I can entirely see why this text triggered an efflorescence of Persian romances (and, most likely, of European ones too - the theory that ‘Tristan and Isolde’ in part ripped off ‘Vis and Ramin’ seems convincing). This is a genuinely wonderful book, which remains a delightful contribution to world literature 1,000 years on.
I’m struck by the consistency with which classic Persian literature counterposes strong women with really quite obnoxious men, and ‘Vis and Ramin’ again left me wondering - is this progressive? On the one hand, our sympathies are clearly supposed to be with the women; on the other, the regularity with which this trope is deployed leaves me fearful that I’m projecting, and that instead these men are set up as the limits of what even the best of women deserve. Perhaps these texts are simply a product of their time: a recognition of contemporary socioeconomic realities written by authors astute and curious enough to engage in critical reflection. For it seems undoubtable that Gorgani so reflects: from the outset, this is a female-led tale. Vis’ mother Queen Shahru is the power in Mahabad, and her husband Qaren is only even named incidentally (whilst his sole contribution to the narrative is his death). Only Shahru successfully defies the will of King Mobad (though others obviously circumvent it), and she does so whilst having a clear character and personality. In contrast, the men in ‘Vis and Ramin’ (including the eponymous Ramin) exist in outline only. It’s regrettable that Shahru’s character is venal and grasping, but it’s a necessary plot device. Her ill-thought promise before Vis’ birth - and subsequent buying off at the hands of Mobad after it - sets a stage on which Vis is passed around like chattel.
What follows is a tale in which Vis is bought by a king who (after killing her father) immiserates and beats her, whilst remaining unbowed in her love of Ramin - and therefore her own agency. Whilst Mobad enjoys power and riches beyond comparison as king of Merv, he remains tormented by the one thing he can’t compel - Vis’ love, which is therefore set above all other prizes. Pity that she chooses to give this prize to Ramin, who at points makes us even sympathise with Mobad. This man - who woos Vis, leaves her, marries Gol, leaves Gol, returns to Vis, gaslights her, harangues her - is hard to like. Yet the sense throughout is that Gorgani does not even intend for us to do so. It’s Vis we’re supposed to sympathise with, and who we rebel against being treated as wanton for refusing to stay loyal to a jealous husband who kidnapped her. Indeed, Gorgani devotes significant space to allowing Vis to list Ramin’s faults. In an especially memorable passage, the reader is struck by the force with which Vis’ agonised letter to Ramin reaches through the page, spanning the centuries by crafting something that channels the complaints made by lovers everywhere. In contrast, Ramin’s response is peremptory and short; small wonder Gorgani introduces Gol’s father Rafida for little other reason than to allow him to criticise Ramin. Insofar as Vis is ever at fault, I couldn’t help but feel repulsed at the way she treats her nurse - who, as in Romeo and Juliet, is the critical force in bringing the two lovers together. Ultimately, Vis is a product of her class. Having been consistently rough and abusive towards the woman who assumes culpability for Vis’ apparent sins in the eyes of the world, Vis engages in a remarkable volte face when it comes to using her as a stalking horse to upbraid Ramin (and, suddenly, there’s an “us” which has suffered hurt). This seemed to me an unjust treatment of the woman who is perhaps the story’s unsung hero - ever loyal and always vital.
Having loved Nizami, I was keen to read Gorgani - who was, in many ways, his inspiration. It’s undoubtedly true that Nizami’s verse reaches a height that is genuinely breathtaking, and that in many ways he perfected the genre. In contrast, ‘Vis and Ramin’ features a number of moments of narrative laziness. Whilst it’s a trope of Persian romance that love comes on suddenly and unexpectedly, I didn’t rate Gorgani avoiding the work of detailing Vis and Ramin courting by having them raised together as children (from which point they are seemingly already in love). I also didn’t rate the way in which Gorgani seemingly dropped plot lines (understanding that Viru’s total abandonment of Vis is obviously a narrative device, I found it unrealistic - especially when their later interactions then proceed on a purely fraternal basis as if nothing ever happened), or simply told us things out of the blue (there is nothing to suggest Ramin is Mobad’s brother other than that we’re told it’s so - but more egregious is the introduction of Moshkin two-thirds of the way through the text, who we are simply told is up to speed because Vis has been secretly speaking to him throughout). Nevertheless, there are also points where Gorgani edges Nizami. Nizami is a prude, and gets particularly shy about pre-Islamic rites and behaviours; Gorgani dives in two footed. ‘Vis and Ramin’ veers between rich verse and an earthiness that is really refreshing, and which provides the perfect harness in which to advance a romance that’s genuinely thrilling. Gorgani might not reach the formal heights of Nizami, but this is gripping melodrama - a rollicking plot that surely creates a much better and more realistic read than the at times austere and overly spiritual ‘Layli and Majnun’. At the same time, ‘Vis and Ramin’ has moments of genuine beauty too - some of the set piece addresses (like Ramin’s wooing of Vis via the nurse) are exceptional. I was also fascinated by the range of geographical references upon which Gorgani draws - from Tibetan musk to the Buddhist temple in Farkhar.
As ever, Dick Davis’ masterful translation is a work of art in itself - and I enjoy the dry wit of the notes he provides. I have but one quibble, which relates to him describing the seeming paradox of Gorgani noting in the text that he is young whilst also saying that his best days are behind him. Clearly, Davis is too old to remember himself. As I turn 30 this year, everyone around me increasingly seems to describe themselves in just the same way.