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Theosophy House
Is This Theosophy?
by
Ernest Egerton Wood
The Secret Doctrine by H P Blavatsky
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BOOK I
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CHAPTER I
JUVENILITY
AMONG the
warmest and clearest of my early recollections a dirty old field
stands out
pre-eminent – if I may describe as a field a patch of ground,
abandoned for
the time being by a discouraged suburban builder, between the
backyard
walls of two rows of houses facing two parallel streets. Very little
grass there
was on this field, but it was pitted all over with delightful holes
full of
sticky reddish-grey clay, and right across its centre it was diversified
by two
parallel lines of kerbstones, marking the place where in some remote
future – too
far off to disturb a child’s enjoyment – another street would run,
flanked by
two more rows of houses, which would eventually obliterate this
paradise and
subject it to utility instead of joy.
Standing out
more clearly than my brother and the few shadowy boy friends who
played in
those delightful holes of clay – I can recollect no girls, or else I
was
unconscious of any difference between girls and boys – were several strange
creatures
from other spheres.
There was a
fox-terrier dog, dressed in white with black patches, which
attracted my
gaze again and again – something outstanding and interesting, as
not of my
world, but more the material of which fairy tales were made. There was
a very old
woman who hung round about with pieces of grey-black cloth. Even her
face and
hands were of almost the same colour. She was always bending. I cannot
recollect
that she ever straightened herself up. And she was always poking about
among the old
cans and other rubbish that obscured the earth in those parts. The
little boy
watched her with untiring and almost breathless [11] fascination, as
she gathered
together her peck of dirt, the which presumably to eat before she
died.
Other foreign
beings – somewhat midway in shadowiness between these two
outstanding figures
and the other playfellows – used to emerge at eventide from
sundry back
doors, and presently, passing the time of evening to one another,
these would
urge their offspring through backyard gates to the inevitabilities
that lay
beyond.
My mother is
not to be counted among the foreign or shadowy beings. Far from it.
She was a
very substantial young woman, the daughter of a
tenant-farmer,
aged about nineteen when I was born. Even at the early age of
five, of
which I am now writing, I remember regarding her as a beauty, not
perhaps that
I used that word or idea to myself, but I know that I particularly
liked the
line of her cheek and her dark colouring. Although the aesthetics of
touch –
especially with reference to clay, sand, pebbles and water, and I
remember,
too, a very keen appreciation of velvet and an equal abhorrence of
leather –
were much more in my department than those of sight, I was not without
eyes for a
handsome curve, of which my mother presented many, composed, as I
again knew by
tactual experience, of good firm muscle.
In the early
mornings I used to go from my bedroom – where I slept with my elder
brother – to
hers, and watch her dress. She never laced or unlaced her stays,
but simply
put them on or off, and yet – as I learnt later, when keeping my ears
open in the
course of shopping expeditions – they measured only twenty-three
inches at the
waist, which was not to be considered much under the
circumstances,
even in those days of eighteen– and nineteen-inch figures, and
indeed looked
small beside her muscular shoulders and neck, especially when
covered
closely with cloth and presented in photographic form in the family
album. There
were many mysteries of dress in those latter years of the
eighteen-eighties.
I could never understand why she tied a big pad on the back
of her (they
were days of the bustle).
My mother’s
muscularity I remember well also on bath nights. A zinc tub would be
brought into
the kitchen – a cosy place with a roaring fire, for my father and
mother,
however poor at the time of which I am writing, were never mean with
reference to
their children’s needs and comforts – dumped down on the oilcloth
before the
fire and filled [12] with hot water. My brother and I were then
invited, and
if necessary commanded, to enter the water, where we sat side by
side immersed
to the neck, while our heads and laces, and afterwards the rest of
our bodies,
standing, were subjected to a merciless application of soap and
elbow-grease,
with regard to which also there was no parsimony, though I would
have welcomed
it in that sphere.
The water was
painfully hot to me, though not to my mother’s hands, and not
apparently to
my brother’s skin; but she never understood my complaints and
protests in
this particular, but always thought me fanciful or wayward, and
supplemented
her commands when necessary with physical force. However, what
would you?
When a muscular young female of our species has embarked upon a
career of
mass production at the age of about eighteen, one cannot expect too
much
discrimination of particulars, but rather what the poet has described as
the method of
Nature – so careless of the single life, so careful of the type!
Still, I must
add that economics had their say then, as today, and the mass
production
stopped with me for more than five years, when came my younger
brother,
whereby presently will hang a tale.
