmÅ‘Èl, the marker hÅdÅ separates the singling out from the following mention of the ‘Righteous as a Body and their future in the hereafter as won by victory over Evil’.51 Ibn al-AtÈr even describes the ‘separation of discourse’ as ‘more delicate in function than tahalluß’ (al†af mawqi‘an min al-tahalluß), probably because, in spite of its being a clear discourse marker, it connects the two elements of syntax in a way that unites them.52 The fifth pillar intrinsic to any epistolary communication was, according to Ibn al-AtÈr, that each letter should contain at least one rhetorical concept from the Qur’Ån or Prophetic Tradition. This subject has been dealt with in some detail by Sanni in his study of one of Ibn al-AtÈr’s prominent works, but it is worth noting a few of the main points here. As I have already suggested, there were various ways of importing textual material from those sources into an epistle. However, there is no doubt that the most skilful yet most challenging way for the writer to implement this was by ‘prosification’ (Ar. ˙all). Sanni gives several comprehensive examples of texts written by Ibn al-AtÈr that paraphrase – often at length – some of the sayings attributed to the Prophet Mu˙ammad.53 The key to my argument here is that Prophetic anecdotes, like verses of the Qur’Ån, could be utilised in two ways. One way was to select part of their phraseology and incorporate them in an introduction to a piece of (epistolary) prose writing. The other way was to adopt ‘the sense of its thought’ and express it in various ways.54 The latter route gave the better indication of the literary acumen of the writer.

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El-Salem’s assessment of prosification concurs with that of Sanni, although he states that its main function was to effect surprise and create access to ‘ready-made ma‘ÅnÈ’.55 Even more dextrous on the part of the writer was to use the material in a manner contradictory to the original.56 Von Grunebaum described this technique rather aptly as being a result of the Arabs’ predilection for ‘hidden borrowing’ rather than their objective to increase the versatility of the learner or student.57 His observation demands a full study drawing on all such examples of borrowing that were the trademark of pre-modern grammatical and literary works. To begin a letter with a direct citation of a verse from the Qur’Ån, or a citation from the Prophetic Traditions, or with a verse of poetry, was deemed to be highly commendable, but it was not the same as prosification, however. As El-Salem notes, unlike European rhetoric, in which the exordium was intended to ‘refresh a fatigued audience’, the citation of a verse from the Qur’Ån at the beginning of an epistle was meant to serve as an ‘epigraph’ on which the following discussion was based, ‘or a succinct statement indicating its content’.58 Such direct citations were known as istišhÅd, one of the three major methods that constituted the range of intertextual devices in the epistolography of this period.59 The secretary may begin the introductory sections with one of the above types of citation, ‘then he builds his letter upon it’.60 In one example Ibn al-AtÈr shows how to begin a letter with a citation from the Prophet, then how to support it with a further quotation from him later in the introductory section. Thus, it is reasonable to say that whereas prosification was a sophisticated form of intertextuality, the direct citation of a verse from the Qur’Ån, for example, served a different purpose. Both were equally important, but the former was a technique that required a special skill. Ibn al-AtÈr puts a great deal of emphasis on prosification as an indicator of the highest level of proficiency attained by the epistolographer. Any evaluation of the main stylistic and structural issues in epistolary writing must include some analysis of saj‘. There is no doubt that the self-imposed, obligatory use of saj‘ in epistolary prose from the 4th/10th century onwards produced interesting, and at times delightful, expositions of linguistic dexterity. Due in no small part to its root structure, the Arabic language has always had an enormous capacity to be manipulated into various forms of artistic expression. Although the vast number of permutations and forms of saj‘ evolved gradually, by the 4th/10th century they had already been experimented with and developed by such famous secretaries as ‘Abd al-ÓamÈd al-KÅtib, who was discussed at the beginning of Chapter 3. During the conceptual formation of the present study I was very keen to investigate the style of epistolary prose – in particular the different styles adopted by individual writers – in order to present a diachronic picture of stylistic issues, focusing particularly on the use of saj‘. During my reading I located several modest attempts to interpret the style of selected writers. While there is no doubting the scholarly intent of these inquiries, it is fair to say that each of them remains unconvincing in its appreciation of the value of saj‘. It is perhaps premature to suggest that a major study of style based on saj‘ patterns would produce an insufficient return. However, from the manner in which writers of the period here under review either criticised or showed their appreciation in the primary sources of the style of their predecessors

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or contemporaries, it is not totally clear how a writer, a reader, or a listener reached his or her personal duende, so to speak.61 Was it through the saj‘ patterns alone? If so, was it purely through the sound of the words in contiguity, or through the length of the sections in which they occurred? Was it out of an appreciation of rhythmical elements? Or was it maybe through a combination of some or all of these characteristics of literary appreciation? In one respect the search for the ultimate style is an elusive quest, for the guidelines in the primary sources on this aspect of style were more theoretical than practical. Also unhelpful without further detailed research are the contrasting hypotheses that saj‘ was more prevalent in the intimate form of letters, such as those between friends, or in the more formal ones, as secretaries maybe sought to demonstrate their linguistic prowess before the Ruler. Extreme illustrations of saj‘ can be found in all forms of epistolary literature, such as in some examples of manÅšÈr ‘diplomas for land grants’ provided by al-MawßilÈ. Formal documents of this type were not generally associated with innovative or flamboyant style, but we find some examples of long documents on matters of land granted by feudal tenure (Ar. iq†Å‘), for instance, with the word at the end of each clause in a paragraph62 incorporating an identical rhyming pattern to the previous one. In the particular example I am thinking of here the rhyme scheme [Ar. qÅfiya] used was – Èd; for instance, wa‘Èd … ‘adÈd … Such linguistic games inevitably drew on and produced a wide range of different types of paronomasia (Ar. jinÅs). I would like to take the article by Horst as the starting point for this discussion of a few Western studies of saj‘ patterns.63 Horst provided a useful study of some of the stylistic features of RašÈd al-DÈn al-Wa†wņ’s epistolary prose, and also gave a translation (in German) of a selection of his letters. The first point to notice is that, contrary to the suggestion made by at least one of al-Wa†wņ’s contemporaries that his style was laboured, affected and dull, Horst elucidates a number of features pertaining to al-Wa†wņ’s employment of saj‘ to present his style in a favourable light. He makes some cursory, but plausible, comparisons with some of the stylistic predilections of al-ÓarÈrÈ, and identifies a number of different rhyme patterns used by al-Wa†wņ, including the tarßÈ‘ ‘embroidery (gem-setting)’.64 This is fine so far as it goes, but surely such conclusions can only really become meaningful in the context of other writers’ styles? Is it not likely that the deployment of most, if not all, of these literary devices would have been commonplace at the time? If al-Wa†wņ’s style was unique in its beauty, then why was he apparently not revered by his contemporaries? Could it be that reactions to him were based on personal rather than professional dislike? The sources do not even suggest that his style was unique in its ugliness. I propose the same reservations about Jackson’s interpretation of the style of al-QÅ∂È al-FÅ∂il,65 although at least he takes a broader view than Horst by assessing a few elements of paronomasia (Ar. jinÅs) in his writings. One of Jackson’s principal objectives – a commendable one it must be said – is to challenge those writers who refer to the style of al-QÅ∂È al-FÅ∂il as mere mannerism, or such like. On the basis of the stylistic assessments carried out to date on epistolary prose writing – and on inšÅ’ compositions in general – I would argue that it is premature to make such judgements, especially as the parameters of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ style have never adequately

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been laid down. It is clear that playing with words – with sounds and certain specific phonemic combinations – was a major preoccupation of epistolary prose writers, particularly from the 4th/10th century onwards. But rather than focus on these elements, more benefit can be derived from looking at the overall dynamism of a prosaic discourse, evaluating the manner in which the writer draws the reader, or more importantly perhaps, the listener, into the linguistic, sonic and semantic domain of his world. Such dynamics are touched on by Jackson,66 and dealt with in a different, but more enlightening way, by Ivanyi in his studies of the prose writing of al-HamadÅnÈ. Ivanyi adopted a refreshing approach to the study of style in pre-modern Arabic prose writing by identifying and investigating trends of what he calls the ‘dynamic’ and the ‘static’ in the parallelistic style of al-HamadÅnÈ’s prose. Through careful analysis he concludes that al-HamadÅnÈ’s maqÅmÅt incorporate various types of ‘semantic modification’ and ‘semantic conjunction’. These devices emerge from the way he uses parallel verbs, for example, to create literary effect, either as opposites (’anfÈ wa-’utbitu ‘I reject – I prove [dynamic]’ wa-’unkiru wa-ka’annÈ ’a‘rifu ‘I refuse to acknowledge – I know [static]’), or as near-synonyms (taraktuhu wa-nßaraftu ‘I left him [static] and departed [dynamic]’). Ivanyi notes the following: ‘The whole situation in this maqÅma is built on the very sharp and manifolded contrast created between movement and rest, action and condition …’.67 A full study of the stylistic parameters of each of the two genres is still to be carried out, although the conclusions of al-Mas‘adÈ and, latterly, Gully and Hinde, support the notion of a close relationship at the rhythmic level between epistolary discourse and the maqÅmÅt. In Ivanyi’s other study most relevant to this topic he conducts a detailed assessment of rhyming endings and symmetric phrases, also in al-HamadÅnÈ’s MaqÅmÅt.68 Schönig’s study of ‘Abd al-ÓamÈd al-KÅtib’s letters to the Crown Prince ‘Abd AllÅh ibn MarwÅn is a useful monograph which goes into stylistic elements of that work in more detail than many other attempts. The study includes sections on synonyms, paronomasia and tarßÈ‘ (one important element of saj‘).69 But the scope of Schönig’s study is too broad to provide a comprehensive account of ‘Abd al-ÓamÈd’s use of saj‘. Latham’s later essay focuses on the acoustic technique and some parallelistic patterns in ‘Abd al-ÓamÈd al-KÅtib’s letters, but his treatment of those stylistic issues is very cursory.70 Given the role of saj‘ as the cornerstone of epistolary prose for many centuries, it is appropriate to give the reader some idea here of the parameters of saj‘ set by, and followed by, members of the secretarial class in their epistolary compositions. A number of the more prominent secretaries included discussions of saj‘ alongside letter models and other epistolary theory, and some of them made an original contribution to the development of the technique. One essential element of saj‘ worth noting here is that the final words of each section written in saj‘ had to be paused on and the vowels were not pronounced, since the objective was to make the sections, or paragraphs as we might call them (Ar. qarÅ’in), homogenous. This could only be achieved through pause (Ar. waqf), otherwise the final notations would have been difficult on account of their grammatical function in the clause and the resulting desinential inflections (Ar. i‘rÅb).71

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In addition to those contemporary scholars who have attempted to evaluate different aspects of saj‘, such as its rhyming, rhythmical and acoustic potential, other scholars have made generalisations about its nature, usefulness and restrictiveness. Blachère, for instance, said this of the rhyming prose style of al-HamadÅnÈ: ‘the brilliance of the often affected style does not succeed in convincing us that so much artistry should be put out to the service of such worldly and empty preoccupations’.72 These judgements are extremely unhelpful and seemingly clouded by a total lack of understanding of the spirit of prose writing in Islamic society during the pre-modern period, and, perhaps more important, failure to acknowledge that the exemplary origins of saj‘ lay in the Qur’Ån itself, with its true origins being traced back even further to the oratory of soothsayers (Ar. saj‘ al-kuhhÅn). It is probably true that saj‘ led some Muslim scholars, especially during the later pre-modern period, to indulge in displays of verbal acrobatics, but its relationship to the prose of God’s revelation can not be underestimated. Ayyad’s criticism of later saj‘ style is even more disparaging than that of Blachère: The canonization of rhymed prose … is more easily understood when we remember that political power in most regions of the ‘AbbÅsid empire from the latter half of the third/ninth century gradually fell into the hands of barbarian mercenaries, mostly manumitted slaves, who might be expected to appreciate a ringing rhyme or an unsuspected pun (even a poor one) above all else.73 Such statements make no attempt to look more closely at, or at the very least acknowledge, the carefully formulated system of saj‘ that has now been shown to be part of a larger and refined set of discourses contributing significantly to the rhythmical beauty of artistic (epistolary) prose.74 Moreover, the Western literature on this subject rarely mentions that one of the clear benefits of saj‘ prose was its ability to facilitate memorisation of a text and to evoke pleasure in the minds and hearts of the listener, when the quality of writing was good. These are fundamental points repeatedly emphasised in the pre-modern primary sources. Although one of the etymological origins of the term saj‘ in prose writing is traditionally believed to be the cooing of doves, an equally plausible derivation comes from ‘AlÈ ibn Halaf who proposed that it derives from the sense of following a correct, straight path in speech and balance in its metre.75 That being said, the theory of a link between the repetition of sounds made by doves and the balance and equality of expression and rhyme in the syllable structure of epistolary prose sits rather well. Saj‘ was defined in a technical sense by Ibn Halaf as the rhyming of the syllables of speech without metre.76 Ibn al-AtÈr defined it as ‘conformity of the final sections of prose speech in one consonant’,77 and defended its usage – nay, its very existence – by pointing to the fact that its detractors must have been critical of it owing to their inability to use it. How could they criticise it, asks Ibn al-AtÈr, when it is very common in the Qur’Ån – or, in his words, is prevalent in it – to the extent that some sËras are written wholly in that style.78 Ibn al-AtÈr explains that the reason for the Qur’Ån not being written completely in saj‘ is that its language sometimes required brevity but saj‘ was not always conducive to that style.79 Saj‘ is

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also found in many of the Traditions of the Prophet Mu˙ammad. There was in fact a debate between some scholars about whether the Prophet Mu˙ammad denounced the use of saj‘ altogether, or whether he questioned and subsequently denounced the moral judgement of the pre-Islamic soothsayers (saj‘ al-kuhhÅn) in the way they used saj‘. Not surprisingly, Ibn al-AtÈr took the latter view.80 AbË HilÅl al-‘AskarÈ, on the other hand, argued that the Prophet did not approve of the style used by the saj‘ al-kuhhÅn and subsequently rejected any saj‘ that was redolent of their style.81 Ibn al-AtÈr went on to say that saj‘ is more than just a question of equilibrium and conformity of the final sections in one consonant; otherwise every literary scholar would have been a proficient saj‘ writer. In this regard he appears to be disputing the claims of al-‘AskarÈ that prose writing is not deemed good unless it is balanced (Ar. muzdawij). In typical Ibn al-AtÈr fashion he offers a literary principle, a premise which he claims is unique, to support his view. He claims that each of the two equal saj‘ sections must contain a meaning that is different from its ‘sister’, namely, the one that shares the rhyme with it. If the meanings are the same then it is tantamount to prolixity, or excess (Ar. ta†wÈl). Ibn al-AtÈr goes further to say that most of the saj‘ written by recognised great writers of the 3rd–4th/9th–10th centuries, such as al-ÍÅbi’, Ibn al-‘AmÈd, and al-ÍÅ˙ib Ibn ‘AbbÅd, resorts to the type of long-winded saj‘ he is eager to avoid, and which he aspires to direct others to avoid. He also criticises many of the maqÅmÅt of al-ÓarÈrÈ for the same reason. Ibn al-AtÈr’s opinion in this regard explains in part why he chose to rewrite several of al-ÍÅbi’s letters, demonstrating that an epistle on a given theme could, and should, be written his way.82 An example of what Ibn al-Atir categorises as excessive is the following, which forms part of a doxology in a letter from al-ÍÅbi’: wa-lÅ tu˙liquhu l-‘ußËru bi-murËrihÅ, wa-lÅ tuhrimuhu l-duhËru bi-kurËrihÅ ‘and time does not wear Him out with its passing, nor does destiny render Him decrepit with its cycle’. According to Ibn al-AtÈr, there is no difference in meaning between the two main saj‘ components here, namely murËr al-‘ußËr and kurËr al-duhËr.83 The theory of saj‘ is quite complex. For example, not all literary scholars described its components using the same terminology. Another area in which there was by no means unanimity was that of the prescribed length of the saj‘ sections within a piece of prose writing. Ibn al-AtÈr’s attempts to provide a quantitative theory of saj‘ were innovative and unique, even if fundamentally flawed.84 Stewart’s article is more than adequate for an understanding of how this theory worked, and the reader is referred there for a lucid illustration. 85 But I suspect that Ibn al-AtÈr might have been guided in part at least by al-ÓalabÈ’s detailed prescriptions on comparative lengths of sections, or paragraphs, in the saj‘ sequence.86 This is an influence that has not been suggested elsewhere. In brief, what Ibn al-AtÈr proposed was that a quantitative theory of saj‘ could be determined by counting the number of words – not syllables – in a given clause. Moreover, he devised a system of rank for certain combinations of word length in related clauses; for example, the most worthy combination was one in which two clauses were of equal length. Failing that, the second clause should be longer than the first. That Ibn al-AtÈr was the first – indeed possibly the only – pre-modern literary critic to attempt such a theory is perhaps surprising, but it seems logical that in the early centuries the existence of such a system was

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never contemplated, since the length of saj‘ clauses was generally much shorter. According to Horst, the average number of syllables in a saj‘ clause in the ‘ancient times’ was between four and ten, seldom more.87 This number appears to have grown in later times to an average of between eleven and thirteen syllables. Some of the different terminologies used for saj‘ components should be noted briefly here. Al-ÓalabÈ identified four types: al-tarßÈ‘, al-mutawÅzÈ, al-mu†arraf, and al-mutawÅzin88 (for Ibn al-AtÈr this final type is al-muwÅzana89). Another scholar claimed that there were three types, with tarßÈ‘ being singled out as a category of its own in addition to the other three mentioned here. Yet another scholar identified three types, omitting al-mutawÅzin.90 Al-ÓalabÈ describes the various types of saj‘ as follows. TarßÈ‘91 is where the expressions are of equal rhythm (lit. ‘metre’] (Ar. awzÅn), with conforming final elements (Ar. a‘jÅz).92 An example he gives of this is from the Qur’Ån sËra 82: 13: inna l-abrÅra la fÈ na‘Èmin wa-inna l-fujjÅra la fÈ ja˙Èmin ‘As for the Righteous, they will be in Bliss; and the Wicked – they will be in the fire’.93 However, Ibn al-AtÈr disputes the fact that tarßÈ‘ occurs at all in the Qur’Ån, because in his view it is a form of excessive affectation. He defines it as where each expression of the first section equals each expression of the second section in metre and rhyme. But the implication here is that there should be no repetition of any of the elements, so the example given by al-ÓalabÈ from the Qur’Ån does not belong to tarßÈ‘, owing to the repetition of la fÈ in the second section, although it is very close to being an example of it. Ibn al-AtÈr gives an example of tarßÈ‘ in a letter he wrote to one of his brothers: [al-˙usnu mÅ] wašathu fi†ratu l-taßwÈr [lÅ mÅ] ˙ašathu fikratu l-tazwÈr ‘beauty is what has been adorned by the instinct of imagination, not what has been filled with the notion of falsification’.94 Al-ÓalabÈ describes al-mutawÅzÈ as follows: ‘it is where you preserve the metre in the final words of the two paragraphs, together with a conformity of the final consonant of each one’. As an example he gives Qur’Ån sËra 88: 13/14: fÈhÅ sururun marfË‘atun wa-akwÅ’un maw∂Ë‘atun ‘Therein will be Thrones [of dignity], raised on High, goblets placed ready’.95 As for al-mu†arraf he defines it as follows: ‘it is where you preserve the final consonant in both paragraphs but not the metre’.96 MutawÅzin ‘is where you preserve the metre of the final words of each paragraph with a difference in the final consonant’; for example, Qur’Ån sËra 88: 15–16: namÅriqu maßfËfatun wa-zarÅbiyyu mabtËtatun ‘And cushions set in rows, and rich carpets [all] spread out’.97 Related to saj‘, but nonetheless inferior to it, is izdiwÅj, a term and device favoured particularly by AbË HilÅl al-‘AskarÈ, who said that prose writing is not good unless it is muzdawij.98 Kanazi describes it thus: ‘prose writing is considered exquisite when each pair of sentences or phrases are internally rhymed. This quality is known as izdiwÅj (doubling or coupling) and is indispensable to artistic prose’.99 Saj‘, on the other hand, is, in Kanazi’s words, ‘the recurrence of a certain rhyme at the closing of two or more consecutive sentences’.100 The history of the development of izdiwÅj is divided into two parts. In the 2nd–3rd/8th–9th centuries izdiwÅj as a style was used mainly by the followers of the Prophet Mu˙ammad in their writings. At that time it referred to unity of the sections in metre without the final rhyming consonant,101 and came within the domain of al-saj‘ al-‘ņil.102 The second phase of

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its development took place from the 4th/10th century when the metre and the final rhyming consonants were of strict conformity. This was what al-RummÅnÈ called al-saj‘ al-˙ÅnÈ.103 The preceding discussion is important for two reasons. First it gives a modest, but essential, indication of the intrinsic relationship between letter-writing and the use of saj‘ in the pre-modern Islamic period. Saj‘ was certainly the most prominent stylistic characteristic of epistolary prose writing, and there is no doubt that recognition of a writer’s talent was closely associated with its usage. Second, it shows how there was considerable agreement on the main components of saj‘, but that there were some variables in its usage and even in the terminologies applied to its devices. Indirectly related to saj‘ was the process of reading epistolary texts aloud. One of the main reasons this was done was to save the Ruler, or the person of high rank, from the task of having to read. Not taxing the mind of the Ruler for too long was also one of the principal notions behind brevity as a communicative concept. But the reading aloud of texts also enabled the recipient to absorb the details of a letter more easily. This was a procedure that applied to medieval Western society in the 12th–13th centuries at the very least, and can plausibly be applied to pre-modern Islamic society. Clanchy recounts how the Pope would on some occasions be seen browsing through written texts as a modern literate would do, but at other times he would specifically request to hear the text rather than read it. As Clanchy notes, ‘he evidently found it easier to concentrate when he was listening than when he was looking; reading was still primarily oral rather than visual’.104 I will now move on to examine two further related devices of balÅ©a in Arabic epistolary prose writing that relate to discourse length. Two of the most important rhetorical devices within the context of epistolography were those of i†nÅb and ÈjÅz, normally translated as ‘prolixity’ and ‘conciseness’. In fact, al-QalqašandÈ isolates these categories, together with musÅwÅt ‘equivalence’105 as the three main ingredients of speech required in oratory and epistolary communications. Although Ibn al-AtÈr does not single them out as emphatically as al-QalqašandÈ – since they are two of many such devices relevant to the secretary in his compositions – they are nonetheless fundamental to the appropriateness of length of a given piece of discourse. In this connection Ibn al-AtÈr raises an objection to the interpretation by AbË HilÅl al-‘AskarÈ of the two terms i†nÅb and ÈjÅz. I shall begin with i†nÅb. The main focus of Ibn al-AtÈr’s objection seems to hinge on two things: the interpretation of the term itself, and the impact that interpretation has on the relationship between the text and the audience. This is particularly significant in the context of addressing Rulers. According to Ibn al-AtÈr, the mistake al-‘AskarÈ makes is to associate the concept of i†nÅb with ta†wÈl, hence putting it within the semantic realm of prolixity, or long-windedness. In Ibn al-AtÈr’s view, i†nÅb carries the sense of ‘emphasis’. Standard dictionary definitions tend to focus on the sense of prolixity, and overlook one of the older senses of the term, which is that of camels following in file. The relevance of this older definition is that, as part of his own etymological exploration into this context, Ibn al-AtÈr concludes that it denotes ‘intensity’, with

