Muhammad Ibn ‘Abd Al-Malik Ibn Tufail

Translated from the Arabic by Dr. Paul Brönnle

Motto —
“’Twas what it was, ’tis not to be expressed.
Enquire no further, but conceive the best.”

Ghazali.

Editorial Note

The object of the Editors of this series is a very definite one. They desire above all things that, in their humble way, these books shall be the ambassadors of good-will and understanding between East and West — the old world of Thought and the new of Action. In this endeavour, and in their own sphere, they are but followers of the highest example in the land. They are confident that a deeper knowledge of the great ideals and lofty philosophy of Oriental thought may help to a revival of that true spirit of Charity which neither despises nor fears the nations of another creed and colour.

L. CRANMER-BYNG. S. A. KAPADIA.

The Northbrook Society,
21, Cromwell Road,
Kensington, S.W.

Introduction

It is to two English scholars, father and son, Edward Pococke, senior and junior, that the world is indebted for the knowledge of one of the most charming productions Arabian philosophy can boast of.

Generally looked upon as a subject of repulsive aridity, in its strange combination of the most heterogeneous philosophical systems, devoid of the grace and charm of attractive style, unbrightened by brilliancy of wit or spirit, Arabian philosophy has, for centuries past, been subject to sad and undeserved neglect.

Yet I cannot imagine a better and more eloquent refutation of this erroneous view than a rendering, in fresh garb, of this romance of Hayy Ibn Yokdhan, simple and ingenuous, yet fragrant with poetry and withal fraught with deep philosophical problems the interest in which I wish to revive.

It was in the year 1671 that there was published by the Oxford University Press, as one of its first issues of Arabic texts, a book called, “Philosophus autodidactus,” edited by Edward Pococke the son, together with a Latin translation. It had a preface that bore the signature of Edward Pococke, the father, and this fact alone was sufficient to stamp it at once as a work in which vast erudition and thoroughness of investigation had joined hands — for both these savants were men of wide reputation and brilliant attainments.

England, that has put students of Oriental lore under such large obligations, has never given to the world a greater Arabic scholar than Edward Pococke, “the Glory and Ornament of his Age and Nation,” the famous author of the “Specimen historiæ Arabum”; a veritable store-house of historical, scientific, literary, and religious information, and the equally famous editor of the annals of Eutychius and of the history of Dynasties by Abul faradj.

In the splendid array of famous Arabic scholars the last century has produced there are only two in England that rank with Edward Pococke on the same level — two men whose names stand out in bold relief, namely, Edward William Lane, prince among lexicographers, and William Wright, the brilliant exponent of the theories of the native Arabic grammarians.

The co-operation of Edward Pococke, the father, in the edition of this book, “Philosophus autodidactus,” was indeed the best recommendation. To Edward Pococke, the father, is due the honour of having discovered and unearthed this priceless gem of Arabic philosophical literature, whilst the son, “the worthy son of so great a father,” undertook the task, by no means an easy one, of editing the Arabic text and furnishing it with a Latin translation. This Latin translation was undoubtedly for that time a praiseworthy performance; yet, considering the enormous strides Oriental science has made during the last centuries, and with all the new material at hand, we are to-day able to put the philological groundwork on a more solid basis.

In casting about for the work of an Arabian philosopher for the “Wisdom of the East” Series, I could not think of anything more engaging, more captivating, than this simple romance.

Unfortunately, for reasons of space, I could not give a translation in full, but I have given the most interesting parts. On the passages, however, which I had to leave out, I have dwelt at greater length in this Introduction. In the translation I have tried to preserve the cachet, the archaic flavour and spirit of the book.

The idea underlying the story is, as Ockley puts it, to show how human capacity may, unassisted by any external help, attain to the knowledge of the higher world, and so by degrees find out its dependence upon a superior Being, the immortality of the soul, and other questions of the highest importance. In short, it describes the gradual awakening of the soul, the evolution of an original mind from its first groping in the dark to the most dazzling heights of philosophical speculation.

The great charm of the book lies in its simplicity and ingenuousness; in its entire freedom from affectation of style; in the transparent lucidity of its exposition, which is in pleasant contrast with the ponderous works of other philosophical writers amongst the Arabs.

Yet with all its ingenuousness, what sustained power of thought, what depth of philosophical penetration!

Hayy Ibn Yokdhan — this prototype of Robinson Crusoe — truly a pathetic, yet inspiring figure!

The simple setting of a man, living a solitary life on an Island, entirely given up to meditation and introspection, is used by our author as an arena for the display of his philosophical views, which, in kaleidoscopic transformation, cover the whole range of wisdom of those times — astronomical, geographical, cosmographic, physiological, — and so on, the whole picture touched with the wand of the master.