I had my
mother very much to myself for several years, as my elder brother was
not much in
evidence. Somehow he did not make a very strong mark on me during
this period,
although we played together constantly. I used to follow my mother
about the
house and watch every little thing that she was doing, and must have
been a great
trouble, always getting in her way, watching and listening to
everything,
though not speaking very much. In some aspects I was a
disappointment
to her: she had very much wanted her second child to be a girl.
In fact, she
kept me dressed as a little girl as long as she could; the family
album shows
me in that form at the age of about three or four. There is a
picture in a
velvet dress. I wonder if it was then I hat I acquired my love for
the touch of
velvet and other soft textiles, and consequent dislike for hard or
homespun
cloths.
Vivid domestic
pictures of my mother remain in my mind: (I) at her treadle
sewing-machine
– she used to make all our clothes, as well as her own, which she
fitted upon a
revolting headless and legless dummy, whose presence quite spoilt
the pleasure
of our empty back bedroom as a playroom; (2) in [13] the kitchen,
with her
sleeves turned up, rolling pastry with anuncomm only large rolling-pin
– she was,
and still is, an excellent cook; and (3) in the cellar, at the
copper, which
had a fire underneath, and was filled with boiling water and
clothes,
where she wielded a three-legged dolly with immense speed and vigour,
while the
floor swam in water, and an atmosphere of tropical heat and moisture
intrigued my
skin and my sense of smell.
During those
years I thus acquired much feminine lore, though no art or skill. I
was just a
looker-on. If it had been
commercial
town, they would have called me a rubber-neck! But our houses and
streets were
miniature, and not overstrong at that. I recollect that a few years
later, when I
came to a more athletic age, and had rigged up an old broomstick
or something
as a horizontal bar, fastened to one of the beams of the roof, the
man who had
built the house called upon my father and told him that it must be
taken down or
else I should bring the whole roof upon their heads.
This close
association, and my mother’s thoughts towards me for several years,
must have
influenced my psychology very greatly, for still I do not distinguish
very clearly
between the sexes, except when I specially think of it, and I am
more at home
with women than with men, not because they are women, but because
of their
ways, their gentleness, their delicacy, their freedom from earthiness,
which I tend not
to admire from a distance so much as to absorb for my own. As a
consequence,
I am afraid that I am much more of a friend than of a husband to my
wife.
Recently a travelling companion asked me: “Done any shooting lately – ah?”
Taken aback,
I could only stammeringly reply: “Er – not since the war.”
With all
that, though short of stature, I was not an effeminate boy. Sometimes
on the rather
rare occasions on which a neighbour might have ventured into our
very self-centred
home, there would be an exhibition of the heavy muscular
development
of my shoulders and legs, of which my mother was proud, though
unreasoningly,
as they were quite out of proportion, and in competition with the
bones my calf
muscles had got the best of it and caused my legs to become
slightly
bowed. Generally the display of two crowns (whorls in the hair) would
conclude this
entertainment. [14]
My brother
was much more effeminate in appearance and build than I. He was tall,
thin, fair-haired
(like his father) and languid; I was just the opposite; short,
dark-haired
(like my mother), muscular and energetic. Later, in my schooldays, I
remember I
was occasionally censured for being too rough at football – though I
know now that
all that was a semi-conscious revolt against my own feminine
complexes.
Again, at the age of about eighteen, I sported a long, dark beard,
which used to
make people ask which was the father and which the son when I took
walks with my
father in the village, as we called our suburb. And later still,
when the
Great War came, the doctors put me into the A class without hesitation,
notwithstanding
my meagre five feet six inches of height. But I digress.
§2
My father
used to come home from his business in the city every evening about
warehouses in
the city, and in conjunction with that occupation he contrived to
give my
brother and me an almost Montessori education, by the constant supply of
otherwise
useless samples that he used to bring home. Every evening, when we
heard his key
in the lock, we would rush into the lobby to greet him like a pair
of young
puppy dogs, and almost his first act would be to draw from his pocket
some small sample-books
of coloured tissue or printing paper, or two or three
sample
playing cards, or something of the kind. After that he would take off his
coat, go
upstairs two or three at a time – he had been an apprentice in a
sailing ship
– take off his collar and tie, turn down the neck-band of his
shirt, remove
his cuffs and roll up his shirt sleeves, and subject himself to
such a
washing of neck and ears and face and arms as I never ceased to marvel
at, in view
of the fact that it was not compulsory in his case. Then he would
dress himself
carefully again and come down to tea, which was our chief meal of
the day.