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one clause (Ar. jumla) or several clauses being emphasised by what follows them. However, it cannot be emphasised by using exactly the same word, which is what al-‘AskarÈ argued was one of the functions of i†nÅb. This, according to Ibn al-AtÈr, belongs to takrÈr ‘repetition’, a distinction that he is very keen to make; for example, in asri‘ asri‘ ‘hurry up, hurry up’.106 Ibn al-AtÈr’s refutation of al-‘AskarÈ’s thesis on i†nÅb is pertinent to epistolo­ graphy because it raises the question of what emphasis should be given in a letter on a particular epistolary theme. Since Ibn al-AtÈr does not agree with the view that i†nÅb and ta†wÈl (lit. ‘making long’ and, more importantly here, the opposite of ÈjÅz ‘brevity’, according to Ibn al-AtÈr, and tantamount to excessive prolixity107) are the same thing, he can not subscribe to al-‘AskarÈ’s view that in letters on conquests, for example, prolixity was important in order to ensure that the lower classes (Ar. al-‘awÅmm) understood fully the significance of what had been achieved. Ibn al-AtÈr’s stance is, prima facie, marginal, but it does raise the very important matter of the relationship between the author, text and recipient. It is marginal in the sense that he is forced to admit that if what al-‘AskarÈ meant by prolixity was the deployment of different motifs to describe the conquest, or whatever, then his argument is acceptable. However, if what al-‘AskarÈ meant was that a letter should be full of repetitive motifs and prolix expressions with the aim of making the lower classes understand, then it is unacceptable. At one point Ibn al-AtÈr cites and dismisses those who ‘lay claim to knowledge of clear exposition’, and who argue that if a piece of discourse is extended sufficiently it will eventually make the lower classes understand and leave an imprint on them.108 Ibn al-AtÈr goes on to say that texts are, in practice, never designed for just one group of people, as evidenced by the Qur’Ån itself, which was not intended for the benefit of the elite, or upper classes, but actually for all people, with only a small group of words and expressions being unintelligible to the lower classes, or the masses.109 He adds that the same principle applies to all forms of epistles, and also to poetry and oratory. Further evidence of Ibn al-AtÈr’s stance on this can be found in his discussion of the language of the Qur’Ån, which he says should be accessible to all. The best speech, he adds, is that whose virtue is recognised by the elite, and whose meaning is understood by the masses.110 Ibn Halaf’s stance on the relative protocol of letters to those proficient in communication and eloquence, and to those of the masses and the lower classes,111 appears initially to be more akin to that of al-‘AskarÈ’s. Ibn Halaf clearly distinguishes between the levels and complexity of speech required to address each group, stating that when writing to the masses and non-Arabs, for instance, the lowest degrees of balÅ©a should be used, namely, those which reach their levels of understanding.112 When talking about the situation some three centuries or more after Ibn Halaf, we find al-QalqašandÈ expressing more or less the same idea, that is to say, that communications with Rulers of small countries, or those with foreign Rulers, should generally be conveyed in clear expressions, although some of those countries do have people trained to a high level of understanding of balÅ©a. However, when describing the protocol for formal letters emanating from the Chancery on behalf of the Ruler on subjects such as conquests, for example, Ibn Halaf’s view appears to differ from that of al-‘AskarÈ’s. In these cases only one type of discourse is required.

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This should contain eloquent, lucid expressions and lengthening to fulfil the need for making the meaning replete, and for reaching the understanding of all listeners, whether from the elite or the masses. Ibn Halaf does not specify, unlike al-‘AskarÈ, that the function of ‘lengthening’ (Ar. i†Åla) is specifically so that the masses can understand, but suggests that it is required because the subject matter, or theme, of a given epistle, demands it.113 With regard to the relationship between the author, text and recipient, there is no clear evidence to support El-Salem’s view, in this context at least, that Ibn al-AtÈr was interested only in the ‘requirements of the work itself’ rather than those of the audience.114 It is true, as we have just seen, that his contention was with al-‘AskarÈ’s interpretation of i†nÅb, but there is nothing that leads us to conclude that he did not subscribe in part to al-‘AskarÈ’s thesis that i†nÅb was recommended in sermons, in times of great calamity, in conciliatory ceremonies between hostile tribes, in recitations of panegyric poetry, as well as in epistles issued by a governor or high official announcing a victory, or calling for obedience or warning against disobedience, for instance.115 Ibn Halaf, who preceded Ibn al-AtÈr, and al-ÓalabÈ, who came after him, were two highly prominent scholars who wrote extensively on the question of i†nÅb, or bas† (lit. ‘expanding, enlarging’) within the context of the relationship between the text and its intended audience. They also seem to have acknowledged the importance of the subject matter vis-à-vis the audience in the same way as al-‘AskarÈ. Ibn Halaf, for example, stated that the secretary must be versed in the deployment of expressions according to the requirements of the discourse and the rank of those being addressed.116 Al-QalqašandÈ tells us that the use of bas† was highly commended in two contexts. The first of these was in communications written on behalf of the Ruler which contained news ‘whose image was to be established in the souls of the lower classes’. Ibn Halaf said the following on the subject of bas† and i†nab in the context of conquests: He [the secretary] must describe them in great detail, and construct [his letter] on the basis of elaboration and prolixity (Ar. i†nÅb), and supply synonymous expressions in abundance, so that they [the lower classes, or masses] come to know the extent of the blessing taking place, and so that their understandings about obedience will increase, and so that the status of their Ruler will be elevated on account of God’s concern for him, and so that the hearts of his followers will be fortified, and those of his enemies weakened.117 He then goes on to say that such letters are meant to be read aloud, in public, and that there is no scope in them for brevity (Ar. ihtißÅr). Al-ÓalabÈ sets out a similar view, and makes the following important remarks: the more the scope of speech in citing and describing the event the better it becomes, and the more cogently it proves success, and the more it stimulates the happiness of the addressee, and the greater the anticipation of benevolence toward him, and the more palatable it is to his ear, and the more satisfying it is for the thirst of his desire to know the situation …118

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Given that Ibn Halaf preceded the other writers mentioned in this section I would suggest that his influence on subsequent writers was significant, and that he himself shows in his line of argument a predilection for elements of the Greek rhetorical tradition in which convincing the audience of one’s argument was one of the main objectives of any piece of oratory. Although I am talking here about epistolography, not oratory, the dividing line between them as modes of communication was very thin, as I showed in Chapter 2. The second commended use of bas† was again found in letters composed on behalf of the Ruler to people on the borders of lands defended by Muslims. The purpose of prolixity in this context was to alert them to the movements of the enemy, and to inform them of how to confront them. Such communications should expound on the necessity of resolve, the power of ambition, and the intensity of protecting one’s religion, for example, as well as on the returns of God’s promises.119 So how does Ibn al-AtÈr distinguish between i†nÅb and ta†wÈl in a way that al-‘AskarÈ does not? There was, to his mind, one very fundamental difference between the two concepts. He defined i†nÅb as the following: ‘adding an expression to the idea to convey a communicative meaning (ziyÅdat al-lafΩ ‘alÅ l-ma‘nÅ li-fÅ’ida)’; in other words, it was a form of emphasis, whereas ta†wÈl was ‘adding an expression to the idea without conveying a communicative meaning (ziyÅdat al-lafΩ ‘alÅ l-ma‘nÅ li gayr fÅ’ida)’; in fact, the idea could be well understood without it.120 In other words, far from being a burdensome device of prolixity, i†nÅb requires that every element – single clause, or multiple clauses, with the latter being ‘more communicative (Ar. abla©) because of their wide [syntactic] scope’121 – have a relevant, meaningful place in the discourse, whether that be in the sacred texts, in poetry or in prose, especially in epistolary prose. Unlike i†nÅb, where the meaning remains the same without the additions, the elision of the additional, emphasising element changes the sense and removes the emphasising element altogether. The secret behind i†nÅb as a single clause is that it functions not as a superfluous element, as some believed, but as an emphasiser, magnifying the act of attainment in the verb; for example, when you say ra’aytuhu bi-‘aynÈ ‘I saw him with my eye’, or qaba∂tuhu bi-yadÈ ‘I grabbed him with my hand’. From the Qur’Ån – in which there are numerous examples – Ibn al-AtÈr cites the following from sËra 33: 4 to illustrate the same point, this time in a negative context in which the function of the i†nÅb is to magnify, or place the focus on, the person who has been spreading the falsehood, that is, by a man calling another’s son ‘his son’: dÅlikum qawlukum bi-afwÅhikum ‘Such is [only] your [manner of] speech by your mouths’.122 In this example the i†nÅb emphasiser is on the phrase bi-afwÅhikum ‘by your mouths’. There are four types of i†nÅb in multiple clauses, of which the fourth relates specifically to epistles, as well as to oratory and poetry, because it is based on ‘fulfilling exhaustively the ideas of the intended [communicative] aim’ in one of those genres.123 Ibn al-AtÈr gives numerous examples from epistolary literature to support his argument, and notes that it is the most difficult type of i†nÅb to implement successfully, owing to the multifarious ways that ideas can be expressed. To illustrate the difference between ÈjÅz ‘brevity’ and i†nÅb he gives the following example in which he describes a garden with varieties of fruit. To describe it with brevity one

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would say: ‘in it there are a couple [of pieces] of each [type of] fruit’, which God actually said, encompassing all types of fruit within the most excellent and briefest expression. Ibn al-AtÈr adds that if one were to illustrate this scenario with ta†wÈl one would simply say: ‘apricots, apples, grapes, pomegranates, date palms, and so on’. But if one were to describe the garden according to i†nÅb the description would run to approximately two hundred and eighty words. For the purposes of conserving space I can only cite here a small part of his letter on this theme in order to complete the distinction between the three concepts: in it are apricots that have preceded all others in their arrival … and apples whose skin is soft, and whose size is enormous … and in it are grapes that are the most abundant of yields, which are the most beautiful colour … and in it are pomegranates which are food and drink; and the breasts of the buxom girl have been compared to them. One of their [the pomegranates’] virtues is that they do not have stones, for they have been discarded, and pearls and coral do not come out of any fruit except them …124 The second of the trio of concepts emphasised by Ibn al-AtÈr in his world of epistolary communication and discourse was ‘repetition’ (Ar. takrÈr). According to Ibn al-AtÈr, repetition was one of the ‘vital organs’ of the discipline of eloquence. He defined it as ‘the expression’s signifying of the idea [or meaning] by being repetition’.125 In broad terms there are two types of repetition. One type is to be found in the expression and the sense, and the other in the sense without the expression. The first type can be illustrated by the example given earlier, that is, asri‘ asri‘ ‘hurry up, hurry up’. The second type can be exemplified by the following: ’a†i‘nÈ wa-lÅ ta‘ßinÈ ‘obey me and do not rebel against me’, in which the command to obey is a proscription of disobedience.126 The categories are subdivided into those examples conveying a communicative meaning, and those not. The categories are long and detailed, and need not detain us here, especially as the examples for each are drawn almost exclusively from either the Qur’Ån or poetry, with no illustrations from epistolary prose. However, one of the fundamental principles of takrÈr, according to Ibn al-AtÈr, is worth recording in full here because of its significance for communicative discourse. Ibn al-AtÈr stated the following: Know that repetition, which conveys a communicative meaning, occurs in speech as a means of emphasising it, and as a form of strengthening for it. This is done only to affirm the focus on the thing in which you repeat what you have to say, either as a means of exaggerating in praise of it, or in censure of it, or such like. It only occurs in one of the two extremes of the thing intended, with anything in between being devoid of it, because one of the two extremes is what is intended by [the act of] exaggerating, either with praise or censure, or such like, whereas it is not a condition of what falls between to be exaggerated.127 What Ibn al-AtÈr seems to mean by all this is not that every case of repetition contains an example of either praise or censure, of course, but that its function is to convey extremes, for that is the key to exaggeration, either in a positive or in a

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negative sense. One further comment on takrÈr is in order, because it demonstrates how delicately Ibn al-AtÈr dealt with the group of terms under review here. In an example of vital distinction between i†nÅb and takrÈr, we see how he responds to one of the functions assigned by al-‘AskarÈ to i†nÅb, namely, repetition of the same idea through the use of synonymous parallelisms.128 In a very skilfully argued section Ibn al-AtÈr attempts to demonstrate that such verbal dexterity is part of repetition (Ar. takrÈr), not i†nÅb, describing it as an example of when ‘the meaning is annexed to itself, but with [the use of] a different expression’.129 The third and final term of relevance to this discussion is ÈjÅz, normally translated as ‘brevity’ but perhaps best rendered, in the light of Ibn al-AtÈr’s analysis, as ‘abridgement’. This is by some margin the longest section in al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, thus underlining its importance as a rhetorical device. The basic definition for ÈjÅz given by Ibn al-AtÈr is ‘the elision of additional expressions’,130 an intriguing idea since one would naturally assume that things could not be elided before they were added. But then he clarifies it with the following, fuller definition: ‘it is the expression’s signifying the meaning without anything being added’.131 This is the opposite of ta†wÈl, in fact, which occurs when anything of the expression signifying the meaning can be elided [without affecting the meaning].132 Although expressed in different terms, Ibn al-AtÈr’s understanding of this component of communicative eloquence (balÅ©a) is similar to that of Ibn ŠÈt’s in his Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba. Ibn ŠÈt states that the more sublime of the two sections (of balÅ©a) is for the expression (Ar. lafΩ) to be modest, while at the same time signifying meanings (Ar. ma‘Ånin).133 According to Ibn al-AtÈr, communicative eloquence is similarly expressed through abridgement with saj‘ patterns, where the ‘short’ saj‘, which is made up of a small number of expressions, is deemed preferable owing to the closeness of the rhyming elements to the ear of the listener. This is the more difficult type of saj‘ to perfect, consequently it occurs much less frequently than the ‘long’ saj‘.134 In Ibn al-AtÈr’s analysis ÈjÅz is closely related to other concepts that preoccupied the grammarians, such as ˙adf ‘elision’ and i∂mÅr ‘suppression’. Although Ibn al-AtÈr frequently states that he takes a very different line from the grammarians, as well as from many of the scholars of communicative eloquence, it is clear that the notion of brevity has as much to do with implied syntactical elements as it does with simple economy of language. Ibn al-AtÈr’s literary critique is naturally influenced by his preference for epistolography over all other communicative forms. However, at times in al-Matal al-SÅ’ir he seems preoccupied with asserting the value of literary aesthetic over grammar and philology, as I have just suggested. El-Salem notes that in relation to poetry, Ibn al-AtÈr reproaches some commentators for ‘treating it [poetry] as a philological document, not as verbal art to be analyzed in terms of literary quality’.135 One of the impetuses for al-ÍafadÈ’s refutation of the al-Matal al-SÅ’ir was Ibn al-AtÈr’s niggling attacks on the grammarians and the philologists. In Ibn al-AtÈr’s analysis elision of whole clauses or individual elements was possible so long as the writer adhered to the basic principle of elision which requires that the speech contains something to affirm the elided element.136 His analysis is far more grammatical and practical than the theoretical descriptions of ÈjÅz recorded in al-QalqašandÈ’s Íub˙, which I will come to shortly. However, it is fair to say that his

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concerns are based more on the effect such violations of syntactic patterns have on the literary value of a text than on the normative values propagated by the mainstream grammarians. There is no doubting the value of Ibn al-AtÈr’s work as a significant landmark in the history of Arabic literary criticism, but one work that preceded it, and maybe in some ways surpassed it in its scope, is Ibn Halaf’s MawÅdd al-BayÅn (see Chapter 3 especially). When scholars compare a literary work with al-Matal al-SÅ’ir they normally cite the Óusn al-Tawassul of ŠihÅb al-DÈn al-ÓalabÈ. But evidence suggests that Ibn Halaf’s work influenced Ibn al-AtÈr even more than al-ÓalabÈ’s in terms of classification, if not always in interpretation. Ibn Halaf’s interest in the Greek theory of communication and rhetoric seems to have influenced significantly his theory of writing, if we can call it that. In some respects he seems to have gone further into what constitutes an appropriate mode and structure of argumentation in epistolary prose. To support my thesis here I need to compare Ibn Halaf’s views on ÈjÅz with those of Ibn al-AtÈr. It is lamentable that the final two chapters of the MawÅdd al-BayÅn are not extant, but fortunately some of the key elements of those chapters were recorded in detail by al-QalqašandÈ. What can be ascertained beyond any doubt is that for Ibn Halaf – as for Ibn al-AtÈr – bayÅn ‘clear exposition, eloquence’ was the main focus of communicative eloquence, and was indirectly related to the concept of ÈjÅz. According to Ibn Halaf, bayÅn is defined as follows: ‘the abridging of the concept [or meaning] for the soul in a form that welds it to it without delay’, and ‘a revealing of the meaning so that the soul understands it immediately’.137 He then adds the following, which relates very closely to the impact of the text upon the audience: ‘[The highest virtue attached to bayÅn] is that which takes the recipient [lit. ‘listener’] on an assault on the literalness of its meaning in the fastest time [possible], without anything standing in his way of understanding of it.’138 In other words, brevity is actually the key to clear exposition and lucidity, if not in literal terms of economy of words, then certainly in terms of conveying the meaning succinctly and distinctively. Al-QalqašandÈ says that ÈjÅz should be deployed in three main situations. The first situation is when thanking the Ruler for a blessing that has been bestowed on him. Citing Ibn Halaf, he says that the appropriately selected expressions of thanks should be brief, since prolixity in this context, particularly in communications from humble subjects to Rulers, leads to irritation and boredom on the part of the recipient, especially if he is being thanked for a personal service or favour. Praise should be kept to a minimum; if it is not, it is tantamount to flattery. One exception to this requirement, however, is in the case of a foreign praiser, who may indulge in extended praise. Writers from the upper classes should not be excessive in their salutations, nor repetitive in them in the introductory sections when talking about the Ruler, for that is a burden upon his listening capacity.139 The second situation that calls for brevity is when a subject corresponds with the Ruler complaining about his poverty. In such communications the subject should balance his complaining with an expression of gratitude, and a manifestation of trust in the blessings that come from the Ruler, for example. He should not talk at length about his plight lest he embarrass the Ruler. The third situation again concerns letters from the

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subject to Ruler, this time on the topic of apology and self-vindication. The letter should be brief, and should contain light-hearted language to help cure the anger of the Ruler. He should not attempt to exonerate or justify himself at this point, since Rulers prefer a confession of wrongdoing so that the subject can then expect an act of benevolence from them, for which the subject will give thanks.140 In the Fņimid period at least, the Composition secretary could deputise for the person who normally wrote the letters of appointment on behalf of the Ruler. When he did so he would need to ‘be brief where brevity was required, and expand where expansion was required, and bring together the ideas [relevant to the topic] collectively’.141 At certain points in this work I have alluded to the importance of the jawÅb, the reply to a letter, as a vehicle to demonstrate the secretary’s, or the writer’s, skill. It was not, however, an issue of freedom to compose as one wished, but rather a test of how proficiently a writer could reply to a theme within the constraints of protocol, as the following examples demonstrate. The majority of secretaries held that the letters of response were more demanding and more challenging intellectually than the original letters (Ar. kutub ibtidÅ’iyya). As al-QalqašandÈ puts it, the initiator of the communication (Ar. al-mubtadi’) is the arbiter in his letter, beginning with expressions as he wishes, interrupting them as he wishes by using syntactic displacement, or brevity or prolixity, for instance. But the respondent is not free to use displacement, rather he is merely the one who follows the [communicative] objective of the initiator, building on his foundation. 142 In Ibn Halaf’s view, there was effectively no difference between the skills and the ‘natural disposition’ required as an initiator or as a responder, since a secretary could be called on at any time to perform the function of either. This seems to be a logical, balanced viewpoint that perhaps acted as a form of mediation between rival secretaries who sought to denigrate each other’s scholarly credibility in either of these areas. Epistolary acumen required an excellence of natural disposition, as I showed in Chapter 2, but it was neither relevant nor necessary, in Ibn Halaf’s view, for a secretary to be more talented in writing initial correspondence than in responding.143 This was not a view shared by someone like Ibn al-AtÈr, for example, as we have already seen. But Ibn Halaf’s view differs from the received wisdom about the different demands of the initiation and response elements of an epistle. At one point he offers an apology to those thinkers whom he appears to be contradicting. He maintains that the demands of initial communication and the response are different, but equally burdensome. The initiator has the burden of setting forth the [communicative] objectives of the one on whose behalf he is writing in a format that brings them all together, organising them in accordance with the protocol of communicative eloquence. The respondent, however, ‘has the burden in the response of extracting the same soul from the concepts conveyed in the initiator’s letter, and conveying that’. The response should either agree with the [contents of the] initial letter, or contradict them, with the latter approach being more difficult, of course. He says, however, that the burden of composing the reply is lightened because of its ‘divisibility’ (Ar. tajzi’a).144 What Ibn Halaf appears to be saying here is that the response to a letter is divided into sections, with each section being based on the points raised by the initiator. This is easier for the mind to comprehend and deal