The author of the story, Ibn Tufail, though he is generally not reckoned among the most prominent in that brilliant array of Arabian philosophers for whom Spain became the rallying-point in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, yet his name will outlive centuries. For the romance which he has given to the world is a work of everlasting beauty, of immortal freshness; one that will never grow stale in the flight of ages.

Little is known of his private life, which seems to have passed by as uneventful as that of many of the philosophers and scientists of those ages.

He was born at Guadix, a little town of Andalusia. After having finished his education, he became a secretary at Granada, and later on we find him as Vezir and Physician to Abu Yakub, one of the first representatives of the dynasty of the Almohades. He died in Morocco, in 1185, leaving, besides his story of Hayy Ibn Yokdhan, only a few poems of insignificant value; whilst his principal work, the Self-taught Philosopher, has secured for him immortality.

In the following pages I will endeavour to give a short résumé of this story, though I am painfully aware of the fact that such an analysis can scarcely do justice to the beauty of the language nor to the wealth of philosophical thought and speculation represented therein.

From the outset the atmosphere is created with broad and happy touches.

On an Island in the Indian Ocean, famous for its health-giving atmosphere, abounding in fruits and inhabitants, Hayy Ibn Yokdhan comes into this world, as the son of a Princess, who is compelled to expose the child soon after his birth. The tide carries him to another Island, where he is found by a roe, that takes pity on him, nurses him like a mother, and watches over his every movement with tender affection.

Under her care he quickly develops into a fine strapping boy who is not afraid to venture a passage with wild beasts that dare to oppose him.

After the death of the roe, at which he is grief-stricken, he is wholly thrown on his own resources. Yet he knows how to look after himself. He covers himself with leaves of trees, and finds out other ways to keep himself warm and protected.

As the repairing of the coverings of leaves was very troublesome, he had a design of taking the tail of some dead beast and wearing it himself; but when he perceived that all beasts avoided those which were dead of the same kind, it made him doubt whether it was safe or not. At last, by chance he found a dead eagle, and observing that none of the beasts showed any aversion to that carcase, he concluded that this would suit his purpose, and so he cuts off the wings, the tail, and spreads the feathers open: then he draws off the skin and divides it into two equal parts, one of which he wears upon his back; with the other he covers his breast: the tail he wore behind and the wings were placed upon each arm.

This dress answered different ends: for in the first place it covered his nakedness, helped to keep him warm, and then it made him so frightful to the beasts that none of them cared to meddle with him or come near him.

After awhile he began to make experiments with the body of the roe, anxious to find out its composition.

He noticed, when he shut his eyes or held anything before him, he could see nothing at all till this obstacle was removed; and so, when he put his fingers in his ears that he could not hear till he took them out again. From which he concluded that all his senses and actions were liable to obstacles and impediments, upon the removal of which the same functions returned to their former course.

Now, when he found no visible defect in the external parts of the body of the roe, and yet at the same time perceived a universal cessation of its motions, he began to imagine that the hurt from which the roe had died was hidden in the inward part of the body.

Now he had observed on the bodies of wild beasts and other animals that all their members were solid, and that there were only three cavities, viz. the skull, the breast, and belly. He imagined, therefore, that the part the nature of which he wanted to find out must be in one of these cavities, and he had a strong persuasion that it was in the middlemost of them.

And having by this way of reasoning assured himself that the disaffected part lay in the breast, he resolved to open the breast of the roe; and, providing himself with sharp flints and splinters of dry cane almost like knives, he made an incision between the ribs, and, cutting through the flesh, came to the Diaphragm.

When he found this tough and not easily broken, he assured himself that such a covering must belong to that part for which he was looking out. After great efforts he succeeded in breaking through, and the first part he met was the lungs; and at last he found the heart, which he saw closed with a very strong cover and fastened with strong ligaments and guarded with a membrane.

On finding the same membrane on the inside of the ribs, and the lungs in the same posture as on the other side which he had opened first, he concluded the heart to be the part he looked for. When, however, he found that the being which had dwelt there before, had left its house before it fell to ruin, and forsaken it, the whole body seemed to him an inconsiderable thing.

Then his mind was perplexed with a variety of thoughts as to its substance and subsistence, the reason of its departure, etc. After much deliberation, at last he found that from that part of the heart which had departed proceeded all those actions by which the roe had shown her care of him and her affection, — that the body was only as an instrument or tool, like his cudgel with which he used to fight with the wild beasts. Thus all his regard for the body was over and transferred to that by which the body is governed, and by whose power it moves. So he decides in the end to bury the body.

After its burial, the impression of his loneliness and of his dependence upon himself being deepened, he quickly develops his faculties. In a short time he becomes an expert in different sports, as hunting and fishing. He makes himself clothes and shoes of the skins of wild beasts. By the observations he made upon the swallows’ nests, being taught the art of building, he builds with his hands a room for his own use, a store-house, and a pantry. Then he contrives to make some wild horses so tractable that he can use them for riding, which is a great help to him in his expeditions and excursions.

