"You are too bad. But tell me, is not my song lovely?"

"Yes, beautiful, like everything else you sing."

"And the Greek poets write?"

"Yes, there you are right too, I admit."

"Are there no poets in Persia?"

"How can you ask such a question? How could a nation, who despised song,
pretend to any nobility of feeling?"

"But you have some very bad customs."

"Well?"

"You take so many wives."

"My Sappho . . ."

"Do not misunderstand me. I love you so much, that I have no other wish
than to see you happy and be allowed to be always with you. If, by
taking me for your only wife, you would outrage the laws of your country,
if you would thereby expose yourself to contempt, or even blame, (for who
could dare to despise my Bartja!) then take other wives; but let me have
you, for myself alone, at least two, or perhaps even three years. Will
you promise this, Bartja?"

"I will."