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with than a whole communication in which the parameters have not yet been set, as is the case with the initial communication. The way in which the letter of response was organised was no less important. There were two circumstances relevant to this. The first was that the response from the Ruler to his subject should be brief, capturing the ideas of the original in concise expressions, such as: ‘Your letter on the subject of such-and-such has arrived, and we have understood it’. The second circumstance was more complex, owing to its being the response from the subject to the Ruler. The subject had to be meticulous in his accuracy, ensuring that he related the text exactly as it came to him without any infraction. At the same time he had to extol the standing of the Ruler and exalt his discourse, making certain that if there were a misplaced word in the original he did not replace it with another, more befitting one, which would obviously indicate that the expressions and motifs of his letter were more appropriate than those of the Ruler. If he were replying to a letter from the Ruler in which the latter had thanked him, or praised him for the way he conducted himself in service, he could not bring this into the text of the reply, for this would amount to self-praise, which is not acceptable. But on the other hand, he could not omit to mention those words of praise, for example, because that would entail a violation of his duty to thank the Ruler for acknowledging his contribution in this way. He was thus required to refer to what had been said by the Ruler in third-party terms, combining the requisites of balÅ©a with the motifs and expressions employed by the Ruler in his original letter.145 Al-QalqašandÈ makes a very pertinent observation at this point when he notes how so few writers of his time had the skills to write such diplomatic and well-balanced responses. He says that they have begun to write replies according to [their] ‘greed’ (Ar. tašahhin); in other words, in accordance with their own aspirations and without any consideration of how the response might be perceived. He adds that in some cases they merely repeat the original text, irrespective of whether it was from a Ruler to a subject or vice versa. To continue the investigation into the protocol of epistolary communications I would like to consider some further elements that distinguished one rank of recipient from another. When a letter was sent on behalf of a King, it was customary for the first person plural nËn (compare the use of the royal ‘we’ in British society) to be used for the purposes of glorifying. Hence one would find amarnÅ bi-kadÅ ‘we have ordered such-and-such’, or barazat marÅsÈmunÅ bi-kadÅ ‘our decrees on that have appeared’ in documents from leading figures such as emirs, viziers, scholars and the secretaries themselves, so that their excellence could be distinguished from other, lower ranks.146 Al-QalqašandÈ pointed out some Qur’Ånic precedents for this. On the other hand, if the letter was sent on behalf of a subject the use of the plural nËn was to be avoided, and the first person singular only should be employed, often together with a form of expression that would convey a similar sense but without the form of glorification. Another interesting example worth noting here is from Ibn ŠÈt’s Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba, in which he notes that a Ruler could not be addressed in correspondence as sayyidunÅ ‘our Master’ instead of mawlÅnÅ, for it was specific to those of religious and bureaucratic ranks, whereas mawlÅ was specific to the Ruler. However, sayyid could be employed as one of the epithets of the Ruler, as in al-sayyid

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al-ajall ‘the most venerable Master’. But, says Ibn ŠÈt, the same situation did not obtain in the Ma©rib, where Rulers (Ar. wulÅt al-umËr) were referred to as ‘Masters’ (Ar. sÅda). However, al-QalqašandÈ remarks that this practice had since changed, for the Ruler in that region and in al-Andalus was now referred to as mawlÅ.147 The etymological significance of a word, whether an adjective or a verb, for example, was a key factor in the lexical choice and style of a writer. I will demonstrate in the next chapter the importance of choosing one epithet over another when formulating honorifics for a Ruler. In this context adjectives, for instance, were closely scrutinised for subtle differences in meaning and then selected for their appropriateness to the context of the letter vis-à-vis the rank of the recipient. Likewise, various sections of the epistle were composed with the application of the same sort of linguistic sensibilities, acknowledging first and foremost the rank of the addressee. There are many examples of this in this literature. For instance, a number of letters contained the expression wa-nubdÈ li ‘ilmihi ‘we bring to light for his information’ in their introduction; others contained the expression nuwa∂∂i˙ li-‘ilmihi ‘we make clear for his information’. To the untrained eye these two expressions could read almost synonymously. However, al-QalqašandÈ explains the difference as follows. The expression nubdÈ li ‘ilmihi is ‘higher in rank with regard to the addressee’ because ‘the act of bringing to light goes back in its [etymological] sense to making something hidden appear, whereas the act of making clear has its origin in making the obscure appear’. He goes on to say, crucially, that obscurity requiring clarification may well be evidence of the distance of the addressee from understanding what is intended. The secretary should be discerning in what he writes and to whom, for the wrong choice of word could make unreasonable demands on, or have negative implications for, the recipient of the letter. If the recipient were a Ruler, of course, the effect could have major repercussions.148 The same sort of criteria also applied to the du‘Å’ ‘salutation’. A customary and essential part of the beginning of letters was to express one of the many formulae wishing the recipient blessings and a long life. Once again, the secretaries distinguished between the nuances of the expressions belonging to this particular aspect of epistolary protocol. One good example of this was the distinction between i†Ålat al-baqÅ’ ‘lengthening of [eternal] life’, and i†Ålat al-‘umr ‘lengthening of life’. The former was deemed higher in status owing to the fundamental sense of baqÅ’, which has no time restriction on it, and also bears the opposite meaning of fanÅ’ ‘passing away, termination’. The expression i†Ålat al-baqÅ’ was the highest type of salutation, and was preserved exclusively for Caliphs.149 The salutation will be looked at in more detail in the next chapter. Communicative eloquence manifested itself in multifarious forms and contexts, as this chapter in particular has been attempting to show. A clear distinction was made, in theory at least, between the type of language employed in official correspondence on such subjects as conquests, taxation and financial matters, for example, and that employed in unofficial communications. In correspondence on conquests, for instance, a very formal and elevated type of language was used; but for taxation matters and the like it was imperative that the language used reached all intended recipients [Ar. sÅmi‘Èn (lit. ‘listeners’)], which included the elite and the masses. Such

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communications were neither brief nor pitched at the same level of eloquence. As I noted earlier, informal communications were honed according to linguistic criteria that drew much more on the emotions.150 Distinctions between levels of language complexity were also made according to the capacity of understanding of Rulers from different nations. On the one hand, communications to certain Rulers were composed in the highest form of eloquent language, particularly those emanating from Rulers in Morocco and al-Andalus. On the other hand, Byzantine rulers and native speakers of non-Arabic languages, for example, had to be addressed in ‘clear expressions’, although there were some secretaries of those countries and of those types whose proficiency in eloquence was adequate for them to receive communications composed in a very high level of language.151 The relationship between text and context was not restricted to the choice of individual lexical items, however, but also extended to the citation of Qur’Ånic text and poetry.152 In Chapter 2, and elsewhere, I attempted to underline the importance of including citations from both these genres in epistolary writing. Inclusion of pertinent verses of the Qur’Ån seems to have become an increasingly significant consideration for secretaries, as exemplified by my discussion of Ibn al-AtÈr’s theory earlier in this chapter. There is an important section in al-QalqašandÈ’s Íub˙ dealing with the circumstances under which poetic and Qur’Ånic verses should be incorporated within an epistolary framework. According to Ibn ŠÈt (as cited in the Íub˙), Qur’Ånic verses in letters from one of lower rank to one of higher status were normally placed towards the beginning of the letter; however, scholars differed on this, with some arguing that they could be deployed throughout the letter.153 Whatever the case, these views do not take into account the increasingly common subtle inclusion of Qur’Ånic text – more as allusion – that became a feature of the epistolography discussed by Ibn al-AtÈr. For him the manner in which Qur’Ånic text was cited and used within a given letter seems to have been much more important than its position in the text. Even saj‘ was scrutinised within the context of rank of the sender and the recipient. Ibn al-ŠÈt argued that it could be used in any form of epistle, from one of higher rank to one of lower status, and vice versa, although in his view it was more appropriate when emanating from the Ruler. However, later writers suggested that using saj‘ undermined the status of the addressee, and that it should only be used in correspondence from the one of higher rank. The status and position of poetic verses in epistles certainly elicited much more discussion amongst scholars of the pre-modern period. As a first principle it was generally agreed that not every letter should contain poetry; rather, it should only contain verses when appropriate. But Ibn Halaf, one of the main contributors to the theory and practice of inšÅ’, took a different view of poetic citation in epistles. He claimed that in letters to and from the Ruler poetry was not permissible, since the Ruler was deemed too exalted to be associated with what Ibn Halaf called ‘the blemish of expression’, meaning, presumably, that the language of poetry was susceptible to corrupt influences of the type we saw in Chapter 2, or at the very least that its status was beneath that of prose. It was also shown in Chapter 3 how Ibn Halaf asserted the supremacy of writing, specifically prose writing, over all other commu-

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nicative forms. Ibn Halaf underlined the difference between poetry and prose by stating that it [scil. poetry] ‘is a different craft from the craft of epistolography, and incorporating some of the crafts of speech with other ones is deemed not good’.154 Significantly, Ibn ŠÈt disagreed with Ibn Halaf on the preceding point, or at least attempted to clarify what he meant. In his view poetry was permitted only in letters from Rulers. What he suggests Ibn Halaf meant is that poetry was not permitted in letters from Rulers to those beneath them in rank, nor from those beneath them to them. However, in letters from Rulers to those of equal rank poetic citation was acceptable.155 Regarding informal letters, however, neither Ibn Halaf nor any other secretary disputed that poetic citation played an intrinsic part, normally with inclusions of one or two verses, occasionally more.156 This chapter has focused on some specific aspects of communicative eloquence in Arabic that were particularly relevant to letter-writing in the Islamic Middle period. It has demonstrated that literary critics of that period were interested in how issues of brevity and prolixity, for example, functioned as part of the protocol of letter-writing, and how they related to the relationship between the writer and the addressee. This chapter has also shown cursorily the significance of the etymology of a given word in official correspondence to denote its importance or its provenance. I have also reviewed briefly the role of Qur’Ånic and poetic citation in epistolary communication. In order for a communicative epistolary act to be successful, the relationship between the sender and the recipient was very important. Fundamental to the fulfilling of this act were such factors as the origin of an epistle, who received it, and how it was interpreted. It was not just the rank and status of the recipient in epistolary discourse that needed to be considered, but also those of the sender, or the one on whose behalf the letter was sent, in conjunction with those of the recipient. But Ibn al-AtÈr showed that the integral, holistic nature of epistolary discourse was also essential for a successful communicative act, and that its structure and the way each section related to others in the text were critical components of that. The final chapter of this study will look in detail at some more specific elements of epistolary protocol, including the salutation, honorifics and the relationship between the initial correspondence and the response, a subject that was also touched upon briefly here. It will also give some further examples of model letters and the theory surrounding their composition.

Notes   1. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 1, pp. 180–1.   2. My translation of balÅ©a as ‘communicative eloquence’ is a modern variant on what al-‘AskarÈ said: balÅ©a ‘conveys the concept (ma‘nÅ) to the heart of the listener, so that he understands it’. For this see Kanazi, Studies in the KitÅb aß-ÍinÅ‘atayn, p. 70.   3. Ong, Orality and Literacy, p. 9.   4. Ibid., p. 107.   5. http://www.stanford.edu/dept/english/courses/sites/lunsford/pages/defs.htm, ‘A few definitions of Rhetoric’, accessed 14 November 2006.   6. Ibn Halaf, MawÅdd al-BayÅn, p. 47.

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  7. Ibid., p. 62.   8. This implicit equation was one of the many assertions with which al-ÍafadÈ took issue in his refutation of Ibn al-AtÈr’s al-Matal al-SÅ’ir. See El-Salem, Rhetoric in al-Mathal al-SÅ’ir, p. 14.   9. The identification of five pillars of writing as a numerical mirror for the five pillars of Islam is probably not a coincidence. 10. El-Salem, Rhetoric in al-Mathal al-SÅ’ir, p. 18. For a more extensive assessment of Ibn al-AtÈr on the grammarians see Gully, ‘Two of a Kind?’, pp. 88–91. 11. For the five pillars of writing see Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 1, pp. 87–90. 12. Ibid., vol. 2, p. 223. It has not escaped my attention here that in spite of Ibn al-AtÈr’s apparent predilection for prose over poetry the opening examples in this section are illustrations from poetry. Equally important is the fact that this category identified by Ibn al-AtÈr as al-mabÅdi’ wa-l-iftitÅ˙Åt is the same one as the important barÅ‘at al-istihlÅl as discussed by al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 6, p. 276 and, interestingly, Ibn al-AtÈr himself in a very brief section in KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ, p. 99. This last point lends more weight to the question raised earlier about Ibn al-AtÈr’s authorship of that work. 13. Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 1, p. 87. 14. Ibid., vol. 2, pp. 244ff. 15. Cicero, De Oratore, vol. II, pp. 433–5. 16. For this see Abdel Razzaq Patel, Sa‘id al-ShartËnÈ: A Humanist of the Arab Renaissance, p. 168. 17. Murphy, Three Medieval Rhetorical Arts, introduction, p. xvi. 18. Ibn Halaf, MawÅdd al-BayÅn, pp. 349–50. 19. Ibn ‘Abd Rabbihi, al-‘Iqd al-FarÈd, vol. 2, part 4, p. 227. 20. Ibn al-AtÈr called this introductory section al-mabÅdÈ wa-l-iftitÅ˙iyyÅt (al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 2, pp. 223ff.). This is a much grander title than the one found in Ibn ‘Abd Rabbihi’s work of an earlier period in which he uses the term ßudËr (see Ibn ‘Abd Rabbihi, al-‘Iqd al-FarÈd, vol. 2, part 4, pp. 295–7). I would propose that Ibn al-AtÈr’s designated title reflects the increased emphasis he places upon this part of the letter. 21. Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 2, p. 224. 22. Ibid., vol. 2, p. 224. 23. Ibid., vol. 2, p. 224. 24. Ibid., vol. 2, p. 227. 25. Ibid., vol. 2, p. 227. 26. Ibid., vol. 2, p. 233. 27. Ibid., vol. 2, p. 235. 28. The Arabic expression for ‘his high excellency’ is al-majlis al-sÅmÈ, an interesting expression because the word majlis strictly means ‘place of sitting’ or ‘council’. In this context, of course, it is ‘a metonymic reference to the person who held the seat’ and was first used in the ‘AbbÅsid and FÅtimid Chanceries as an honorific title for Kings and Sultans (Guo, ‘Arabic Documents from the Red Sea Port of Quseir’, p. 189). Guo notes that al-majlis was ‘used in the AyyËbid period exclusively to address high-ranking government officials’, specifically by the sultan when addressing those below him in rank such as viziers and emirs (ibid., pp. 165 and 189). Yet it is interesting that Stern (‘Petitions from the Mamluk Period’, p. 274) chooses to translate the word as ‘excellency’, whereas Guo prefers to stick with the literal translation of ‘seat’. This is a dilemma I faced in my own translation of terms in Chapter 7 that refer metonymically to the Ruler, such as al-maqÅm lit., ‘the place, abode’. 29. Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 2, p. 236.

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30. Ibid., p. 236. 31. ‘AbdullÅh YËsuf ‘AlÈ, The Meaning of the Holy Qur’Ån, p. 1337, n. 4917. The translation between quotation marks is taken from p. 1337. The relevance of this verse to Ibn al-AtÈr’s letter of congratulation on the birth of a child is that it describes the amazing development that he believes this child will have, so much so that people will marvel at it. 32. The structural identity of epistolary style communications was established very early on, it seems. In his analysis of petitions written in medieval Arabic Khan notes the structure of a petition from 100/718–19 which was clearly divided into what Khan labels ‘functional components’. These were as follows: Invocation; Address; Initial Blessing on addressee; Exposition; Request; Motivation; Final Blessing on addressee. For this and more see Khan, ‘The Historical Development of the Structure of Medieval Arabic Petitions’, p. 8. 33. Murphy, ‘Anonymous of Bologna’, p. 20. 34. Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 2, p. 236. 35. Murphy, ‘Anonymous of Bologna’, p. 16. 36. Ibid., p. 23. 37. Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 2, pp. 237–8. 38. Ibid., pp. 237–8. 39. Cachia, The Arch Rhetorician, p. 8. 40. El-Salem, Rhetoric in al-Mathal al-SÅ’ir, p. 3. El-Salem suspects strongly that the work may belong to Ibn RašÈq (5th/11th century), author of the famous tract al-‘Umda. If Ibn al-AtÈr was the author he certainly restricted himself to some very brief definitions, and in the section on rhetorical devices cited only poetry to support them. But against this view see the editor’s introduction to KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ (pp. 26–7) where he cites Ibn al-AtÈr’s note in one of his sources that he included one hundred du‘Å’ examples in al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ. The editor claims to have counted them and to have found the number to be more or less correct; and he also cites more evidence as proof that Ibn al-AtÈr was the author. However, the editor remains mystified by the confusing arrangement of poetic verses he found at the end of the manuscript, which do not concur with Ibn al-AtÈr’s normal highly methodical approach to scholarship (ibid., p. 25). 41. Ibn al-AtÈr, KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ, pp. 98–9. 42. al-ÓamawÈ, HizÅnat al-Adab wa-˝Åyat al-‘Arab, vol. 1, p. 45. For more general discussion on this and the debate between the sword and the pen see Gully, ‘The Sword and the Pen’, passim. 43. For this and these quotations see al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 6, pp. 274–5. 44. Ibid., p. 278. 45. It is worth noting here the definition of barÅ‘at al-tahalluß as given in the KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ. The author says: ‘[it is] that you move from the attributes and the salutations to what is required in the letter in an appropriate way that does not deviate from the expression and the meaning’. Significantly, there is no place here for iqti∂Åb. See Ibn al-Atir, KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ, p. 99. It is also important to note that tahalluß has its roots in poetry. See Bonebakker, ‘ibtidÅ’’ art., p. 106. Bonebakker makes the important observation that in the later ‘rhetorical’ works ‘the ibtidÅ’ (introduction) is mentioned, along with the tahalluß “transition”, and the intihÅ’ “conclusion” as one of the three sections of the poem or composition [emphasis added] which should receive special attention’. This is significant not least because, as I have shown in this chapter, discussion of the conclusion in the epistolary literature was surprisingly scant. 46. For all this see Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 2, p. 244.

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47. Ibid., p. 251. 48. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙ vol. 7, p. 31. 49. Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 2, p. 255. 50. Ibid., p. 261. 51. For this explanation see ‘AlÈ, The Meaning of the Holy Qur’Ån, p. 1172, n. 4206. 52. Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, p. 260. 53. See Sanni, The Arabic Theory of Prosification and Versification, pp. 77ff. Since an illustration of these examples would take up considerable space here I refer the reader to those examples provided by Sanni, which are in any case well presented and difficult to improve upon. 54. Ibid., p. 73. 55. El-Salem, Rhetoric in al-Mathal al-SÅ’ir, pp. 124–5. 56. Ibid., p. 120. 57. Ibid., p. 121. 58. For these quotations see ibid., pp. 132–3. 59. The others being ˙all and iqtibÅs. 60. Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 2, p. 241. 61. In artistic form duende relates to emotional and authentic expression. The term is often used of a state that is reached by the flamenco dancer or the guitarist producing the music. ‘Duende is a power and not a behavior, it is a struggle and not a concept. I have heard an old master guitarist say: “Duende is not in the throat; duende surges up from the soles of the feet … which means it is not a matter of ability, but of real live form; of blood; of ancient culture; of creative action”.’ For this definition see ‘What is Duende?’, http:// www.duendedrama.com/duendees.htm, accessed 5 February 2007. 62. The Arabic terms fiqra or qarÈna are used to refer to clauses – namely those that carry a fully independent meaning – that make up a paragraph of balanced, rhyming prose. Generally there were two, three or sometimes four such clauses in a ‘paragraph’, but sometimes more. In the example cited here I counted thirty-two such clauses in a document of twenty-three printed lines. 63. Horst, ‘Arabische Briefe der HorazmšÅhs’, passim. 64. Ibid., pp. 26 and 28, for example. The translation is Cachia’s, who notes that ‘every word in a hemistich or in a vehicle of prose agree(s) in measure, rhyme, and grammatical case with the correspondingly placed word in the next hemistich or versicle’. See Cachia, The Arch Rhetorician, p. 18. 65. Jackson, ‘Some preliminary reflections on the chancery correspondence of the al-QÅ∂È al-FÅ∂il’, passim. 66. Ibid., p. 213, for instance. 67. Ivanyi, ‘Dynamic vs. Static’, p. 54. 68. Ivanyi, ‘On Rhyming Endings and Symmetric Phrases in al-HamadhÅnÈ’s MaqÅmÅt’, passim. 69. For this see Schönig, Das Sendschreiben des ‘Abdal˙amÈd b.Ya˙yÅ, pp. 89–91, 97–9 and 99–101. For a definition of tarßÈ‘ see below in this chapter. 70. Latham, ‘The beginnings of Arabic prose literature: the epistolary genre’, pp. 174–6 esp. 71. al-ÓalabÈ, Óusn al-Tawassul, p. 206. 72. Blachère, ‘al-HamadhÅnÈ’, art., p. 106. 73. Ayyad, ‘Regional Literature: Egypt’, p. 419. 74. The reader is once again referred to Gully and Hinde, ‘QÅbËs ibn WušmagÈr’, for proof of this.

