COVE

Together, the stanza and image present an impression of oppressive darkness, in conjunction with the creation of sin as it is expressed within the stanza. The two work in tandem to provide a stark juxtaposition against the comparative lightness of the other images and stanzas in the gift book; although the Rubáiyát grapples with questions of mortality and the value of life, this stanza directly addresses the concept of sin and its inception. 

The stanza itself is quite interesting. It opens with an address to an anonymous “thou,” claiming the subject was made by man of “baser Earth.” This presents two available readings, the first being that man made the subject using baser earth, implying that the subject holds an inherent lack of value. My mind, however, turns more firmly to an interpretation that reads the subject as made by man, who is himself made from “baser earth.” In this latter interpretation, the line carries the implication that the subject is sin, and man, who is made of baser earth, is the one who created it. Following this latter interpretation, the second line moves into a direct discussion of sin. The speaker joins the subject with Eden, claiming the subject was conspiring with Eden, and they together “didst devise the Snake.” In other words, sin, or its creator, conspired with Eden to create the snake that tempted Eve to commit the first sin, in accordance with the Christian myth, thus implying that the subject is the devil, or some equivalent embodiment of sin. Following this scheming, the third, unrhymed line stands out, boldly claiming “For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man,” suggesting that man is defined by sin, for all sin bears the face of man. The final line concludes the stanza, connecting to and continuing the third. While all sin bears the face of man, defining him, he is also “blacken’d” by it, leaving his visage stained by sin; with that sin, “Man’s Forgiveness give—and take!” This closing thought speaks to the forgiveness man offers for sin, and the forgiveness he takes, which reads oddly like a warning. 

This stanza presents an interesting translative interpretation; written by an eleventh century Persian scholar, the original text would have drawn heavily from Islamic influences and imagery, rather than Christian images as exhibited by FitzGerald’s translation. In this stanza, he can be seen taking considerable liberty with its interpretation, likely in holding with his tendency to alter the translation in such a way as to better appeal to his English audience. 

That said, the final line of the stanza speaks to the accompanying illustration, and the ways in which it differs from the others. Throughout this edition of the Rubáiyát , EJ Sullivan’s illustrations provide light, Grecian pieces drawing on elements of the macabre, all of which are crafted in a uniform style with line work granting the pieces depth. This stanza, however, breaks that trend; instead of light, airy lines, the androgynous figure at the center of the piece is drawn with a comparatively heavy hand, with none of the delicacy present in the other images. The background is most striking; along with the heavy linework, the blank spaces interspersed throughout the background afford the piece space to develop and hold their own weight within the images in their stylistic suggestion of foliage, overwhelmed as it is by darkness. This particular image feels oppressively heavy, with the central figure submitting to the darkness, which wraps around their androgynous form with tendrils resembling the coils of a serpent, holding with the imagery of the stanza and the allusion to the creation myth present in the Christian Bible. The figure’s face presents an interesting expression, as it appears almost caught in the throes of pleasure, which would fit with the sensuality present in the implication that the figure is being consumed by sin. Stylistically, this remains consistent with the final two lines of the stanza, which discuss how man, stained as he is by sin, gives and takes forgiveness as he wishes. To my mind, this affords two possible interpretations of the image: either the darkness is representative of the sin, a purely human construction, effectively consuming man, or it depicts Eden—in reading the figure as an anthropomorphized representation of the garden—as being consumed by the serpent of sin and the evil of man. 

Together, the image and the text work together to present an image of oppressive weight, ostensibly representative of sin as it exists within the world.