His material existence thus once firmly established and secured, he begins to indulge in his speculations on all sorts of bodies, — on the different kinds of animals, plants, minerals and different sorts of stones, earth, water, exhalations and vapours, ice, snow, hail, smoke, fire, etc.

By the time he attains to the age of twenty-eight (fourth Septenary), his mind starts to ponder over astronomical problems — over heaven and stars, sun and moon; and in the end comes to the conclusion that the body of heaven is finite and is of a spherical figure.

At last his mind finds itself occupied with the great problem of Creation and Creator. With admirable skill the author delineates here the gradual development of Hayy’s reasonings on the Creator and Mover of the world, and concludes with the panegyric words of the Koran: He is the Existence, He is the Absoluteness, He is the Perfection, He is the Beauty, He is the Glory, He is the Power, He is the Knowledge, He is He, and all Things perish beside Him.

All his thoughts were henceforward confined to the contemplation of this necessarily self-existent Being. In order to do this, he removed all his affections from sensible things, shut his eyes, stopped his ears, and refrained himself as much as possible from following his imagination, endeavouring to the utmost to think of nothing besides him.

Whilst so, on the one side, the imagination and all the other faculties which make any use of the organs of the body grew weak; on the other side, the operations of his essence which did not depend upon the body grew strong, so that sometimes his meditation was pure and free from any mixture, and he beheld thereby the necessarily self-existent Being; but then again corporeal faculties would return upon him and spoil his contemplation, and bring him down to the lowest degree.

Thus he continued, he opposing his corporeal faculties, and they opposing him, and mutually struggling one against another. Then, when he observed that the negative attributes consisted in separation from bodily things, he began to strip himself of all bodily properties — to remove and reject all those things from himself, as being in no wise consistent with that state which he was now in search of.

Thus he continued, confining himself to rest in the bottom of his cave, with his head bowed down and his eyes shut, and turning himself altogether from all sensible things and the corporeal faculties, and turning all his thoughts and meditations upon the necessarily self-existent Being without admitting anything else besides him: and if any other object presented itself to his imagination, he rejected it with his utmost force, and persisted therein to that degree that sometimes he did neither eat nor stir for many days together.

When he succeeded in preventing the admission of an extraneous object into that contemplation, he endeavoured as it were to disappear from himself — to detach himself entirely from his corporeal faculties, so as to be wholly taken up in the vision of that true Being.

And, thereto when at last he attained both the heaven and the earth, all spiritual forms and corporeal faculties, and all those powers that are separate from matter, all disappeared and vanished, and were as if they had never been. And amongst these his own being disappeared too, till at last there remained nothing but this One, True, Perpetually Self-existent Being, who spoke thus in that saying of his (the Koran): To whom now belongs the Kingdom? To this One, the Almighty God.

Thus he deeply immersed himself into this state, and witnessed “that which neither eye hath seen, nor ear heard, nor hath it ever entered into the heart of man to conceive.”

When he came to himself from that state which was like drunkenness — he began to think that his own essence did not at all differ from the essence of that True Being, and that there was nothing in him but this true essence. It appeared to him that this True, Powerful, and Glorious Being was not by any means capable of multiplicity, and that his knowledge of his essence was his very essence, from whence he argued thus: “He that has the knowledge of this essence, has the essence itself, but I have the knowledge of this essence. Ergo, I have the essence itself.”

Now Hayy Ibn Yokdhan being wholly immersed in the speculation of those things, and perfectly abstracted from all other objects, saw in the highest sphere a Being devoid of any maker; it was like the image of the sun which appears in a well-polished looking-glass. In the essence of that separate sphere he saw such perfection, splendour, and beauty, as is too great to be expressed by any tongue and too subtle to be clothed in words. It was, as he perceived it, in the utmost perfections of delight and joy, exaltation of gladness.

The next sphere to it — that of the fixed stars, had an immaterial essence that was not the essence of that True one, nor the essence of that highest, separated sphere, nor the sphere itself, but like the image of the sun that is reflected upon a looking-glass from another glass placed opposite to the sun; and in this essence he observed also the like splendour, beauty, loveliness, and pleasure that he had observed in the essence of the other highest sphere; the same splendour and delight he saw also in other essences. In fact, in all the spheres he observed immaterial distinct essences of the same kind; he saw such beauty, splendour, pleasure, and joy as eye has not seen nor ear heard, until he came to the lower world, subject to generation and corruption, which comprehends all that is contained within the sphere of the moon.

This essence, immaterial like the rest, had seventy thousand faces, and every face seventy thousand mouths, and every mouth seventy thousand tongues, that sanctified and glorified incessantly that One, True Being.