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  75. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 2, p. 279.   76. Ibid., vol. 2, p. 280. But at that time scholars did not seem to be aware of the metrical qualities of saj‘ identified by modern scholarship. A good starting point for this discussion is Stewart, ‘Saj‘ in the Qur’Ån’, pp. 111ff. Stewart then develops the theory that for Ibn al-AtÈr the word, not the syllable, was the basis of saj‘ prosody.   77. Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 1, p. 195.   78. An idea borrowed from al-‘AskarÈ perhaps (al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 2, p. 280), although it is important to note that al-‘AskarÈ employed the term izdiwÅj, not saj‘ (see below) for the majority of balanced, rhyming discourse in prose writing.   79. Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 1, p. 199.   80. Ibid., p. 196.   81. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 2, 281.   82. For example, Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 1, pp. 204ff.   83. Ibid., pp. 201–2.   84. See now Gully and Hinde, ‘QÅbËs ibn WušmagÈr’, pp. 182–3, where it is shown that counting the number of syllables gives a much deeper analysis of the psychology behind an epistolary text.   85. Stewart, ‘Saj‘ in the Qur’Ån’, passim. For Ibn al-AtÈr’s analysis, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 1, pp. 272ff.   86. See al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 2, pp. 286ff.   87. Horst, ‘Besondere Formen der Kunstprosa’, p. 221.   88. al-ÓalabÈ, Óusn al-Tawassul, p. 207.   89. Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 1, pp. 272ff.   90. al-ÓalabÈ, Óusn al-Tawassul, p. 207.   91. This term appears to originate from its usage in the making of necklaces, in which one side of the pearls is symmetrical with the other.   92. We can not ignore the terminology here, that is, awzÅn and a‘jÅz, which are taken from poetry. In Chapter 2 I attempted to show some of the similarities between prose and poetry, and their mutual influences, but particularly that of poetry on prose.   93. Translation from ‘AlÈ, The Meaning of the Holy Qur’Ån, p. 1613.   94. Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 1, p. 259.   95. al-ÓalabÈ, Óusn al-Tawassul, p. 209. Translation is taken from ‘AlÈ, The Meaning of the Holy Qur’Ån, p. 1641.   96. al-ÓalabÈ, Óusn al-Tawassul, p. 209.   97. Ibid., pp. 209–10. Translation is taken from ‘AlÈ, The Meaning of the Holy Qur’Ån, p. 1641. But this is actually not the whole story concerning these categories here. In his Íub˙, al-QalqašandÈ focuses on two types of saj‘ identified by al-RummÅnÈ (d. 386/996), a theologian and linguist of the 4th/10th century. The two categories described by al-QalqašandÈ (Íub˙, vol. 2, pp. 282–3) are al-saj‘ al-˙ÅnÈ and al-saj‘ al-‘ņil. The terms were carried over into the AyyËbid period at least, evidenced by their deployment in Ibn ŠÈt’s Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba (pp. 79–80). It is beyond the scope of this study to discuss them here because although some elements overlap with those identified by Ibn al-Atir and al-ÓalabÈ, others conflict. The subject requires a full, thorough examination, in fact. Of equal interest here is al-QalqašandÈ’s remark that the category called al-saj‘ al-˙ÅnÈ was adopted by al-QÅ∂È al-FÅ∂il, for example, while the other category was part of a much earlier tradition.   98. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 2, p. 280.   99. Kanazi, Studies in the KitÅb aß-ÍinÅ‘atayn, p. 136. 100. Ibid., p. 137.

164 ] 101. 102. 103. 104. 105.

106. 107. 108. 109. 110. 111.

112. 113. 114. 115. 116. 117. 118. 119. 120. 121. 122. 123. 124.

125. 126. 127. 128. 129. 130.

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Again, there was one type for prose, one for poetry. See note 97. ÓijÅb, BalÅ©at al-KuttÅb fÈ l-‘Aßr al-‘AbbÅsÈ, p. 162. See also note 101. Clanchy, From Memory to Written Record, p. 267. ‘Equivalence’ is a category dealt with by al-‘AskarÈ and also by Ibn SinÅn al-HafÅjÈ (d. 466/1073), for example, in his Sirr al-FaßÅ˙a, an important work on eloquence. Kanazi describes musÅwÅt in al-‘AskarÈ’s work as ‘where the ma‘ÅnÈ are equal to the alfÅΩ and the alfÅΩ to the ma‘ÅnÈ, and where the one does not exceed the other; it is the intermediary style between conciseness and prolixity’. See his Studies in the KitÅb aß-ÍinÅ‘atayn, p. 106. For a stimulating account of al-HafÅjÈ’s concept of faßÅ˙a see Suleiman, ‘The Concept of FaßÅ˙a in Ibn SinÅn al-HafÅjÈ’. Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 2, pp. 120 and pp. 146ff. Kanazi, Studies in the KitÅb aß-ÍinÅ‘atayn, p. 110. Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 2, p. 69. Ibid., pp. 119–20. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 2, p. 216. Ibn Halaf’s use of the word ˙išwa, or ˙ušwa lit., ‘bowels’ to refer to the lower classes is highly pejorative, and reflects the haughty demeanour that underlines his whole thesis on the eliteness of writing, as described in Chapter 3. I might add here that his argument for the supremacy of writing over orality was influenced in part by a class structure created by some members of the intellectual elite which had no time for the spoken language of the masses. See al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 6, p. 298. Ibid., p. 298. Ibid., p. 298. El-Salem, Rhetoric in al-Mathal al-SÅ’ir, p. 131. Kanazi, Studies in the KitÅb aß-ÍinÅ‘atayn, p. 109. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 6, p. 297. Cited in al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 6, p. 317. Ibid., p. 318. Ibid., pp. 319–20. Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 2, p. 145. Ibid., vol. 2, p. 121. Ibid., pp. 121–2. I†nÅb occurs in either a literal (˙aqÈqa) or an extended (majÅz) sense (p. 121). The translation and the comment prior to the verse are taken from ‘AlÈ, The Meaning of the Holy Qur’Ån, p. 1056 and p. 1056, n. 3671. Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, p. 127. Ibid., p. 128. He gives many further examples to illustrate his point, including three different versions of a letter, the original written by ÊÅhir ibn al-Óusayn to the Caliph al-Ma’mËn after he had defeated and killed an adversary. The original was, according to Ibn al-AtÈr, a fine example of brevity (Ar. ÈjÅz), so Ibn al-AtÈr gives an example of the same information written according to the requirements of i†nÅb, and one he classifies as an illustration of ta†wÈl. The latter amounts to little more than a mundane account of the narrative of events. See al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 2, pp. 129–30. Ibid., p. 146. Ibid., p. 146. Ibid., p. 147. Kanazi, Studies in the KitÅb aß-ÍinÅ‘atayn, p. 110. Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 2, p. 153. Ibid., p. 68.

Balũa, epistolary structure and style 131. 132. 133. 134. 135. 136. 137. 138. 139. 140. 141. 142. 143. 144. 145. 146. 147. 148. 149. 150. 151. 152.

153. 154. 155. 156.

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Ibid., p. 70. Ibid., p. 74. Ibn ŠÈt, Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba, p. 61. Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 1, p. 235. El-Salem, Rhetoric in al-Mathal al-SÅ’ir, p. 19. Ibn al-AtÈr, al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, vol. 2, p. 77. Ibn Halaf, MawÅdd al-BayÅn, p. 145. Ibid., p. 145. Von Grunebaum translates bayÅn as ‘lucidity, distinctness’. See von Grunebaum, ‘BayÅn’ art., p. 1114. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 6, pp. 320–1. Ibid., p. 321. Ibn Halaf, MawÅdd al-BayÅn, p. 47. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 6, p. 323. Ibid., p. 324. Ibid., pp. 324–5. Ibid., pp. 325–6. Ibid., p. 301. Ibid., p. 305. For this see ibid., p. 281. Ibid., p. 284. Ibid., pp. 298–9. Ibid., p. 299. Text and context as contemporary linguistic phenomena expounded by Halliday and others are certainly very relevant to this whole chapter. Halliday’s categories such as ‘field’, ‘tenor’ and ‘mode’ could easily be used as a discursive framework for any given epistle. For more on this see Halliday and Hasan, Language, Context and Text, p. 12. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 6, p. 306. Ibid., p. 307. Ibid., p. 307. Ibid., p. 311.

CHAPTER

7 epistol ary protocol

This whole book is, in a sense, about epistolary protocol. The study of the culture of letter-writing in the Islamic Middle period could have gone in many different directions. This work has not placed much focus on the metalinguistic details of letter-writing, such as the spacing requirements for specific aspects of a given epistle, even though those details are in themselves fascinating and important, but some reference will be made to them later in this chapter. What should have become clear so far, however, is that the secretaries spared no detail in setting the parameters, codes and protocol for epistolary composition. In this final chapter I am going to focus on two things. The first is to look in much more detail at two elements of letter-writing which were emphasised by the secretaries. These were the salutation and the honorifics. The chapter will be concluded by a brief, but necessary, illustration of two very different types of letter to give the reader a further indication of how a letter was constructed and on what theoretical bases. At the end of the previous chapter I mentioned the importance of text and context in all aspects of Islamic letter-writing. The du‘Å’ section of a letter was, together with the honorifics, possibly the most important example of how text and context combined to maximum effect. This point was expressed clearly by Ibn Halaf in his MawÅdd al-BayÅn: ‘the invocations must prove the objectives of the letter … If the epistle is on the subject of mourning the invocation should be derived from the description of it’.1 Equally significant is that in the later period – certainly by the time of al-MawßilÈ – there was increasing debate about the etymological sense of given words in the salutation – whether they were nouns, adjectives or verbs, for instance. This debate appears to have been fuelled by the increased length of honorifics in praise of Rulers, particularly during the AyyËbid and MamlËk periods, in which each word had to be carefully selected according to the rank of the addressee.

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Salutation (Ar. du‘Å’) The salutation has been defined as follows: ‘word of greeting used to begin a letter (noun); an acknowledgement or expression of good-will (greeting); or act of honor or courteous recognition (salute)’.2 All three of these sub-definitions of the word ‘salutation’ are relevant to my understanding of the Arabic concept of du‘Å’. Two additional things need to be said here. First, the salutation – which I showed in Chapter 6 was mainly part of the introductory section of a letter – was expressed in two ways in the Arabic epistle during the pre-modern Islamic period. The first of these was through the optative mood of the verb expressing a wish or a hope. The second was through the use of the Arabic verb mÅ zÅla ‘not to cease [may it not cease]’ and its concomitants. This will be looked at in more detail below. Second, the Arabic du‘Å’ was also a form invocation, a supplication and prayer of a specifically Islamic nature. The etymology of du‘Å’ in Arabic is in itself proof of this objective. Among other things it bears the sense of ‘calling’, a concept that lies at the very heart of invocation in a Western context too. Calling out to a higher source, seeking the help of, or invoking good wishes upon, the Ruler were an important element of the Islamic du‘Å’ in letter-writing. The invocation was also an integral component of the conclusion in Arabic epistles (see below). Perelman emphasises the importance of the salutation in the Western epistolary literature as a result of the influential work of Alberic of Monte Cassino (11th century ad): ‘the treatment of the salutation expands to become the single largest topic in dictiminal teaching, recreating and redefining rhetorical theory to reflect both the social reality and the social ideology of the institutions in which it existed’.3 I would say that the development of interest in the salutation in pre-modern Islamic society grew equally fast. In fact, long sections on the du‘Å’ in Arabic secretarial works even earlier than the 5th/11th century suggest the Islamic literature might have stimulated interest in the salutation in the Western literature rather than the other way round. Two of the most important documents in the pre-modern Islamic literature on the salutation are Ibn al-AtÈr’s KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ and al-MawßilÈ’s al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ. The latter seems, in some respects, to be a fuller version of the former. Both will be referred to frequently in this chapter. Al-MawßilÈ states that ‘the objective of epistolary correspondence is to aim the salutation at the addressee and to seek to gain favour with his mind’ (cf. the ‘securing of Good-Will’ in Western epistolary literature).4 The salutation was a section of an epistle generally reserved for Caliphs, Kings, viziers and high-ranking princes, but was also used for bureaucrats of distinction and professional people of esteemed standing. In an earlier article I looked at the way in which the language of the salutation reflected the rank and achievements of scholars of various disciplines. Although I was unable to date exactly when this trend began I concluded that it became an increasingly popular pursuit from the 6th/12th century, culminating in what seemed to be an obligatory part of letter-writing during the Ottoman period. Al-MawßilÈ’s emphasis on this trend reflects the growing interest at that time in playing with words relevant to the scholar’s individual profession. With the passing of time the wording of the

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salutation became more sophisticated, more subtle, but also more predictable. The secretaries increasingly composed epistles on behalf of grammarians, jurists, theologians and even ßËfÈs, skilfully incorporating expressions pertaining to the particular discipline of the person on whose behalf the letter was composed.5 After discussing a substantial amount of theory relating to epistolary protocol and invocation protocol in particular (some of which will be evaluated below), al-MawßilÈ gives numerous examples of the different types of invocation available to the secretary in accordance with the rank and profession of the addressee. He reminds us at various points that his work is no more than an introductory tract on the protocol of salutations and honorifics. As he notes, the stylistic options for these categories are unlimited. What he ends up with is a repository of model salutations and honorifics, with the latter being presented as part of a system of (near-) synonyms where an expression is given with all its possible variant replacements. Although the role of the salutation was evidently growing by the 5th/11th century, as shown in the work of HilÅl ibn Mu˙assin al-ÍÅbi’,6 one of the more noticeable characteristics of later salutation and invocation forms was their increased length. A length of several clauses for each was quite normal by the time of al-MawßilÈ.

Initial du‘Å’ (salutation) forms The following models of salutation are just a few of the examples given by al-MawßilÈ. They illustrate not only the way that language reflected an acknowledgement of the differences between ranks, but also the level of punning on the various professions that became characteristic of later Arabic letter-writing.

For Caliphs

According to Ibn ŠÈt, in the AyyËbid period the Ruler would only use a salutation to those of equal rank, never to those below his command, and hence would only use such invocations as lÅ zÅla or lÅ bari˙a ‘may he [it] remain’. This would also apply to any sons who were his direct heirs. He would also use only the first plural form of the verb when addressing those below him in order to show his greatness.7 The following is an example of a du‘Å’ form used in honour of a Caliph: May God make eternal the Ruler of the mighty dÈwÅn. May his days continue to be festivals of hope, and his affairs [continue] to bring gains for those who have hope. May his courtyards [continue to be] places that can not be violated by the vicissitudes of fate, and his commands resolute over destiny.8

For viziers May God make eternal the days of your Grace, and extend his everlasting protection over every member of the hoi polloi and the elite. Let his abundant grace flow over each person, near and far, and fortify his harsh whip towards each enemy and rebellious one, and may the tongues of praise and the hearts of the faithful ones become his servant.9

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For judges

As with all categories and ranks referred to in this section titles, honorifics and salutations/invocations had to be constructed in accordance with the status of the addressee. The rank of judge was no exception in this, although a distinction was made between the very top rank of judge [Ar. qÅ∂È l-qu∂Åt] and those just below him within the same rank. For example, invocations for the highest rank are exemplified as follows: a‘azza llÅhu a˙kÅma l-šarÈ‘a bi-l-janÅb al-‘ÅlÈ ‘May God fortify the regulations of Islamic law through the high honourable one’. For those just below him the following type of expression was used: ˙arasa llÅhu l-qÅ∂iya l-ajalla al-af∂ala l-akmala … ‘May God protect the most revered, the most meritorious, the most perfect judge …’. This form of address could also be used for the judge of the highest order, but in this case the honorifics would contain the indicative suffix yÅ’, namely al-ajallÈ, and so on. Accompanying compound honorifics were also rank sensitive, of course, so for the very highest rank of judge such honorifics as malik al-‘ulamÅ’, ˙ukm al-mulËk wa-l-salņÈn ‘King of the religious scholars, the judgement of Kings and Rulers’ would be used. However, for the lower rank such expressions as the following were used: ra’Ès al-‘ulamÅ’ al-mubrazÈn, muftÈ l-muslimÈn, sayf al-naΩar, lisÅn al-atar ‘Head of the most prominent religious scholars, official expounder of the law of the Muslims, the sword of jurisdiction, the voice of tradition’.10 Other elements of the salutation in honour of judges included the following: lÅ zÅla ra’yuhu fÅti˙ abwÅb al-ßawÅb, lÅbis atwÅb al-tawÅb, kÅmil al-adawÅt wa-l-ÅdÅb, bÅhir al-i‘jÅz wa-l-i‘jÅb ‘His judgement continues to open doors to what is right, and to be the wearer of garments of merit, the perfecter of particles11 and belles-lettres, dazzling in its inimitability and acclaim.’12 In the following sections I shall give some examples of honorifics and saluation/ invocation forms for several different categories of profession in pre-modern Islamic society. Du‘Å’ forms relating to these professionals invariably involved punning on the appropriate profession.

For composition secretaries

Perhaps not surprisingly, the composition secretaries did not let the opportunity pass to include themselves within the ranks of those to be extolled in the epistolary literature. The type of titles and honorifics used for scholars of this rank were as follows: al-ßadr al-ajall al-kabÈr al-ra’Ès al-nafÈs al-lawda‘È al-mufliq al-balÈ© lisÅn al-‘Arab [etc.] ‘the foremost, the most revered, the distinguished, the invaluable, the sagacious, the proficient, the eloquent, the tongue of the Arabs’, and so on. Salutations for secretaries went along the following lines: lÅ zÅla kÅmil awßÅf al-barÅ‘a mutaqqif awadd al-yarÅ‘a fÅris ˙albat al-aqwÅl allatÈ hiya l-šajÅ fÈ ˙ulËq al-a‘dÅ’ al-bÅhirat al-šajÅ‘a musaddid al-maqÅßid fÈ ˙ifΩ al-asrÅr min al-i∂Å‘a wa-l-idÅ‘a ‘May he continue to be the one with the perfect qualities of proficiency, the educator of the most loved ones of the pen, outstanding in speech which is the foreign body in the throat of enemies, and which is dazzling in its bravery. He is the one who shows the right way in preserving secrets from dissipation and destruction.’13

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This short salutation makes subtle reference to several of the most important duties of the secretary, such as bewildering his enemies with his eloquence and keeping secrets.

For physicians

The position of physicians in pre-modern Islamic society was a revered one. Members of the medical profession were regarded as sages, a perception which reflected the association with the Greek tradition. Thus, references in honorifics and invocations to Plato, for instance, or to the philosopher and physician Galen were not unusual.14 The medical profession was highly regarded as one of the Islamic ‘life sciences’ in much the same way as jurisprudence or grammar, for instance, were considered as essential components of the Islamic and humanistic sciences. The Toledan judge and historian al-AndalusÈ (d. 462/1070) put it this way: ‘In early Islam [the Arabs] focused on philologic sciences and Muslim jurisprudence. The only other science that was held in high esteem among them was the healing art, a profession acquired by very few, yet, because of the need for its services, appreciated by the majority’.15 Al-MawßilÈ includes the category of physicians, therefore, as one of equal status alongside the others cited in this section. Here is an example of the type of honorifics used for this category of professional: ra’Ès al-a†ibbÅ’ aflņËn al-fa†in gÅlÈnËs al-zaman mu‘tamad al-mulËk wa-l-salņÈn ‘[he is] the first among physicians, the sagacious Plato, the Galen of the time, the proxy of Kings and Sultans’.16 Invocations for physicians are exemplified by the following: adÅma llÅhu ˙usna ††ilÅ‘ih wa-nafÅ bihi ‘an kull jism muhawwif awjÅlahu wa-awjÅ‘ahu wa-ja‘alahu … mubÅraka l-ßadaf fÈ ma∂Èq al-‘ilÅj bi-bas† ‘ilmihi wa-ttisÅ‘ih ‘May God make eternal his excellent knowledge, and remove with it from each fearful body the dread and pain, and make him … the blessed pearl in the channel of medical cure through the unfolding of his extensive knowledge.’17

Honorifics and initial du‘Å’ forms for astrologers

The interrelatedness of the sciences in pre-modern Islamic society can be seen in so many different ways. One of these ways is in the relationship between astrology and medicine,18 with both being categorised as ‘life sciences’. The relationship between these two sciences is founded principally on the ancient notion that ‘planetary bodies can affect health and well-being … Astrology affirmed the belief that physical sympathy makes earthly things dependent on the movements of celestial bodies, that the virtually incorruptible stars rule over corruptible terrestrial things’.19 One of the most famous expositors of the science of astrology was al-KindÈ (d. 259/873), who predicted the duration of the ‘AbbÅsid dynasty using astrological interpretations. Titles and honorifics of the following sort were used for astrologers: al-šayh al-ajall al-fÅ∂il al-ra’Ès, al-mu˙aqqiq, al-fa†in al-dakÈ al-zakÈ fulÅn al-dÈn turjumÅn al-aflÅk burhÅn al-idrÅk ‘the most revered, honourable Sheikh, the most prominent one, the investigator, the sagacious one, the intelligent, the pure, so-and-so of religion, interpreter of the celestial spheres, the proof of understanding.’20

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The salutations for astrologers may be exemplified as follows: lÅ zÅla qÅ’iman min al-qalam al-falakÈ ‘alÅ zÅwiya wa-ha†† mustaqÈm dÅ ha†† fÈ kašf kunËz ˙aqÅ’iqih ˙attÅ yuqÅl innahu la-dË haΩΩ ‘aΩÈm ‘Åliman bi-jaryÅn al-kawÅkib fÈ masÅbi˙ aflÅkihÅ li-taqdÈr al-‘azÈz al-‘alÈm ‘he remains rooted in relation to the celestial line at an angle and a straight line, [remaining] on course to discover the treasures of its truths so that it may be said that he is one with enormous prosperity, acquainted with the manner in which the planets move where their orbits float in appreciation of the Mighty Omniscient one.’21

Honorifics and initial du‘Å’ forms for merchants

Merchants were also accorded due rank in the form of honorifics and salutations/ invocations. By the end of the 3rd/9th century Arab traders had established major trade routes across extensive terrain, from Mesopotamia to India, Indonesia and even China. The El Mallakhs put it like this: ‘Within the Arab empire, trade and commerce were allocated a unique role, largely because these economic activities had been prominent at the time and place of the birth of Islam.’22 Another important point needs to be made here. Goitein’s work on the Cairo Geniza documents23 has revealed the importance of correspondence between traders during the 11th–13th centuries ad. Although Goitein’s research focuses only on communication between members of the Jewish business community, there is little doubt that similar communications would have been exchanged between members of the Arab and Muslim communities. One very plausible explanation for the need for diplomatic, epistolary protocol among traders may be derived from Goitein’s observation that ‘international trade was largely dependent on personal relationships and mutual confidence’.24 Maintaining the confidence of a business counterpart and addressing him in the appropriate manner would surely have been part of that process. Mottahedeh identifies the merchants as one of the key social groups of Islamic society, along with secretaries and soldiers. Although they were ‘an identifiable and relatively small group’, they were able to exert considerable influence on government policy, sometimes causing problems for the Ruler in their capacity as ‘an international credit community’.25 The type of honorifics used for merchants were as follows: al-nÅhidÈ al-ajall al-mu˙taram al-tiqa al-amÈn al-mu‘tamad al-makÈn fulÅn al-dÈn ihtiyÅr al-mulËk wa-l-salņÈn ‘the most revered nÅhidÈ [ship owner] the respected one, the one in whom there is trust, the reliable one, the proxy, the distinguished, so-and-so of religion, the choice of Kings and Rulers’. Invocations for merchants are exemplified by the following: lÅ zÅla yajnÈ timÅra l-fawÅ’id min nÅmÈ ©irsihi wa-yazÈdu fÈ bulË© al-amal yawmahu ‘alÅ amsihi ‘May he continue to reap the fruits of the gains from those who plant their seedlings, and [may he continue] to achieve all that he hopes for by increasing today what he gained yesterday …’

Honorifics and initial du‘Å’ forms for ÍËfÈs:

Although the origins of Sufism date back to the ascetic practices of al-Óasan al-BaßrÈ (d. 110 /728), it was not until the late 5th/11th century that the term taßawwuf as

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a designation of ‘official’ or ‘mainstream’ Sufism gained common parlance, specifically amongst the SunnÈ SaljËqs.26 It is not surprising, therefore, that the influence of the ‘men of mysticism’ was only fully reflected in the inšÅ’ literature in the form of honorifics and invocations at around this time. ÍËfÈs maintained their popularity in the epistolary literature until the 19th century ad, as evidenced in the work on inšÅ’ by Óasan al-‘A††År.27 Honorifics for ÍËfÈs can be exemplified as follows: al-šayh al-ajall al-ßÅli˙ al-wari‘ al-‘afÈf al-‘Åbid al-zÅhid al-mubÅrak al-†Åhir al-sÅlik al-nÅsik al-‘Årif bi-llÅh qudwat al-ßÅli˙Èn barakat al-duwal murabbÈ l-mulËk wa-l-salņÈn ‘the most revered Sheikh, the virtuous, the pious, the chaste, the worshiper, the abstemious, the blessed one, the pure, the one who follows the spiritual path, the ascetic, the one who knows God intimately, the model of the righteous, the blessing of dynasties, the one who instructs Kings and Rulers’. Invocations for ÍËfÈs went along the following lines: lÅ zÅla nņiqan bi-lisÅn al-˙aqÈqa, hÅdiyan ilÅ sulËk al-†arÈqa mutafatti˙a anwÅr al-mawÅ‘iΩ tafattu˙a nuwwÅr al-˙adÈqa qÅ’iman bi-˙ujjat al-hÅliq ‘alÅ l-halÈqa ‘he continues to be a spokesman for the Truth,28 a guide to following the ÍËfÈ path,29 illuminating the lights of spiritual counsel in the way that flowers in the garden open up, asserting the proof of the Creator on creation’.30

Honorifics and initial du‘Å’ forms for wise philosophers

Philosophers played a key role in the development of pre-modern Islamic society, and their contribution to intellectual and spiritual life was enormous. The rise to prominence of the role of the philosopher in that society was assisted by the translation movement and the consequent influence of Greek thinkers. Thus, honorifics for philosophers would often contain reference to such thinkers as Aristotle: al-˙akÈm al-ajall al-mÅhir al-faylasËf al-man†iqÈ ra’Ès ahl al-falsafa dË l-funËn al-badÈ‘ati l-ßan‘a aris†Ë al-˙ikma iskandar al-himma jÅmi‘ aštÅt al-fa∂Å’il ˙ujaj ‘ulËm al-awÅ’il mu’addib al-mulËk wa-l-salņÈn ‘the most revered wise one, the expert, the philosopher, the logician, the leader of the philosophers, the one of innovative crafts, the Aristotle of wisdom, the Alexander of ambition, the one who brings together all virtues, the proofs of the sciences of the forefathers, the educator of Kings and Rulers’. Invocations for philosophers would run along the following lines: lÅ zÅlat al-‘ulËm al-‘aqliyya bi-adillat ‘ilmihi mubarhana wa-l-maqÅlÅt al-˙ikmiyya bi-tÅqib fahmihi mudawwana wa-l-aškÅl al-handasiyya bi-la†Èf jallihi mubayyana wa-l-ma‘lËmÅt al-ilÅhiyya wÅ∂i˙at al-ma‘ÅnÈ bi-alfÅΩihi l-muta‘ayyina wa-l-mafhËmÅt al-riyÅ∂iyya bi-ta˙qÈqihi mutazÅyidat al-wu∂Ë˙ mutazayyina ‘the rational sciences continue to be demonstrated through the proofs of his knowledge, and the aphoristic sayings [continue to be] recorded through his sagacity. Geometrical forms continue to be clear through his magnificent kindness, and divine facts [continue to be] perspicacious of meaning through his specific expressions, and mathematical concepts are more than obvious and adorned through his rigorous investigation’.31

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Al-MawßilÈ’s al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ was a significant piece of work for many reasons, not least because he was one of the few scholars, if not the only one, to draw attention to the invocation (which was part of the salutation) at the conclusion of a given letter. The final invocation had a special function, for its purpose was not only to complete the discourse, but also to inform those of high rank that they were more revered than any that had gone before them, and that they were without equal. The final invocation served as a reinforcement of what had been expressed earlier in the letter. Final invocations were also composed in accordance with the rank of the recipient, or the person about whom the letter was being written. One of the most common expressions of the final invocation exalting the Ruler was the following: amadda llÅhu ΩÈllahu ‘May God extend his patronage’, with the verb amadda sometimes being replaced, often by basa†a or asba©a, both of which were deemed to convey the same sense. The word Ωill itself was placed first in the hierarchy of importance amongst other similar expressions such as ‘uluww and sumuww ‘exaltedness’, principally because a Ruler could be exalted but not necessarily be a protector of the people.32 The latter two terms mentioned here did not convey the sense of protection of Ωill. Al-MawßilÈ spends some time on the intricacies of semantic distinction. To one example he devotes a lengthy paragraph to distinguish between the sense of the two nouns ‘uluww and rif‘a, both of which have the sense of high rank or standing. When two nouns, for instance, appeared to be identical in meaning, al-MawßilÈ normally examined their base meaning in order to establish whether they could be interchanged unrestrictedly; in other words, to test if they were true synonyms.33 In the case of these two nouns the argument ran as follows. What is the difference, if any, between the following expressions that were common in the final invocation (and probably in the initial one too): adÅma llÅhu ‘uluwwahu and adÅma llÅhu rif‘atahu ‘May God make everlasting his exaltedness’? The two nouns are, prima facie, identical in meaning, but on closer inspection it becomes clear that the former is worthy of a higher status. Everything that is high (Ar. ‘Ålin) must also be raised (Ar. murtafa‘), but the opposite does not obtain. In addition to giving some supporting citations from the Qur’Ån, al-MawßilÈ presents the following scenario: if two people are sitting, and one of them is on the ground, the other on a chair, the one sitting on the chair is considered to be raised (murtafa‘), but is not deemed to be high (‘Ålin), since ‘high’ applies to something that attains a clear height that can not be reached. Many of the expressions from epistolary writing from this period are still discernible in modern letter-writing, and in oral and written formulae derived from the numerous expressions used in invocations. A good number of those formulae are listed by al-MawßilÈ in an informative section on what is written to individuals of different rank on specific occasions. Examples of this are the following: as‘ada llÅhu ßabÅ˙ahu ‘May God make his morning happy’ (said to greet someone in the morning); ∂Å‘afa llÅhu lahu rË˙ahu ‘May God increase for him his spirit’ (said on the death of someone); rafa‘a llÅhu šakiyyatahu ‘May God remove his suffering’ (said to someone who is sick), with such examples being cited in the third person. Although the majority of epistles were addressed to the third person, as was the custom in

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letter-writing, first person addresses were also possible, as in the following: manna llÅhu bi-‘Åfiyatika ‘May God bestow upon you abundant good health’. Other miscellaneous expressions included formulae for those who had been arrested, such as: sahhala llÅhu i†lÅqahu ‘May God facilitate his release’. In order to thank someone there were a number of specific formulae; for those of high rank, allÅh ya˙faΩka ‘May God preserve you’; and for those of lower rank bÅraka llÅhu fÈka ‘May God bless you’. There were also specific invocation forms that occurred as part of the conclusion of a letter.34

The protocol of initial correspondence (Ar. iftitÅ˙/ibtidÅ’) One of the four best-known stylistic expressions of letter-writing was aßdarna ‘we have sent’, or derivatives thereof, such as ußdirat ‘it was sent’, referring of course to the despatch of the letter. This appears to have been used in letters from the office of a Ruler to one of similar rank, as well as from the non-contractual viziers during the ‘AbbÅsid period.35 In such epistles the letter itself was sometimes referred to as al-jumla or even al-hidma. Another expression used at this stage of epistles was hÅdihi al-mukÅtaba ilÅ … ‘this letter is to …’, or kitÅbunÅ hÅdÅ ilÅ ‘this letter of ours is to’, with evidence that such an expression was used to address emirs as well as those of higher rank.36 This was the type of protocol followed in letters emanating from the Ruler and composed in the East and in Egypt. But it should be noted that letters from the non-contractual viziers would often begin with kitÅbÈ ‘my letter’,37 and that during the Fņimid period in Egypt the expression aßdara and its derivatives appear to have been dropped in letters from viziers. Ibn Halaf tells us that their epistles would begin with kitÅbunÅ ‘our letter’.38 The expression kitÅbÈ ‘my letter’ was also commonly used by subjects to Rulers in Eastern regions. It should be noted here that although the status of subjects was very specifically defined by the term atbÅ‘ (lit. ‘followers’), the class of people represented by that term appears to have been very broad. It often applied to officials of considerable standing, such as AbË al-Fa∂l al-ŠÈrÅzÈ, one of the viceroys of the BanÈ Buwayh. In letters beginning with kitÅbÈ the ruler would be addressed as mawlÅna ‘our mawlÅ’ or mawlÅnÅ al-malik ‘our master the King’.39 It is assumed here that the use of the first person singular by the one on whose behalf the letter was sent reflects humility, as opposed to the use of the first person plural which was the preserve of Kings and Rulers, as I mentioned before. The term aßdara (and its derivatives) was also used by those same subjects, but it would have as its agent the word hÅdim or ‘abd ‘servant’ depending on the rank of the sender. As for letters from subjects to Rulers in the Egyptian territories, they would begin with one of two forms of protocol. One of these was to commence an epistle directly with an invocation – for instance, adÅma llÅhu sul†Åna mawlÅnÅ l-malik ‘May God make eternal the rule of our master the King’, in which the sender (or the one on whose behalf the letter was sent) would refer to himself as the mamlËk ‘slave’. The other way in which epistles from this region began was al-mamlËk yuqabbilu l-ar∂ ‘the slave kisses the ground’, which was also used later in the AyyËbid period,40 as al-MawßilÈ notes (see below).

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The protocol of epistles written in the West, namely in the countries of the Ma©rib, was similar to those composed in the East in most respects, but with some distinctions. For example, in the same way that the one from whom a letter emanated in Eastern epistles could be denoted by the plural verbal agent marker nËn, namely ‘we’, the addressee (singular form) in Western epistles was often marked out of respect by the plural pronoun suffix kum, namely ‘you’ (masc. pl.), as in katabnÅ ilaykum ‘we have written to you’. Two further major differences were that Western epistles would often mention the name of the addressee during the letter, and the addressee could be addressed through reference to his leadership, that is to say, riyÅsatukum al-karÈma ‘Your noble leadership’, for example.41 In the early period it was not unusual to find the expression min fulÅn ilÅ fulÅn ‘from so-and-so to so-and-so’ (with the relevant names of the sender and recipient inserted, of course) at the beginning of the letter, as was the case generally in the Islamic world, such as in Egypt prior to Fņimid rule.42 As is the case in contemporary epistolary writing, the expression ammÅ ba‘d ‘as for what follows’, used as a clear discourse marker, was common at the beginning of an epistle, and it could be followed in letters from the West (North Africa and so on) by either ˙amdu lillÅh ‘thanks be to God’ (or, in later communications, fa-l˙amdu lillÅh) or directly by a statement about the intent of the letter.43 During the time of Ibn al-Ha†Èb (d. 775/1374) epistles would begin either with an acknowledgement of the recipient as a means of venerating him, for example, ilÅ fulÅn ‘to so-and-so’, followed by a series of attributes,44 or with a direct acknowledgement of the sender – for instance min fulÅn ilÅ fulÅn ‘from so-and-so to so-and-so’.45 The latter arrangement also applied in letters to subjects whom Ibn al-Ha†Èb addressed as awliyÅ’ (lit. ‘associates’).46

The protocol of replies (Ar. jawÅbÅt) In previous chapters I have alluded to the importance of the response in epistolary communication. There were those who held that the style and nature of the reply was even more important than the initial correspondence. In this section I am going to demonstrate that by the time of al-MawßilÈ at least a number of criteria were applied to the selection of phraseology in responses. One of the key elements of these criteria was the ranking of expressions such as verbs, noun phrases and adjectives in the same manner as for terms of address, which was exemplified above. The following expressions were all commonly found in responses to epistles. According to al-MawßilÈ they were used for the rank of those who were addressed as al-maqarr, namely, those of the highest rank (see below): warada l-mitÅl al-šarÈf / warada l-mitÅl al-karÈm / warada l-kitÅb al-karÈm. The following was employed for those of the rank below them: warada kitÅb al-janÅb / warada karÈm kitÅb al-janÅb.47 The first point to note here is that in the first set the lexeme mitÅl is viewed by al-MawßilÈ as superior to kitÅb because it gives the sense that the original communication constitutes an example to be followed, a standard to aspire to. KitÅb, on the other hand, bears only the sense of writing. The adjective ßarÈf was held to be superior to karÈm because the sense of ßaraf ‘honour’ demonstrates a quality that is

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different from all others. In the second set the possessive construct kitÅb al-janÅb is inferior to al-kitÅb because it is defined in the former by another noun, whereas in the latter it is defined by itself. Wherever there was some contention about the superiority of one term, or lexeme, over another, reference was made to the definitive source, the Qur’Ån. Such recourse was made with the verbs warada and waßala, which both carry the sense of ‘to arrive’. Some scholars held that these two verbs were of equal weight, but al-MawßilÈ appears to settle the debate by demonstrating that only warada occurs in this sense in the Qur’Ån, and also in the literature of Prophetic Tradition.48 Some readers may be surprised at the employment of such techniques to decide such issues, and the amount of time accorded to such detail. However, lexicographers, jurists and grammarians were just three categories of scholar who were continually searching for a norm, a modus operandi within their respective fields that would permit decisions to be made with an enduring effect on those members of the Islamic community concerned with their findings. The supreme yardstick, therefore, for issues of a linguistic nature which might have legal or diplomatic repercussions was the sacred texts. As al-MawßilÈ puts it, what was sought in all such situations was a consensus, a customary expression that was agreed upon (Ar. i߆ilÅ˙ mujma‘ ‘alayhi). Whereas al-MawßilÈ seems preoccupied extensively with intricate semantics, Ibn al-AtÈr, perhaps because he was writing at least century before al-MawßilÈ, merely lists the appropriate words in rank order. Even more significant, however, is that in the category of replies Ibn al-AtÈr does not sanction the use of warada or ßadara at the highest level, but asserts that those of high rank can only be addressed in replies by nuqabbil al-ar∂ wa-nunhÈ annahu lammÅ kÅna kadÅ wa-kadÅ bÅšara l-mamlËk al-mitÅl al-šarÈf ‘we kiss the ground, and we convey that on such a such a day the slave came into contact with the honourable example’ [reference to the letter, see above]. Only then comes warada l-mitÅl al-šarÈf and so on.49 Al-MawßilÈ gives some guidelines on the type of expressions used in responses by those of high rank to those of lower status, and vice versa. As for the former, he made a clear distinction between the following: waqafnÅ ‘alÅ mukÅtabat fulÅn ‘we have become informed about the writing [letter] of so-and-so, / waqafnÅ ‘alÅ mu†Åla‘at fulÅn ‘we have become informed about the acquainting [letter] of so-and-so’ and: waqafnÅ ‘alÅ mÅ †Åla‘a bih ‘we have become informed about what he acquainted with’ / waqafnÅ ‘alÅ mÅ anhÅh ‘we have become informed about what he conveyed’. The first pair noted here are of a higher status than the second pair because they convey knowledge of the specific communication, regardless of whether the letter itself has been seen by the Ruler or whoever is sending the response. In the case of the second pair there is a sense of vagueness relating to the information that was originally transmitted. In response to a communication from an influential person such as a scholar or ÍËfÈ sheikh, a Ruler would begin his letter with expressions like waßalat ruq‘at/mas†Ërat al-faqÈh ‘the message/communication of the jurist has arrived’. As for replies from one of lower rank to one of higher status, the only manner in which a lowly person such as a servant (Ar. ©ulÅm) could address the Ruler was with taqbÈl al-ar∂ ‘kissing of the ground’, which would then be followed by, for example: yunhÈ wurËd l-awÅmir al-‘Åliya / al-amr al-‘ÅlÈ / al-amr al-mu†Å‘ ‘he conveys the arrival

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of the royal decrees / the supreme command / the obeyed command’. Interestingly, there appears to have been no mention in this context of the standard words for ‘epistle’ such as risÅla; rather, the communications were always referred to in deferential terms as ‘decrees’ (Ar. marÅsim), for example. However, when the servant addressed one of a rank lower than the Ruler, such as the emir, he could not use the adjective ‘Ålin ‘high’, for instance, but was obliged to use nÅfid, for example, in collocation with amr, viz., al-amr al-nÅfid ‘the influential command’. The explanation for this is related to what we have already seen, that is to say, that ‘uluww ‘exaltedness’ is a mighty description that sets it above all other decrees; therefore, it can only be used in conjunction with a decree from the Ruler. As for emirs, it was quite acceptable for the word amr ‘command, decree’ to collocate with mu†Å‘ ‘obeyed’, since obedience to him was incumbent on everyone in his charge.50 As might be expected, the language used for the informal letters (ihwÅniyyÅt) was markedly less formal and, in some cases, personalised. The type of expressions used in responses included the following: waradat al-mušarrafa al-karÈma ‘the honourable, exalted [letter] has arrived’; waradat al-ruq‘a al-karÈma ‘the noble letter has arrived’, or waqaftu ‘alÅ mÅ sa†atathu l-anÅmil al-karÈma ‘I have become acquainted with what the noble fingertips have composed’. An example of the invocations used from those of low rank to their superiors in replies is the following: yuqabbilu l-ar∂ wa-yas’al allÅha an yuhallida mulk mawlÅnÅ wa-yu’ayyidahu wa-yu‘izza sul†Ånahu wa-yu’ayyidahu wa-yudÈma dawlatahu l-qÅhira dawÅma l-aflÅk al-dÅ’ira wa-l-nujËm al-zÅhira ˙attÅ yanqÅda li-†Å‘atihi l-aqdÅr wa-ta˙kuma ‘alayhÅ quwwatuhu wa-l-iqtidÅr ‘he kisses the ground and asks God to eternalise the rule of our master, and support him and fortify his reign, and give him His backing, and make his victorious dynasty endure for ever like the circling orbits, and the radiant stars, so that fate is driven to obey him, and so that his power and capacity pass judgement on it’.51

Hierarchical introductions It has already been argued in this work that although the notions of friendship and intimacy played a role in the development of informal epistolary protocol, a great deal of emphasis remained in formal epistles on the establishment of a hierarchical relationship between the sender and the recipient. Major works such as al-QalqašandÈ’s Íub˙ present both aspects of epistolary etiquette, and from them we are able to construct a balanced picture. Authors of shorter works, however, do not always seem to set out with that objective in mind. Therefore, in a work such as KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ by Ibn al-AtÈr we are left in doubt as to which of the notions of friendship and intimacy, or hierarchy and social position, were more important to him. This interpretation is supported to a large degree by the evidence acquired from his collection of letters, in which even informal letters are mainly exchanges between Rulers and those of high rank, rather than communications between two friends who share an intimate relationship.

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At the beginning of his first chapter in al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ he sets out how one of low rank should address one of high status. To begin with, the basmala must be included – namely, the author should cite bi-smi llÅh al-ra˙mÅn al-ra˙Èm ‘In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful’ – but in letters from high-ranking officials to their equals, or from them to people of lower rank, any of God’s names may be used as an introduction.52 Doxology, that is to say, al-˙amdu lillÅh ‘thanks be to God’, was only permitted in epistles coming from the Ruler’s office.54 The highest-ranking introductory element is taqbÈl al-ar∂ ‘kissing the ground’, as we saw with replies, above. This was then followed in the hierarchy by latm mawņi’ al-aqdÅm, also with the sense of ‘kissing the ground’, but with a literal meaning of ‘kissing the footsteps’, namely those of the Ruler. Further down the list is taqbÈl al-ayÅdÈ ‘kissing of the hands’, and so on.54 It seems therefore, that the emphasis of Ibn al-AtÈr’s presentation is very much on servitude, perhaps even as a reinforcement of the notion of dependency mentioned earlier. In other words, the order of discussion seems to suggest that the most important element of any epistolary communication was for the citizen to know his place, and to know how to address the exalted Ruler. Hierarchy and social position were also reflected in the metalinguistic elements of an epistle, such as the spacing on the page. Letters emanating from the Ruler would have a deep margin and be written in a lavish, unsubtle hand. He would create large spaces between lines so that were three or four finger spaces between them. He would not concern himself much with pointing the consonants and writing the vowels, especially in expressions that were obvious, but he would leave a blank space at the end of the epistle. In other words, everything pertaining to an epistle coming from the office of the Ruler would be grand and a statement, so to speak, of his exalted rank. The Ruler would not write in the margin.55 It was the sole business of the Head of the Chancery to deal with the entitling of a letter and with its sealing, as proof that he had taken sight of it; but none of this could occur, of course, without the signature of the Ruler. The sealing of a letter had a special significance, in fact, being a symbol of noble-heartedness. No letters were more symbolic of that quality than those emanating from the Ruler. The hierarchy of address was also preserved in letters that came from the office of those below the rank of Ruler. The non-contractual viziers during the ‘AbbÅsid rule in Ba©dÅd, who themselves enjoyed a position of some distinction, would address those below them in subtly different ways. In fact, the list of requirements and options was extraordinarily long. For example, the invocation for those directly below them could be: a†Åla llÅhu baqÅ’aka wa-adÅma ta’yÈdaka wa-tamhÈdaka wa-karÅmataka ‘May God give you eternal life and make everlasting your support, assistance and dignity’, while the ones directly below them could be addressed in the following manner: a†Åla llÅhu baqÅ’aka wa-adÅma ‘izzaka wa-˙irÅsataka ‘May God give you eternal life and make everlasting your high rank and tutelage’, and so on.56

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On addressing infidels, or those from denominations other than Islam57 Although the general benefit of epistles as historical evidence in pre-modern Islamic society has been questioned in this work, the value of the epistolary genre in passing down to us a rich record of events and cultural information about society at the time can not be disputed. One example of this is the way that ‘infidels’ were addressed within the context of diplomatic relations. It is clear from the works specialising in aspects of epistolary protocol such as invocation forms that ‘infidels’ were given only marginal consideration. However, from sources focusing more on broader historical and diplomatic aspects there is no doubt that communication with infidel rulers was an integral part of diplomatic relations. This is reflected in the protocol of address. Before giving examples of these communications, it is worth noting how and why the requirement for diplomatic relations with infidels came about. In addition to the needs of commerce, which is the rather more obvious reason, Lewis offers a further, intriguing explanation. He notes how the coming of the Mongols in the 7th/13th century accentuated the rivalry between the eastern and western halves of the Middle East – namely, the regimes ruling the Nile valley and those deriving their main support from Iraq and Iran. Suddenly there was a new force in the form of the Mongol rulers of Persia that threatened to take control of diplomatic and commercial relations between the East and Christendom, and to provide an alliance for the latter. This seems to have inspired the MamlËk rulers of Egypt into action, resulting in increased diplomatic relations with Europe. Lewis’s argument would seem to be validated and reflected in the epistolary protocol that follows.58 Al-‘UmarÈ’s work (written around 740/1340) had the most direct influence on al-QalqašandÈ’s Íub˙, as I mentioned earlier. It contained a small section on ‘the Kings of the infidels’, including ‘such potentates as the Byzantine emperor, the kings of Georgia and lesser Armenia, of Serbia, Sinope, and Rhodes’. Al-QalqašandÈ added to this list ‘the Pope, the Rulers of Genoa, Venice and Naples, and some of the lesser states of Christian Spain’.59 Indeed, he mentions by name the Franks, the Romans, the female Ruler of Naples and even the Ethiopians.60 Such information tells us a fair amount about the Muslim understanding of hierarchies of power in foreign lands. But an even more acute understanding of those systems is to be found upon further scrutiny of the works by al-‘UmarÈ and al-QalqašandÈ. For example, al-‘UmarÈ notes how ‘at the beginning of the year 767 (1365–6), they discontinued the form of address to the podestà and captain, who had themselves been discontinued, and correspondence was addressed to the doge, who replaced them’.61 It is significant to note also that the forms of address to dignitaries of this rank were highly elaborate, with such terms as ‘exalted’ and ‘venerated’ being commonplace, along with references to them as ‘the friends of Kings and Sultans’, for example. Al-QalqašandÈ recounts an incident in which the famous jurist al-ŠÅfi‘È addressed a Christian with the common Muslim du‘Å’ form a‘azzaka llÅhu ‘May God fortify you’ and was reprimanded for it.62 As brief as his guidelines are, al-QalqašandÈ suggests that a Muslim should follow the example of the Prophet Mu˙ammad, who once said to a Jew who had given him water: jammalaka llÅhu ‘May God make [your days] beautiful’. In other words, the use of forms relating to the sense of strength

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and power (Ar. quwwa), which are underlying notions of the Muslim invocation, should be avoided by a Muslim. Ibn al-AtÈr devotes a short section to salutations for those from denominations other than Islam, but he does not support it with any theory or background information. Thus we see an acknowledgement from him of the diplomatic need for such salutations, but there are no glossaries of possible alternative terms, for instance. But of particular interest is that the name of God is invoked in the invocation sections, and there is explicit acknowledgement of the Jewish religion in one of his examples.63 In the second part of this chapter I would like to look in more detail at titles and honorifics. There is no doubt that in the later pre-modern Islamic period the number of titles and honorifics in use grew dramatically. By the beginning of the 8th/14th century at the very latest there was a highly sophisticated system of titling in place. This observation is reflected in the following quotation from none other than NiΩÅm al-Mulk, a celebrated scholar and Persian vizier of the SaljËq empire (d. 485/1092): ‘There has become an abundance of titles; and whatever becomes abundant loses value and dignity.’64 A huge debt for our knowledge of the system of titles (Ar. tarÅjim) and honorifics (Ar. alqÅb) is owed in the first instance to al-MawßilÈ’s al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ. Although that work only contains one complete chapter of around twenty pages on this topic,65 plus some sections elsewhere, it was unique in its content and presentation, and also influenced al-QalqašandÈ significantly in volume 6 of the Íub˙. One of the unprecedented elements of al-MawßilÈ’s chapter was to include in tabulated form the names of those with the same names as the Prophet Mu˙ammad and the Rightly Guided Caliphs, who were connected through their honorifics with the word for religion (Ar. dÈn), for example, Šams al-DÈn. He also lists a number of names with their agnomens, including some of the common names of women. In this connection al-MawßilÈ states categorically that the use of honorifics was a ‘recent’ development, and that in early times an agnomen (Ar. kunya) was always used. However, he notes that people, that is the secretaries, had deliberately avoided using agnomens in epistolary correspondence.66 This would explain in part why al-MawßilÈ placed much more emphasis on honorifics than agnomens. Al-MawßilÈ was also probably the first scholar of that period to clarify the etymological significance of many of the adjectives and nouns used as honorifics. The explanations he gave functioned as some sort of justification for the abundance of honorifics used in the later pre-modern period. Al-QalqašandÈ appears to have built substantially on al-MawßilÈ’s efforts. More will be said about this shortly. The function of titles and honorifics in epistolary correspondence, according to al-MawßilÈ, is to define the one to whom the letter is being written, and to acclaim his name. He acknowledges the view held by many, it seems, that excessiveness in assigning titles was actually a fault (cf. NiΩÅm al-Mulk above). This is because, if the function of honorifics is to define the person, then Caliphs and Rulers do not need such defining because they are already well known and eminent. But given the powerful function of the definite article in Arabic (al-) as defining something already known – as opposed to the undefined form, which registers something unknown – it is hardly surprising that the definition of a name using the alif and lam of the

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definite article was assigned to the first grade of importance in the hierarchy of titles.67 Al-MawßilÈ notes further how the use of titles in correspondence from those of higher rank to those of lower status is not permissible, since ascension [of rank], can, logically, only move in one direction, that is to say, upwards.68 In a sense then, the profuse application of titles to extol the status of rulers is not surprising, since they were used not only to acknowledge the supremacy of the ruler per se, but to set him apart from those beneath him. Al-Azmeh gives a brief but incisive account of the status of titles over a long period of history. Some titles were apparently bestowed as a sign of a ruler’s ambition, or dynastic traditions, and not as a sign of rank or Caliphal designation. In other cases titles were acquired as a result of political negotiation or bargaining. Of particular relevance to my thesis here is the following: ‘There was such a profuse accretion of titles in Buyid and Saljuq times that they became degraded and ultimately ceased to be seriously indicative of rank.’69 But this is only one view. Against this can be cited the opinion of Ibn ŠÈt, who, I suggested earlier, seems to have been a particularly strong supporter of the sultanate. He held that the more attributes (Ar. nu‘Ët) deployed in homour of the Ruler the more communicative and eloquent the discourse, ‘because that comes with the sense of honouring the ruler’.70 The term nu‘Ët used by Ibn ŠÈt has to be noted here because it appears to incorporate more than the denotation alqÅb, which was the general term used by al-MawßilÈ. Ibn ŠÈt used it in the context of annexation constructions used as attributes to the title or honorific of a (normally) high-ranking addressee; for example, fÅris al-muslimÈn ‘knight of the Muslims’ was said of an emir.71 From a reading of al-MawßilÈ’s initial description of the status of honorifics two points immediately stand out. First, the use of the yÅ’ of annexation to denote possession; for instance, al-ajallÈ ‘the most revered’. The yÅ’ of annexation denoted a higher status for the person it was describing than for the one without it, with the former implying ownership of this particular quality. Also during the AyyËbid period it was common for the attribute al-ajall ‘the most revered’ to follow the highest of attributes, that is to say, al-‘ÅlÈ and al-sÅmÈ; for example, al-‘ÅlÈ al-ajall ‘the highest [and] the most revered’. The second point is that analogy played an important role in the selection of adjectives to qualify the title. Only adjectives that were in current parlance as qualifying honorifics were accepted, even though other potential adjectives might have appeared suitable. Thus, for example, there was no place for ‘aΩÈm ‘great’ alongside janÅb ‘Grace’, for it was not used in that context, even though it came from the same semantic field as other adjectives used for this purpose,72 such as karÈm ‘noble’.73 Rulers and Kings were inevitably highest in the rank order of titles, underpinned by the etymology of the word malik ‘King’, which incorporated the sense of ownership or having power over something. This foundational sense put it above other high-ranking terms such as wazÈr ‘vizier’, which carries the sense of a strong assistant, or amÈr ‘emir’, which bears the meaning of authority. These meanings were subordinated to the sense of having power over something, which was not subordinate to anything. Kings were addressed according to four terms of rank. The highest of these

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terms was al-maqÅm / al-muqÅm (lit. ‘place, abode’, but which can also be translated as ‘Excellency’) denoting the place of residence of the King as a metonymical reference to his greatness.74 An example of this is the following invocation: a‘azza llÅhu sul†Åna l-maqÅm al-‘ÅlÈ ‘May God fortify the Ruler of the High Place’. This manner of addressing the King was prevalent in eastern and western parts of the Islamic world, but the way in which the word maqÅm was further qualified appears to have varied according to the geographical and cultural background. In the letters of Ibn al-Ha†Èb from al-Andalus there are examples of lengthy introductions glorifying a Ruler followed by the term maqÅm in apposition to the first citation, leading to further praise in extended clauses, as in, for instance: al-maqÅm allÅdÈ anÅrat ÅyÅt sa‘dihi fÈ mas†Ër al-wujËd … maqÅmu ma˙alli ahÈnÅ llÅdÈ nu‘aΩΩimuhu wa-narfa‘uhu ‘the Abode whose signs of prosperity have lit up the annals of existence … the Abode of the place of our brother whom we glorify and raise up.’75 The next term in the hierarchy rank was al-maqarr ‘the Abode [in which the Ruler has settled]’, as in: a‘azza llÅhu anßÅra l-maqarr al-‘ÅlÈ ‘May God fortify the supporters of the High Abode’. In the Arabic literature of al-Andalus the use of al-maqarr followed a similar pattern to that of al-maqÅm, where it was introduced with a string of honorifics, then repeated as the first term of an annexation structure; for instance, maqarr fulÅn, as in maqarr al-sul†Ån al-jalÈl ‘the Abode of the venerable Sultan’, followed by a further long string of honorifics.76 This was the case in the later period at the very least, particularly in the letters of Ibn al-Ha†Èb. The third term in the hierarchy is al-abwÅb (lit. ‘doors’ but more specifically here, ‘gates’), which takes it origin from the notion that the gates represent places (Ar. al-mawÅqif) which include the place of residence of the Caliph, as in: a‘azza llÅhu anßÅra l-abwÅb al-‘Åliya ‘May God fortify the supporters of the sublime Gates’. It is interesting to note that in his KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ Ibn al-AtÈr lists al-mawÅqif al-šarÈfa ‘the honourable places’ as the third expression in this hierarchy, but does not mention al-abwÅb.77 The fourth term in this group was al-‘atabÅt (lit. ‘threshold’), as in: zÅda llÅhu l-‘atabÅt al-šarÈfa al-mawlawiyya tašrÈfan ‘May God augment the eminence of the honourable Thresholds of the master’.78 There are two key points to be made in connection with the above terms and rank order. The first is that all the above nouns were used in deference to the Ruler, to exalt him, with secretaries alluding to his greatness through indirect means. As al-MawßilÈ himself explains later, it was inappropriate to refer to the Ruler directly, so indirect reference reflected the awe in which he was held and distinguished his rank [from all other ranks].79 In the same way Caliphs were addressed as dÈwÅn (lit. ‘Chancery’)‚ for instance: a‘azza llÅhu nußrat al-dÈwÅn al-‘azÈz … al-fulÅnÈ ‘May God fortify the victory of the great Chancery … of so-and-so’ in order to glorify them, that is, as a symbol of their place of greatness. The second significant point to note is that debates about whether the term abwÅb should be placed higher in rank than ‘ataba were settled by recourse to such considerations as the door (bÅb) being the entrance to the place where the King’s entourage and servants resided, whereas the threshold was outside the door, and might even be trodden on; therefore it was deemed of lower status.80 By the time of al-MawßilÈ viziers were addressed in the following different ways.

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The highest form was al-janÅb, which is roughly equivalent to ‘[Your] Grace (or Honour)’, and this was followed in rank by al-jalÅl ‘sublime’ al-majlis ‘council’ (lit. ‘place of sitting’) – which was also used for nobles and princes, for instance – and al-˙a∂ra (lit. ‘presence’).81 But it is important to note that at different points in history the terms of address seemed to vary. Without specifying exactly when, Ibn ŠÈt notes the following: people used not to write ‘al-majlis’ except to the Sultan, while they [used to] write to eminent state officials such as viziers and others as ‘al-˙a∂ra’. But then they singled out the Sultan by [using the terms] al-maqÅm and al-maqarr, and began to write al-majlis for those below him [in rank], while the Sultan could not be addressed after that by either al-majlis or al-˙a∂ra.82 On the other hand, al-QalqašandÈ records salutations to al-majlis (and al-janÅb) as the first of the four most famous stylistic elements in letter-writing. Although he does not specify exactly to whom such salutations were addressed, Rulers would seem to be the most likely recipients, as we see in the letter from al-QÅ∂È al-FÅ∂il on behalf of ÍalÅ˙ al-DÈn to his brother, the Ruler of the Yemen.83 The most important invocations in this connection were the following: adÅma allÅhu ayyÅm al-majlis ‘May God make eternal the days of the majlis’ and adÅma allÅhu sul†Ån al-majlis ‘May God make eternal the rule of the majlis’, or ∂Å‘afa allÅhu ni‘mat al-majlis ‘May God multiply the blessing of the majlis’.84 Within the same category he notes that the initial invocation and honorifics would be followed by nuš‘ir al-majlis bi-… ‘We convey to the majlis …’, with this expression appearing to be a variant of the better-known nunhÈ ‘We convey’. This brief section illustrates the importance of consulting a historical range of sources in order to build as accurate a profile as possible of the development of terms of address in pre-modern Islamic society. Terms of address were also very specific according to geographical location or social status. There could also be some minor variations within those categories. Al-MawßilÈ notes that the terminologies varied marginally not only from Egypt to the Levant, but also within the area of Iraq. For instance, the term ßadr ‘one occupying a top position’ was the only term of address used for the turban wearers85 in the Levant and one area of Iraq, whereas in Egyptian territory such expressions as al-qÅ∂È ‘judge’ or faqÈh ‘jurist’ were used.86 One of the many unique elements of al-MawßilÈ’s work is his reference to the terms of address given to leading merchants in foreign countries, such as India, where the chief merchants were addressed as majlis al-ßadr, and those of a slightly lower rank were called al-nÅhidÈ, a non-Arabic term given generally to ship owners. According to Ibn al-AtÈr, one of high rank from among the bureaucrats – rabb al-qalam ‘possessor of the pen’ – was called al-ßÅ˙ibÈ al-ßadrÈ ‘the most prominent commander’, with the yÅ’ marker indicating an embellishment of the rank, as has already been shown. The attention to semantic detail given by al-MawßilÈ begins to take on more and more significance as he works his way through invocations and introductory elements of a letter. It becomes clear that, in spite of the range of formulaic expressions available to a secretary, a sound understanding of the nuances between nouns, adjectives and verbs, for instance, was essential. A good case in point is the difference

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between a‘azza llÅhu sul†Åna l-maqÅm ‘May God fortify the Ruler of the Abode’ and hallada llÅhu sul†Ån al-maqÅm ‘May God make eternal the Ruler of the Abode’ (noted above). In order to find which of these two examples was more powerful one needed to examine the nature of the two verbs. Such an investigation revealed that an invocation based on fortifying was more powerful than one based on the eternity of the Ruler, since a Ruler may have eternal life but not be fortified.87 Such judgements were not restricted to semantic considerations, in fact, but also sometimes entailed questions of propositional truth, as in the following: a‘azza llÅhu naßra l-maqÅm ‘May God fortify the victory of the Abode’ and naßarahu llÅhu ‘May God grant him victory’. In this example the distinction lies between an invocation fortifying a victory that actually exists (as in the former), and one that requests a victory that has not yet come into existence (as in the latter). Therefore, the more powerful invocation is based on a certainty of existence. On other occasions it was the sense of the noun that determined the potential interchangeability of expressions, such as in the following: hallada llÅhu sul†Ånahu ‘May God make eternal His Ruler’ and hallada qtidÅrahu ‘May He make eternal his ability’ and adÅma qudratahu ‘May [He] make everlasting his power’. It was generally agreed that all three expressions carried the same sense because the noun ‘Ruler’ is an expression in itself of authority and conquering, and power or ability (iqtidÅr) are a representation of that.88 Al-MawßilÈ’s work is unusual for many reasons, some of which pertain specifically to his contribution to the field of epistolography in the later pre-modern period. But what the preceding discussions also show is that the methods he used to analyse etymological roots of words reflect a wider sphere of activity at that time in the fields of lexicography, grammar, and even linguistics, if we take this term to mean inquiries into the origin and philosophy of language. He adopts the scholastic technique of question and answer whenever a doubt exists about the deeper meaning of a word, and he also uses similar techniques to resolve disputes. For example, in a discussion on the question of whether the lexeme mawlÅ possessed a sense of ‘servanthood’ – and whether it was more or less synonymous with the word ‘abd ‘servant, worshipper’, he cites some poetry in which the two would be interchangeable.89 In this and other ways his work is indicative of other tracts of the time from different disciplines which carried out meticulous investigations into the origins of words. Establishing and verifying the exact meaning of a word was as important for epistolary protocol as it was for Qur’Ånic exegesis or legal purposes, especially when it involved addressing someone of high rank. Even by the time of Ibn ŠÈt a range of titles had been established as attributes for high-ranking officials other than Rulers. For example, the emir was referred to as ‘umdat al-mulËk ‘the mainstay of Kings’, or nußrat al-islÅm ‘the victory of Islam’. An example of an expression of lesser recognition was ihtiyÅr al-mulËk ‘the choice of Kings’. The most senior state secretaries would be called hÅßßat amÈr al-mu’minÈn ‘the elite of the Commander of the Faithful’.90 The title of amÈr carried considerable prominence during the later period in al-Andalus in particular, as exemplified by an epistle from Ibn al-Ha†Èb on behalf of the Ruler Ibn al-A˙mar to AbË ‘AlÈ al-NÅßir al-MarÈnÈ, one of the sons of the Ruler in Fez. Such letters, it seems, would begin in praise of the rank of emir, then be followed by a long listing of attributes to the title

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of emir. In this particular example of Ibn al-Ha†Èb the title is followed by thirteen attributes beginning with al-ajall ‘the most revered’.91 The preceding foray into some of the specific protocol of letter-writing in premodern Islamic society reveals two important things. First, the use of a particular form of language as an integral part of epistolary protocol reflects an ongoing continuity of power relations in pre-modern Islamic society. The second point is that, like the literary theorists, the exegetes and the jurists who had preceded them, the secretaries and those involved in the study of the epistolary genre during this period could not remove themselves from the linguistic framework that was the foundation of all the Islamic and humanistic sciences. I have shown in this chapter how the etymology of roots of words was a key element in establishing a hierarchy of epithets that could be deployed in praise of a Ruler or someone in a position of authority. The fascination – one might almost say obsession – with the ‘meaning’ of individual words and the text in general was a trend that on the one hand reflects the true beauty of Arabic and all things associated with it, but on the other hand underlines a very traditional lexical approach to explaining the nature of things, so to speak, that many believe has seriously hampered the development of a sophisticated system of solutions to societal issues. The linguistically focused style of exegesis in this period at the expense of any attempt to follow a possibly more productive hermeneutic approach may well be responsible for the continuing struggle in Muslim societies today to find practical solutions to modern problems. For the final part of this chapter – and as the last substantive topic for discussion in this book, I want to focus specifically on a few sample letters and the theory behind them. To set this section in context it is worth looking at part of a letter from the 4th/10th century that illustrates as well as any the potential power of the epistle. In his excellent work on loyalty and leadership in an early Islamic society Mottahedeh expends a substantial amount of ink on an examination of two forms of loyalty: acquired loyalties and loyalty of categories. It is the first of these types that concerns us for the moment. In Mottahedeh’s view acquired loyalties were positive because they were often used as a basis for cooperation. He cites the example of the Caliph al-Muqtadir who was facing a rebellion and subsequent deposition from his army in 317/929. In his letter (which is from the formal category, risÅla dÈwÅniyya) to the general leading the rebellion al-Muqtadir invokes two of the most important bases of loyalty in Islamic society at that time, oath and benefit: most of your benefits are from me, but it would not be my way to reproach you with any favor that I have conferred, and that I regarded at the time – and still regard – as small compared with your merits … I claim from you that oath of allegiance (Ar. bay‘a) which you have affirmed time after time. Whoever has sworn allegiance to me has sworn allegiance to God … I also claim gratitude for benefits and favors you enjoy, benefits and gifts from me that I hope you will acknowledge and consider binding.92 The above quotation is important for several reasons. First, it demonstrates the potential power of the epistle, evidenced in the fact that the rebellion actually collapsed after it had been sent and its contents had been digested. Second, it raises

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the issue of loyalty that underpins the relationship between the secretary and those responsible for his progression and livelihood, as discussed in Chapter 4 of this work. Third, it brings to prominence the recurring theme of ‘benefits’ (or blessings) (Ar. sing. ni‘ma / pl. ni‘am), which appears consistently in the epistolary literature, particularly in the context of gratitude, and represents one of the more important foundations of the ‘formal ties’ discussed by Mottahedeh. The context of benefit and gratitude is, of course, originally Qur’Ånic, with God holding man accountable for ‘the acceptance or rejection of any specific benefit’.93 All subjects of the Ruler, including professionals such as the secretaries, acquired their livelihood through the bounty and beneficence of the Ruler. Moreover, the obligation of ‘benefit’ was one that existed among all ranks of people, from the King to his subject, between near equals, or even in the obligation of superiors to inferiors.94 The epistolary genre conveys this ethical foundation very well in a number of forms and guises. Further evidence of the power of the epistle can easily be found elsewhere in the literature. For example, in letters from Rulers calling people to the Islamic faith it was maintained that if the composer of the letter was successful in his objectives his letter would ‘replace soldiers and armies, and ensure that swords remained in their scabbards’.95 Al-QalqašandÈ continues the metaphor in his section on the formal letters (rasÅ’il dÈwÅniyya) devoted to a discussion on the necessity of obedience in the faith and the censuring of divergence. He calls on judicious scholars to restrain the foolish ignorant ones, and to drive away those who create havoc and bring about evil. When epistles are fully effective in reaching their desired communicative objective, battalions can be dispensed with.96 It is worth continuing with the theme of obedience for a little longer here, because it was a hugely important element of the formal state correspondence. One of the first things to note about letters written on the subject of obedience and submission to the Ruler is that they were generally sent to those who had refused to obey. These epistles were normally dispatched to those in whom there was a reasonable chance of retrieving their obedience, and whose repentance was strongly desired. There is no requirement to rebuke those in whom there is despair about the matter of peace, nor those on whom battle has been waged. In fact, there was no need for any communication with them at all. Epistles to those from whom repentance was desired would begin with the appropriate doxology, and praise of the Prophet Mu˙ammad, calling for the cordiality of the addressee and nullifying the reasons for his estrangement. It should remind him of the blessings he has received, and his responsibility not to deny them, for he brings evil upon himself by straying from protection. The tone and style of the letter would then change according to the level of disobedience of the addressee. For example, if a man had hitherto refused obedience, repented, and become rebellious again, the contents of the letter should reflect this position. In this case the tone of the doxology should be stronger, emphasising that God is the Maker of consequences for those who fear Him, and such like. The letter should then contain an introductory section verifying the beauty of the consequence of obedience, contrasted with the ignominy of the outcome of rebellion. It can then proceed in the following type of style:

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but you have tasted of the hatred of rebellion and its bitterness, and the sweetness of obedience … The Commander of the Faithful has come to know that you inclined to the followers of error who deceived you, and that you showed a propensity towards the partisans of sedition who seduced you. You listened to their words, which seem to be words of advice, but are inwardly words of deception, and their opinions, whose springs are righteousness but whose foundations are corruption. You have inclined towards reverting to dissension and degenerating into insubordination, confronting gratitude with ingratitude. So he has presented his letter to you as a reminder, and given you his discourse as a way of excusing and warning, so that he may teach you your lot, and steer you to integrity of conduct.97 Ibn Halaf goes on to say that a show of repentance from the wrongdoer and an expression of forgiveness from the Ruler are an important part of the process begun by this type of letter. The Commander of the Faithful in this context ‘has sympathy for the error, and for his [the wrongdoer’s] attitude of regret … which leads him to the most obvious way’.98 The preceding section is indicative of the way in which specific letters on a range of themes were described in the primary sources. Most of the theory and practical examples cited in al-QalqašandÈ’s Íub˙ are taken from Ibn Halaf’s MawÅdd al-BayÅn, which is probably the most important original resource on epistolography in the whole of the Arabic heritage. What Ibn Halaf does is talk first about the type of subject matter that should go into an epistle on a given theme, then illustrate the specific language used to address that theme. What makes his work so valuable is not just the way in which he presents the theory and practice, but also the authentic nature of his examples. To conclude this chapter I am going to give two brief but contrasting examples of introductory parts of letters with very different objectives. One of these examples is from the formal epistolary category (risÅla dÈwÅniyya) and the other from the informal category (risÅla ihwÅniyya). The introductory section of a letter was where the diplomatic chord of appropriateness was struck. Al-QalqašandÈ included numerous examples of different forms of introduction, salutation and invocation used in epistles to Kings and rulers of different countries, and even to those of different religions.99 The following excerpt is from a letter sent by a Ruler from outside the main Muslim-ruled territories. It contains an extended introduction and some of the text. A letter from the ruler of Borneo to King al-ÛÅhir AbË SÅ‘Èd BarqËq [of Egypt] (reached him in 794):100 Praise be to God who made writing a form of communication between people far apart, and an interpreter among those who are in close proximity, and a greeting between loved ones, and something intimate between scholars, and something to estrange the ignorant. If it were not for [all] that, then words would be useless, and needs would not be met. God’s blessings upon our chosen Prophet, and our Apostle with whom He is pleased, upon whom God sealed the door of Prophethood and made him the last of the ones

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sent to bring good news and a warning, and as one urging [people] to come to God according to His will, and as a lamp and as one who lights the way … Then after that was AbË Bakr and ‘Umar and ‘UtmÅn and ‘AlÈ – may God be pleased with them all … From the one who depends on God – the King, the most revered, the sword of Islam, and the rich source of those who have no equal, the valiant King, who carries out the command of the Merciful, the one who seeks assistance in the victorious God at all times, the just, abstemious, pious, pure, the most helpful, the most glorious, the indomitable King, the pride of the religion, the beauty of Islam, the axis of sublimity, descendant of honourable men, the cavern of hearts, the light of darkness, father of ‘Amr ‘UtmÅn the King, son of IdrÈs al-HÅjj the deceased Commander of the Faithful – may God honour his tomb … To the venerable King of Egypt, God’s blessed land, Mother of the World [We send] greetings to you which are more fragrant than the most pungent musk, and sweeter than the water of the sea and the clouds. May God increase your sovereignty and your rule. Greetings to those who sit with you, your jurists, and your scholars who study the Qur’Ån and the [Islamic] sciences, and your people, and those who are obedient to you, all of them.   So, we have sent to you our messenger, my nephew, whose name is IdrÈs ibn Mu˙ammad, because of the disaster which we and our Kings have discovered. That is, that the desert Arabs who are called JudÅm, and others, have taken our freedmen prisoner: from among women, and boys, and feeble men, and our kinsmen, and others from among the Muslims. Among them are those who ascribe partners to God, and stray from the [true] religion. They have committed aggression against the Muslims and fought them violently, on account of a discord that occurred between us and our enemies. As a consequence of that discord they killed a king, ‘Amr ibn IdrÈs the martyr, who is our brother, the son of our father IdrÈs al-HÅjj, while we are the sons of Sayf ibn DÈ Yazan, the father of our Arab QurayšÈ tribe. Thus we have verified it on the authority of our sheikhs, while those desert Arabs wreak destruction in all of our land over the whole of the country of Borneo, until now. They have taken prisoner our freedmen and our relations from the Muslims, and they sell them to traders and others from Egypt and the Levant, and they exchange servants with each other. The rule of Egypt, from the sea to AswÅn, has been placed in your hands by God – for they have set up business there – so that you may send messengers across your land, and your emirs, and your viziers, and your judges, and your governors, and your scholars, and those in charge of your markets to see, search and discover, and if they find them then let them wrest [that power] away from them and bring disaster upon them. If they say we are freedmen and Muslims then believe them and do not call them liars; if that becomes apparent to you free them, and give them back their freedom and their Islam. Some of the desert Arabs are wreaking destruction in our country, and doing bad deeds, for they are ignorant of God’s book and the sunna of our Apostle, and they embellish falsehood …101

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The second excerpt is given to illustrate the very different type of epistolary style required for informal letters. In this type of communication harsh letters of calling for a holy war or demanding obedience to Islam are replaced by matters of a much more personal nature. One important type of informal letter was that written upon the death of someone close to the addressee. Before giving a translated excerpt of one of those letters it is instructive to illustrate the epistolary theory associated with this particular theme. Letters of condolence are just one example of many such themes in the epistolary literature. On the protocol for letters of condolence Ibn Halaf says the following: Correspondence relating to expressing condolence for events occurring in this world is wide in scope, because of what it contains of guiding the mourner to patience, and submitting to God (May His omnipotence be exalted), and comforting the mourner for what he has been deprived of by reminding him of those excellent people who have gone before him, and promising him the best possible recompense … If the writer has good natural instinct and is well disposed to it he will reach the desired [aim]. The protocol for this category is the same as for congratulating, from the Ruler to the subject, from the subject to the Ruler, and from an equal to an equal.102 Further clarification on condolence can be found in the KitÅb al-Ta‘ÅzÈ ‘The Book of Condolences’ by al-MadÅ’inÈ (d. 228/842). The introduction to that work is very important, for al-MadÅ’inÈ gives a clear indication of what condolence discourse should contain: these words aim at soothing the mind, and reminding the family of the victim about paradise, and the rewards for their good patience, or it mentions the qualities of the deceased, together with examples from Traditions of the Prophet and the tales of his noble followers, and what they would say on these occasions.103 Condolence upon the death of a son, by Ibn NubÅtah, after the honorifics …: May his solace upon losing his dearest and most loved one and offspring turn to good; and may it be replaced with beautiful patience. His urgent needs were asked about grief and they replied: it is constant, and increasing. This letter was sent to him with a greeting which he regrets is followed by a consoling, and a eulogy which makes it difficult to replace the doves of his melodious rhyming prose with the pigeons of lamentable, bitter grief.104 It conveys to him the arrival of his painful letter, which we could not read without crying flowing tears. The pain of the thoughts of sympathy for him and all those around him burst to the surface and did not abate. We learned of what he described – and he does not normally open his heart in this way – of the death of the son so-and-so – May God pour water upon his age and grave, and make his face bloom and protect with His favour the mark of his birth and his cheeks. There is nothing left but to adhere to the causes of patience, and entrust to the one who has the matter in hand, for this world is a path, the next world is an abode, and its corridor is the grave. To man there

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is a barrier on account of his circumspection, yet the union with departed loved ones is real. If they do not come to us we go to them, and if they do not grow old over us in the transient abode we reach them in the everlasting one. We ask God to unite us in the dwelling of His mercy, and to prepare for us with children and uninvited guests the banquets of His paradise. God will continue to fill his heart with beautiful patience, and will not combine upon him the loss of reward for good deeds with the loss of loved ones.105

Notes   1. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 6, p. 287. The term ‘invocation’ is used deliberately here because in my view Ibn Halaf was referring specifically to the invocation part of the salutation.   2. http://www.wordreference.com/definition/salutation, accessed 1 April 2007.   3. Perelman, ‘The Medieval Art of Letter Writing’, pp. 104–5.   4. al-MawßilÈ, al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ, p. 101.   5. Thus the wording of the salutation would often entail a punning on terms of glorification that also had an underlying grammatical or philosophical sense, or whatever sense was appropriate to the profession of the addressee. For salutations written for the grammarians see Gully, ‘Epistles for Grammarians’, pp. 151, 156, and 160.   6. See HilÅl ibn Mu˙assin al-ÍÅbi’, ˝urar al-BalÅ©a.   7. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 7, p. 20.   8. al-MawßilÈ, al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ, p. 109.   9. Ibid., p. 113. 10. Ibid., p. 117. 11. This is almost certainly a reference to grammatical particles. 12. al-MawßilÈ, al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ, p. 118. 13. Ibid., p. 119. 14. The works of Galen on anatomy and surgery, like so many of the famous Greek tracts, were made available to Arab and Muslim audiences through the translation works of scholars like Óunayn ibn Is˙Åq al-‘IbÅdÈ (d. 259/873). 15. For this and more see Sami K.Hamarneh, ‘The Life Sciences’, p. 174. 16. al-MawßilÈ, al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ, p. 121. 17. Ibid., p. 121. 18. It is important to note that astrology and astronomy were closely related in pre-modern Islamic society, and that the modern association of the former with horoscopy is a substantial departure from its original purpose and function. The close relationship between astrology and astronomy is also reflected in the Arabic root nËn jÈm mÈm, which can mean either, depending on the context. 19. For this and more see Hamarneh, ‘The Life Sciences’, p. 189. 20. al-MawßilÈ, al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ, p. 122. 21. Ibid., p. 122. 22. Ragaei and Dorothea El Mallakh, ‘Trade and Commerce’, p. 223. 23. For an explanation of this appellation see Goitein, Letters of Medieval Jewish Traders, p. 4. 24. Ibid., pp. 6–7. 25. Mottahedeh, Loyalty and Leadership, pp. 117–18. 26. For this and more see Meisami, ‘Sufism’, p. 740 27. See Gully, ‘Epistles for Grammarians’, p. 159.

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28. Truth is written here in upper case because reaching it was the ultimate goal of all ÍËfÈs, even if there were many possible roads that led to it. 29. The Arabic word †arÈqa ‘path, way’ was one of the foremost items in ÍËfÈ vocabulary. 30. al-MawßilÈ, al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ, p. 123. 31. Ibid., p. 124. 32. Ibid., pp. 99–100. 33. This is further evidence of intellectual trends of the time. See, for example, Gully, ‘Synonymy or not synonymy: that is the question’, passim. 34. al-MawßilÈ, al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ, p. 108. 35. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 7, p. 76. For wazÈr al-tanfÈd see Chapter 5, n. 87. 36. Ibid., vol. 7, pp. 23–30. 37. Ibid., p. 73. 38. Ibid., p. 78. 39. Ibid., pp. 81–2. 40. For all this, ibid., pp. 87–90. 41. Ibid., p. 30. RiyÅsa ‘leadership’ was a word loaded with significance in the period under review in this work. See Mottahedeh, Loyalty and Leadership, pp. 129–35 and elsewhere. 42. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 7, p. 5. 43. Ibid., pp. 34–6. 44. Ibid., p. 60. 45. Ibid., p. 62. 46. Ibid., p. 66. 47. Ibid., p. 125. 48. Ibid., pp. 126–7. 49. Ibn al-AtÈr, KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ, p. 58. 50. al-MawßilÈ, al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ, p. 128. 51. Ibid., p. 129. 52. Ibn al-AtÈr, KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ, p. 57. 53. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 7, p. 20. 54. Ibn al-AtÈr, KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ, p. 57. 55. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 7, pp. 20–1. 56. Ibid., p. 72. 57. Ibn al-AtÈr has an important, albeit short, section entitled ‘On Salutations for people of denominations other than Islam’ in his KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ, pp. 83–5. 58. Lewis, Muslim Discovery of Europe, p. 99. 59. Ibid., p. 100. 60. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 7, p. 42 and vol. 8, p. 25. 61. Translated by, and cited in, Lewis, Muslim Discovery of Europe, p. 211. 62. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 6, p. 286. 63. Ibn al-AtÈr, KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ, p. 84. 64. Darke (transl.), The Book of Government or Rules for Kings, p. 152. 65. al-MawßilÈ, al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ, pp. 79–98. 66. Ibid., p. 91. 67. Ibid., p. 49. 68. Ibid., p. 48. Notice how similar was the intent behind honorifics in the Western epistolary literature: ‘Next, we must consider carefully how somewhere in the Salutation we want some additions to be made to the names of the recipients; above all, these additions should be selected so that they point to some aspect of the recipient’s renown and good character.’ Murphy, ‘Anonymous of Bologna’, p. 8.

192 ]   69.   70.   71.   72.   73.   74.   75.   76.   77.   78.   79.   80.   81.   82.   83.   84.   85.   86.   87.   88.   89.   90.   91.   92.   93.   94.   95.   96.   97.   98.   99. 100. 101. 102. 103. 104.

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Aziz al-Azmeh, Muslim Kingship, p. 152. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 7, p. 19. Ibid., p. 19. al-MawßilÈ, al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ, p. 49. Ibid., p. 49. See also above, Chapter 6, n. 28. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 7, p. 40. Ibid., pp. 47–8. Ibn al-AtÈr, KitÅb al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ, p. 57. Ibid., pp. 55 and 75. Ibid., p. 71. Ibid., p. 55. For a full list of terms of address in descending order of rank see ibid., p. 69. Ibid., p. 59. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 7, p. 19. Ibid., p. 23. Ibid., pp. 21–2. These were educated people from the bureaucratic stratum, often referred to as people of the pen, and employed in Chancery administration. al-MawßilÈ, al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ, p. 71. Ibid, pp. 75–6. Ibid., p. 76. Ibid., p. 83 al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 7, pp. 19–20. Ibid., p. 57 Mottahedeh, Loyalty and Leadership, pp. 40–1. Ibid., p. 73. Ibid., p. 74. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 8, p. 245. Ibid., pp. 252–3. Ibid., p. 265. Ibid., p. 266. Ibid., pp. 4ff., for instance. Ibid., pp. 116–18. Ibid., p. 117–18 Ibid., vol. 9, p. 80. al-MadÅ’inÈ, KitÅb al-Ta‘ÅzÈ, p. 11. The decision to translate the Arabic ˙amÅ’im as ‘doves’ and then ‘pigeons’ is based on the fact that the word denotes both types of bird; but doves are more likely to be associated with the more positive sense here. In some respects the use of the word in the original is quite awkward, but it is defensible on the basis that the Arabic word saj‘ ‘balanced, rhyming discourse’ is alleged to have come from the cooing sound made by pigeons. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 9, pp. 81–2.

Epilogue

Thus the story has been told. The preceding pages have brought to the fore some of the complexities and beauties of the culture of letter-writing in the pre-modern Islamic (or Islamic Middle) period. In telling this tale of the secretary and his craft I have attempted to provide the reader with an account that evokes something of the literary, cultural and historical environment of that period. What was originally conceived as an idea to conduct a stylistic analysis of Arabic epistolary prose soon developed into an exploration of writerly culture in the 5th–9th/11th–15th centuries. That is principally why I chose to call this work the ‘culture’ of letterwriting rather than simply ‘letter-writing’. My justification for expanding the remit of this study was that epistolary prose could not be examined in a vacuum. Not only was its relationship with other forms of written and oral transmission so fundamental to its success, but also the life of the secretary, as the composer of the words on the page, was part of the continuum that assured for epistolary writing a position as the dominant literary art form for several centuries. This study has also attempted to show that the literary culture surrounding epistolary prose evolved at a point in history of great intellectual vibrancy, not just in the Islamic world but also in Western societies. I have made some comparisons between Islamic epistolography and the letter-writing cultures of Greece and Italy from the same period as a move towards establishing the degree of intellectual crossfertilisation that took place on this subject. Integral to this endeavour have been my attempts to identify the specifically Islamic elements in epistolary theory as propagated by Ibn al-AtÈr in particular. Arabic epistolary communication was not simply a means of relaying facts or information about events, although it frequently did that. The historical value of the epistolary documents is still open to question, as the example of a formal letter given at the end of Chapter 7 demonstrates. It is not that formal letters did not transmit useful information, but rather that the details they conveyed were often compromised, I would argue, by the demands of the prose style of the time. In addition to being exemplary documents of Arabic artistic

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prose, however, these letters could – and often did – serve as a means for Rulers to remind their subjects of their mutual responsibilities, and their commitment to God. These epistles could persuade, therefore, but perhaps not in the same manner as Cicero had intended. Nevertheless, there is no doubt that they had the capacity to determine the outcome of events, as the example cited by Mottahedeh towards the end of Chapter 7 shows.1 Although this study has of necessity focused on a specifically defined period of history, it has been possible to appreciate the dynamic nature of Arabic epistolary writing, although the use of ‘dynamic’ here requires some qualification. The broad parameters of epistolary protocol were set early in the life of Islamic society, but as the Islamic world expanded, the profile of the secretary and the function of epistolary communication developed and expanded. Letters from Rulers in the later period in particular reflect those developments. No longer were Rulers sending out epistolary communications to the countries of infidels promoting the religious propaganda of the Fņimid period, for instance, but they were now speaking emphatically in the language of conquering, of the strength of Islam, and even of coercion. As al-QalqašandÈ puts it, ‘God promised [to the Prophet Mu˙ammad] that His religion would not be forsaken.’2 On the one hand, then, the genre evolved in a very marked way, but in another sense its development was hampered by the binding requirements of saj‘. This point is probably beyond question in itself, but I do not subscribe to the views expressed by many that saj‘ alone was responsible for inhibiting the development of Classical Arabic style, as I hope I have shown throughout this work.3 In saj‘ the secretaries found a prose style that functioned well for them. If epistolary communication had needed to serve an additional purpose the writers of that period would have found a way to ensure that it did. Without undermining the value of the genre in any way, it must not be forgotten that even letters from Kings and Rulers were part of a literary tradition, adab, a foundational and uniquely identifying element of Arab and Islamic literary culture. I believe that the use of saj‘ was taken for granted and that it has been a false distraction for many contemporary studies of the epistolary genre. This is not to say that a comprehensive and comparative study of different writers’ styles should not be conducted, but the overemphasis on saj‘ in most previous studies to date has deflected the importance of many of the subjects I have discussed in this book. The dynamic nature of Arabic epistolary prose was, I believe, also kept in check by the inherent challenge for prominent secretaries and literary critics of the time as to how to deal with the conflict between †ab‘ ‘natural disposition’ and learned proficiency. This fascinating dilemma for scholars of artistic prose lay at the core of the tension between imitation and innovation. Trends in the production of new material on old themes were another factor that impinged on the demand for innovation. For example, al-QalqašandÈ observed that communications bringing good tidings upon completion of the pilgrimage – from the Ruler to his employees, for instance – did not occur very often in Royal correspondence by the time of the 8th/14th century. Therefore, whenever such an epistle was required the secretary would adapt one from the style of those cited in previous periods of history.4 At the outset of this study I was concerned with how the authenticity of a

Epilogue

[ 195

particular letter could be proven. How could one ascertain that a given letter was actually written as a functional document? How could one prove that the style of a letter reflected part of a dynamic artistic prose style, drawing on the natural disposition of the secretary, and that it was not simply an imitation of a previously composed document, or even a model letter? However, having completed this work I am satisfied with the outcome of the inquiry in this regard for two reasons. First, a good proportion of documents cited by some of the main contributors to Arabic epistolary history are dated and even fully addressed. This leads to the second reason, which is that, unlike some of the major works of the earlier period which were only intended as collections of model letters, the materials I have been dealing with from this time frame of four centuries are predominantly authentic, as far as I can ascertain. I would have liked to include many more translated specimens of letters for the reader to enjoy but considerations of space did not allow for this. In a future study I hope to be able to show in much more detail how the theory of Arabic letter-writing related to the practice, especially in the work of Ibn Halaf. It is probably not feasible to argue that there is any one primary Arabic source from this period that can lay claim to being a comprehensive handbook of diplomatic protocol. Al-QalqašandÈ’s Íub˙ al-A‘šÅ is by far the best example of such an attempt, but the disparate scattering of source material – in spite of the meticulous presentation of categories and sub-categories – makes it difficult to come up with a definitive classification. However, I hope that some of the arguments I have begun and developed in this work are part of a beginning towards this endeavour, for which there is a significant need. I leave the reader to decide whether my attempts to distinguish between a specifically Greek line of thinking in Arabic epistolography, as exemplified by Ibn Halaf, and a more Islamic one, as presented by Ibn al-AtÈr, have been successful. If the hypothesis is correct, it is fascinating to note that both these writers agreed on one thing at least: the supremacy of artistic prose over all other writerly crafts. The vast geographical space across which Islamic society extended, especially by the end of the period I have reviewed here, has enhanced the findings of the book in one sense, but presented an issue for future contemplation. On the one hand I have been able to cite freely from letters sent from the extreme corners of the world with which Muslims came into contact, including a few examples from Muslim Spain. On the other hand this approach exposes the fact that different Muslim societies evidently adopted their own epistolary protocols in some ways. A full stylistic comparison of the use of honorifics, for instance, between secretaries from Muslim Spain and those from the Yemen, for example, remains a desideratum. Finally, although this work has not really been about the dominance of the pen over the sword as such, I have occasionally alluded to the tension between the two – and more specifically to the power struggle between the bureaucrats and the military. However, I shall end with the following quotation, which is fitting not only because it comes from al-QalqašandÈ, the doyen of Arabic and Islamic epistolary history, but also because it concludes this book with an assertion of the power of the pen:

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There is nothing more honourable one can say about the profession of the secretary than that the man of the sword has to compete with the secretary on [the subject of] his pen, but the secretary does not need to compete with him on [the subject of] his sword.5

Notes 1. See above, Chapter 7, p. 185. 2. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 8, p. 245. 3. Neither am I convinced by the argument in itself that Classical Arabic style was static in the later centuries of the Islamic Middle period. The exploration of semantic fields and synonyms, two of the areas constantly probed by the secretaries, ensured that the language did not remain that way. Besides, language change and development depends on a number of factors, many of which did not apply to this period. For example, there was no need to create a dynamic language given the overall objective of scholars at that time to preserve the language. Moreover, there were no media to transmit and circulate language variants that would stimulate change. 4. al-QalqašandÈ, Íub˙, vol. 8, p. 339. 5. Ibid., vol. 1, p. 38.

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index

‘AbbÅsid, 8, 11, 39, 80, 81, 106, 119, 121, 122, 124, 174, 178 AbË Kabša, 138 absent addressee, x, 83, 84 friend, 8, 9, 20 AbË TammÅm, 38 adab (ÅdÅb), ix, 3, 6, 42–3, 45, 57–8, 82, 104, 106 addressee, xv, 7, 9, 17–18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 61, 62, 64, 65, 84, 132, 133, 136, 137, 139, 150, 157, 158, 166, 167, 169, 175, 181, 189; see also recipient ‘A’iša (wife of the Prophet Mu˙ammad), 105 Al-AkfÅnÈ, 57–8 Alberic of Monte Cassino, 5–6, 17, 167 alfÅΩ kitÅbiyya (epistolary expressions), 42–3 al-Andalus, 21, 156, 158, 170, 182, 185; see also Spain (Islamic) Anderson, B., 74 Antiquity, x, 2 Arazi (and Ben Shammay), 13 Aristotle, 6, 132 Aristotelian, 6, 8, 87 arkÅn al-kitÅba (pillars of writing), 133–5 ars dictaminis, 10, 13 ars praedicandi, 40 Al-‘AskarÈ, AbË HilÅl, 18, 30, 33, 35, 39, 40, 41, 62, 131, 146, 147, 148, 149, 150, 151 astrologers, 170 Al-‘A††År, Óasan, 20, 21 Ayyad, S., 145

AyyËbid, viii–x, 32, 39, 43, 75, 76, 77, 81, 84, 92, 113, 115, 120, 166, 168 Al-Azmeh, A., 181 balÅ©a see communicative eloquence badÈ‘ (tropes), 37, 40 barÅ‘at al-istihlÅl (allusive opening) 37–8, 139 barÅ‘at al-ma†la‘, 38 BarqËq, al-ÛÅhir, 80 Barthes, R., 52 bas† (expanding), 150, 151 bayÅn (clarity of expression), 30, 51, 62, 154 Beale, W., 37 Beeston, A. F., 39 Berkey, J., 89 biographical literature, 92–5 al-BÈrËnÈ, 59–60 Bishop, 21 Björkmann, W., 13, 60 Blachère, R., 144, 145 de Blois, Pierre, 8 Bloom, J., 50, 58, 66 Bologna, 10 Bolognese, 7, 18 book, 51 Brun, Andres, 63 al-Burd al-MuwaššÅ fÈ ÍinÅ‘at al-InšÅ, 15, 67, 92, 167, 180–5 BËyid, 77, 81 Cachia, P., 37–8 Cahen, C., 11

[  208  ]

Index Caliph, 2, 52, 56, 74, 76, 77, 103, 113, 117, 122, 157, 167, 168, 182 Cantarino, V., 31 Carter, M., 85 chamberlain, 119–20, 122 Chamberlain, M., 66, 77 Chancery, 16, 17, 75, 91, 93, 110, 111 Composition, viii, 10, 109; see also DÈwÅn al-InšÅ’ Epistolary, viii Secretary, 56 Chartier, R., 83–4 Christian, 9, 95 Cicero, 10, 85, 134, 194 Ciceronian, 7, 137 Clanchy, M., 148 communicative correspondence, 44 eloquence (balÅ©a), viii, ix, 6, 7, 13, 17, 18, 20, 21, 32, 39, 42, 43, 88, 90, 105, 111, 131–2, 148, 149, 153, 156, 157 objectives (a©rÅ∂ balÅ©iyya), 5 Constable, G., 40 Copt, 95, 121 Crone, P., 89 Crusades, 43, 76 dependency, 74, 81, 84, 178 Derrida, J., 52, 54, 62 Diem, W., 5 al-DÈn, ÍalÅ˙ (Saladin), viii, 52, 76, 79–80, 120 diplomatic, 11, 14, 15, 50, 88, 94, 110, 115, 126, 171, 176, 179, 180, 187 DÈwÅn al-InšÅ’, viii, 29, 109; see also Composition Chancery al-mukÅtabÅt, 29 al-rasÅ’il, viii doxology (ta˙mÈd), 136, 139, 141, 146, 178 al-Droubi, S., 79 du‘Å’ (salutation and invocation), 12, 134, 136, 137, 139, 157, 166 dimmÈ, 104 al-Îa˙˙Åk, 55 Eddé, A.-M., 120 Erasmus, 87 exordium, 133, 142 Fņimid, vii–x, 39, 51, 77, 82, 103, 104, 115, 118, 120, 121, 174

[ 209

Finance secretary, 44, 91 Fitzmaurice, A., 87 French epistolography, 20 society, 9 friendship, 8–9, 14, 108, 109, 119, 141, 177 Goitein, S., 5, 171 Goldberg, J., 53–4 grammar, 4, 15, 72, 74, 86, 88, 92, 120, 153, 170, 184 grammarian, 14, 15, 44, 67, 72, 77, 85, 133, 153–4, 168, 176 grammatica, 74 Greek, 6, 21, 131 culture, 39 rhetoric, 131–2, 151, 154 society, 13 thought, 62, 132, 172, 195 tradition, 51, 170 von Grunebaum, G., 142 Gully, A., 6, 13, 144 Günther, S., 51, 67 ©arÈb (unusual; barbarous), 86–7, 106, 134 al-˝azÅlÈ, 96, 121 Hachmeier, K., vii, 110 al-HamadÅnÈ, vii, 4, 144, 145 Havelock, E., 37, 57 Heck, P., 11, 56, 58 Heloise (and Abelard), 4 hierarchical introductions, 177–8 Hinde, J., 6, 13, 144 honorifics, 89, 110, 157, 166, 168–74 Horst, A., 143, 147 humanism, 6, 57, 92 ˙adÈt (Prophetic Tradition), 41, 45, 56, 66, 67, 78, 133, 141, 142, 146, 176 al-ÓarÈrÈ, 4, 17, 30, 44, 91, 143, 146 al-ÓalabÈ, ŠihÅb al-DÈn, ix, 17, 45, 78, 86, 90, 146, 147, 150, 154 ˙all (untying), 45 al-ÓumaydÈ, AbË ‘Abd AllÅh, 21, 41 ˙usn al-hitÅm (felicitous ending), 37–8 ˙usn al-tahallu s (felicitous transition), 37–8 ˘ Óusn al-Tawassul ilÅ ÍinÅ‘at al-Tarassul, 16, 154 HÅßß al-HÅßß see al-Ta‘ÅlibÈ hatt script, 51, 55, 61, 62, 63–7 calligraphy, 60 hitÅm (conclusion), 134–5, 137, 167, 173, 174

210 ]

Index

Ibn ‘AbbÅd, al-ÍÅ˙ib, 73 Ibn al-AbbÅr, 82 Ibn ‘Abd Rabbihi, 134 Ibn AbÈ al-RabÈ ‘, 120, 121 Ibn AbÈ Íalt, 3 Ibn al-AtÈr, ÎiyÅ’ al-DÈn, ix, 4, 7, 9, 16, 17, 29–30, 31, 33, 34, 41, 44, 45, 54, 73, 75, 76, 78, 83, 84–5, 86, 87, 90, 95, 107, 113, 123, 125, 131, 132–41, 145, 146, 148, 149, 151–4, 158, 176, 180, 183 Ibn al-FurÅt, 75 Ibn HÅrËn, Sahl, 106 Ibn Halaf, ‘AlÈ, 5, 12, 15, 31, 33, 34–5, 40, 50–1, 55, 58, 59, 61–7, 76, 91, 102–3, 109, 112, 115, 119, 132, 145, 149, 151, 154, 159, 166, 174, 187, 195 Ibn HaldËn, 59, 89 Ibn al-Ha†Èb, 175, 185 Ibn al-Ha††Åb, ‘Umar (Caliph), 105 Ibn Ja‘far, QudÅma, 11–12 Ibn al-JawzÈ, 66 Ibn MÅlik, 32 Ibn MammÅtÈ, 95, 106, 120 Ibn al-Muqaffa‘, 78, 90, 108 Ibn al-Mu‘tazz, 32 Ibn NubÅtah, 15, 139, 189 Ibn Qutayba, 50–1, 61, 67 Ibn al-ÍayrafÈ, 53, 82, 88, 104, 105, 116, 117–18, 120 Ibn ŠÈt (al-QurašÈ), 7, 33, 34, 43, 60, 81, 113–17, 118, 153, 156, 158, 159, 168, 181, 184 Ibn ÊabņabÅ, 55 Ibn WušmagÈr, QÅbËs, vii, 6, 13 iftitÅ˙ (initial correspondence), 174–5 ihtirÅ ‘ (innovation, power of invention), 11, 112 ihtißÅr (brevity), 150 i‘jÅz (inimitability), 33 ÈjÅz (brevity), 33, 148, 151, 153, 154 ijtihÅ˙ (independent judgement), 113 al-Imad, S., 121 infidels, 179–80 inkwell, 51–2, 55, 61, 116 inšÅ’, vii, ix, 1, 4, 10–11, 12, 13, 15, 16, 19, 20, 22, 23, 91, 93 invocation, 12, 41, 95, 133, 137, 142, 166–7, 168, 169–70, 171, 172, 172, 174, 177, 178, 179, 180, 182, 183, 184, 187; see also du‘Å’ and salutation iqtibÅs (importation), 45 iqti∂Åb, 134, 140–1

Irvine, M., 74 al-IßfahÅnÈ, ‘ImÅd al-DÈn, 77, 79–80 istišhÅd (citation), 45, 142 ‘išra (companionship, intimacy), 107 i†Åla (lengthening), 150 Italian (letter-writing), 7 i†nÅb (emphasis), 148, 149, 151 Ivanyi, T., 144 Jackson, D., vii, 143 al-JahšiyÅrÈ, 75 al-JÅ˙iΩ, 3, 50–1, 67, 82, 134 jawÅb (response), 2, 22, 155–6, 175–7 jihÅd (Holy War), 76 jinÅs (paronomasia), 143 Johansen, B., 66 judges, 168–9 Kanazi, D., 147 al-KÅtib, ‘Abd al-ÓamÈd, 12, 41, 44, 72–3, 86, 142, 144 al-KarmÈ, 19, 21 King (s), 2, 11, 18, 31, 41, 52, 56, 61, 73, 76, 88, 90, 91, 103, 111, 118, 119, 120, 122, 123, 156, 167, 172, 181–2, 184, 194 KitÅb al-ÍinÅ‘atayn, 19, 30, 33 kitÅbat al-inšÅ’, 16, 44 lafΩ/alfÅΩ (expression[s]), 16, 51, 62, 63, 134, 153 Laroui, A., viii, ix Latham, D., 108, 144 Leclerq, 8 Little, D., 121 al-Ma‘arrÈ, 3 Ma‘Ålim al-KitÅba, 43, 81, 113–17, 153, 156 al-MadÅ’inÈ, 189 Makdisi, G., 17, 57, 85, 111, 125 El Mallakh, 171 MamlËk, vii–x, 10, 15, 39, 60, 73, 75, 76, 78, 79, 80–1, 84, 89, 92, 103, 121, 122, 166 al-Ma’mËn (Caliph), 77, 82–3, 123 ma‘nÅ (theme, idea, motif, concept), 8, 33, 41, 51, 63, 65, 86, 91, 134, 153 mantËr, 16 manΩËm, 16 maqÅma, 4, 11, 15, 30, 44, 144 Martin, H., 57 al-Matal al-SÅ’ir, 7, 10, 16, 29–30, 36, 45, 75, 133, 139, 153

Index MawÅdd al-BayÅn, 5, 12, 35, 51, 55, 61, 65, 102, 112, 154, 166 al-MÅwardÈ, 120–1, 122 mawlÅ, 156–7 al-MawßilÈ, TÅj al-DÈn, 15, 22, 31, 56, 92, 166, 167–77 merchants, 171 Messick, B., 66 al-MiftÅ˙ al-MunšÅ li-ÓadÈqat al-InšÅ, 9, 16, 95, 139, 167, 177–8, 182 military, 50 Mitchell, T., 58, 59 Mottahedeh, R., 77, 81, 171, 185–6 al-Mulk, NiΩÅm, viii, 180 al-Munta˙al see al-Ta‘ÅlibÈ al-Muqtadir (Caliph), 185 Murphy, J., 6 musÅwÅt (equivalence), 148 al-MutanabbÈ, 35, 36 al-NÅbulsÈ, ‘Abd al-˝anÈ, 37–8 al-Na˙˙Ås, AbË Ja‘far, 39 Natural disposition, 17; see also †ab‘ nÅΩir al-hÅßß, 121, 122, 124 Ong, W., 57, 131–2 Oral culture, 46, 50, 55, 57, 58, 59, 62 Oratory, 11, 12, 21, 38–41, 134, 151 Ottoman, 19, 20, 21, 89, 167 paper, 58 pen passim Perelman, L., 2, 10, 17 Persian (also Iranian), 7, 33, 75, 79 culture, 39 tradition, 73, 74 phatic, 18 philosophers, 172 physicians, 170 Pivec, K., 7 Plato, 132 poetry, 6, 8, 10, 12, 17, 30–7, 38, 39, 77, 135, 140, 142, 158, 159 prolixity, 146, 148, 149, 150, 151, 154, 155, 156 Prophet Mu˙ammad, 2, 35, 55, 76, 86, 105, 138, 141, 146, 147 Prophetic Tradition see ÓadÈt prose, vii, 10, 12, 17, 30–7, 38, 39, 144 administrative, 13 artistic, vii, viii, 145 epistolary, 29–30, 40, 43, 136

[ 211

rhythm, vii, 5 natr, 6 prosification, 45, 141, 142 of Qur’Ån and HadÈt, 44 of verse, 34 protocol (epistolary), 2, 166–90 proverbs, 43 al-QÅ∂È al-FÅ∂il, 43, 52, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79–80, 93, 113, 120, 143 al-QÅ∂È, W., 72–3 al-QalqašandÈ, AbË al-‘AbbÅs, 10–11, 15, 16, 18, 20, 21, 22, 33, 34–6, 39, 40, 42, 44, 52, 56, 57, 63, 76, 78, 79, 80, 86, 90, 91, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 109, 111, 117, 123, 124, 132, 148, 149, 156, 157, 158, 179, 180, 183, 186, 187, 194 qaßÈda (ode), 33 Quintillian, 67, 132 Qur’Ån, vi, viii, 1, 2, 32, 35, 36, 37, 41, 44, 45, 66, 67, 73, 78, 86, 87, 93, 133, 135, 139, 140, 141, 142, 145, 147, 149, 150, 151, 158, 173, 176, 186 rasÅ’il (letters) adabiyya (literary), 4 aßdiqÅ’, 8 dÈwÅniyya (official, formal), x, 13, 16, 17, 76, 159, 187 ihwÅniyya (unofficial, informal), x, 8, 13, 16, 32, 119, 159, 177, 187 recipient, 8, 9, 14, 18, 19, 21, 84, 124, 125, 136, 137, 148, 149, 150, 154, 156, 157, 158, 159, 173, 175, 177, 183; see also addressee response see jawÅb riddle (lu©z), 52–3 risÅla, 3, 4 Roemer, H., 15 Roman, 2, 7, 85 Romantics, 9 Ruler, x, 2, 10, 11, 15, 18, 21, 32, 40, 42, 52, 73, 74, 75, 77, 79, 81, 82, 84, 88, 89, 91, 94, 96, 102, 103, 104, 106, 107, 108, 109, 110, 111, 114, 115, 116, 117, 119, 124, 132, 134, 136, 138, 148, 149, 154–5, 156, 157, 158, 159, 168, 172, 173, 174, 176, 177, 178, 181–2, 184, 185, 186, 194 al-RummÅnÈ, 148

212 ]

Index

Said, Edward, 64–5 saj‘ (balanced, rhyming prose), vii, viii, 4, 18, 40, 73, 142–8, 153, 158 al-kuhhÅn, 145 El-Salem, 133, 139, 142, 150, 153 SallÅm, M., 43 Salutation, 8, 12, 18, 19, 40, 133, 137, 154, 167–74 salutatio, 7 see also du‘Å’ and invocation Sanni, A., 141, 142 Saussure, F., 62 sayyid, 156–7 Schoeler, G., 37, 66–7 Schönig, H., 144 secretary passim Sellheim, R., 74, 84, 122 solecism, 61, 65, 88, 109, 116 SunnÈ, viii Serruys, Washington, 21 signification, 64 Socrates, 59, 62 Sourdel, D., 119 Spain (Islamic), 2, 119, 171; see also al-Andalus Stewart, D., 146 Stock, B., 57 al-SubkÈ, 82 sword, 4, 30, 34, 50, 53, 54, 74, 119, 139, 186, 195–6 al-ŠÅfi‘È, 4 al-ŠartËnÈ, Sa‘Èd, 8–9, 19–21, 22, 39, 134 al-ŠaybÅnÈ, AbË ‘Amr Is˙Åq, 12, 106 ŠÈ‘ism, viii, 105, 114, 115 al-ŠirwÅnÈ, 19 al-ÍÅbi’, AbË Is˙Åq, 14, 17, 136, 146 al-ÍÅbi’, IbrÅhÈm ibn HilÅl, 8, 36, 80, 82, 114, 121, 168 al-ÍafadÈ, 54, 153 ßifÅt, 104–5 ßinÅ‘a (craft) al-kitÅba, 2, 52, 55, 56, 62 al-rasÅ’il, 16 al-tarassul, 2 Íub˙ al-A‘šÅ, 10–11, 43, 44, 76, 86, 91, 123, 125, 158, 177, 195 ÍËfÈ, 2, 171–2 al-ÍËlÈ, 12, 61 al-ÍËrÈ, AbË Fa∂l, 110 ta∂mÈn, 41, 45 tahalluß, 134, 135, 140–1 takrÈr (repetition), 149, 152–3

al-TannËhÈ, 93 al-Ta‘rÈf bi l-Mu߆ala˙ al-ŠarÈf, 11 TashÈl al-SabÈl ilÅ Ta‘allum al-TarsÈl, 21 ta†wÈl (prolixity), 146, 149, 151 al-Taw˙ÈdÈ, AbË ÓayyÅn, 34 textual community, 74 culture, ix, 50, 57, 74 knowledge, 74 themes (epistolary), x, 39 affection, 19 apology, 18, 35 clemency, 18 condoling/condolence, x, 189–90 congratulating/congratulations, x, 13, 36, 39, 133, 136 rebuking (chastising/chastisement), x, 13 thanks, 39 titles (tarÅjim), 180–5 Toorawa, S., 50, 60 Turkish, 88–9, 122, 123 al-Êuwayr, Ibn, 103 al-Ta‘ÅlibÈ, 32, 42 †ab‘, 11, 16–17, 30, 54–5, 84, 112, 133, 155, 194; see also natural disposition al-‘UmarÈ, ibn Fa∂l AllÅh, 11, 78, 79, 179–80 Umayyad, vii, 119 umma, 74 unity (of text), viii, 36, 135, 137, 140 van Berkel, M., vi, 43, 44 versification (of prose), 45 Victor, Julius, 21 vizier (wazÈr), 119, 120, 121, 123, 167, 168, 182–3 wafÅ’ (fidelity), 107 al-Wa†wņ, RašÈd al-DÈn, 143 Western culture, 1, 10, 87 epistolary writing, 2, 5, 8, 13, 18, 137, 167 humanism, 6 literature, 53, 54, 145 society, 5, 6, 7, 23, 40, 50, 56, 58–9, 83, 147, 193 tradition, 7, 17 written word cf. oral culture, 50–4, 58, 59, 60, 62 al-ÛÅhirÈ, 122–3 Zaman, M., 120