A good meal
it was, too, for, as I before remarked, my mother was an excellent
cook, with an
unerring instinct for the proper moment to take things off the
fire or out
of the oven. She made also our supplies of jams and pickles, while I
used to stand
by with discs of paper and a saucer of [15] flour paste, putting
on the “lids”
of the jars, as she filled them with the steaming jam – there were
no screw
stoppers then. But I remember that her one solitary attempt to make the
household
bread was a failure; it came out as hard as bricks and was eventually
used instead
of coal.
In the
to town with
him, and eat them somewhere privately during the lunch hour, or
else go to
one of the cheap little vegetarian restaurants which abounded then –
there were
twenty-two of them in our city – and spend a few pence on a bit of
something to
eat. My mother, at home, would be equally frugal in the middle of
the day; at
that meal we could not have jam and butter on our bread both at the
same time,
but only one or the other. I recollect that it was then that my
scientific
proclivities began to manifest themselves, in the discovery that I
got more
taste out of my bread and butter or my bread and jam by eating it
upside down
than right side up, for thus the tasty portion rather than the mere
pabulum would
most fully and immediately strike the tongue; though I cannot say
that this
discovery of mine was highly approved in the family from the aesthetic
point of
view. Another bit of science was my formula for learning right and left
– “If I stand
beside the oven and look through the window my right arm is on the
oven side.”
For a long time I had to picture this scene when I wanted to know
which side
was right or left. I remember also systematically finding out that it
took ten
minutes to count a thousand.
In the early
mornings my father used to get up and make the kitchen fire, clean
the boots,
and make his own breakfast and a cup of tea for my mother, which he
took up to
her bed, for he firmly disapproved of her getting up until he was off
to his
business. Often he had a sausage for breakfast, and when we came down my
brother and I
used to find the two ends, each about an inch long, standing up
neatly on a
plate, titbits greatly relished by us, not only for their taste, but
also on
account of their interesting appearance and shape. My father used
playfully to
call these “sassengers,” until one day he went into a provision
dealer’s shop
and asked for “a pound of sassengers,” thereby attracting in his
direction
more eyes than he was accustomed to meet at one time. Notwithstanding
the charm of
these titbits, tea remained the chief gustatory event of the day
for all of
us, [16] though it was probably marred to some extent for my father
by my
insistence upon sitting so close up against him at table that he could
hardly use
his arm.
My father and
mother had no friends. They never went out to tea or evening
functions,
and no one came to see them. Occasional advances of friendliness by
neighbours
they quietly but firmly discouraged. Their time was entirely devoted
to their
children and to reading. Tea being over at about half-past seven, my
mother would
clear the table and then sit down to read by the fire, while my
father would
play with us and teach us. It was in this way that we learnt to
read and to
perform the operations of simple arithmetic, long before going to
school.
Somehow our father made this learning into a kind of play, so that we
were never
conscious of any effort, or indeed that we were learning anything.
These
occasions were enlivened, however, by a certain amount of undesirable
competition,
especially in mental arithmetic, in which my brother used to become
annoyed
because I was quicker in answering, and seldom gave him a chance to
reply.
Those evening
studies were mingled with games – among which I remember
particularly
wall quoits, tiddleywinks and the flicking of marbles through holes
in a board,
or at rows of toy soldiers. I was always good at marbles, but my
brother would
not touch them at all, declaring – though not in exactly these
words – that
they were too plebeian for his lofty taste. Our father never
brought in
playing cards – except snap cards, with ugly faces and mottoes on
them, such as
“Away with Melancholy,” of which I could never see the sense. Nor
did he bring
in any of those games which depend upon the throwing of dice.
I suppose
that no children could ever have had a more companionable or
entertaining
young father. When we were tired of games or of reading he would
tell us
thrilling stories of his schooldays, which were very amusing when not
painful, and
of his adventures at sea in sailing ships, and in various distant
lands,
especially
the long walk
that he undertook across country from
trying
experience of a sailing ship held up for six weeks off the south of
Horn, heeling
over on its side on account of the shifting of a cargo of guano,
while all
hands dug the unsavoury substance back to its proper position, [17]
hard put to
it to prevent the handles of the spades from freezing to their
fingers and
taking away the skin. He would talk of quarrels and fights at sea,
bordering on
mutiny, in which his sympathies were always with the men in their
complaints of
rough treatment and of live stock and decay in their food. He
would talk of
the desolate nitrate tracts behind
country
around
myself in
years to come.
My brother
and I acquired many fragments of economic and scientific knowledge
from these
histories. Once our father had decided, after leaving a sheep farm,
to stay in
he had come
to the last of his money. He was wandering on the Circular Quay
(which, by
the way, is square) wondering what to do, when – the last straw – the
sole came off
one of his shoes. He was looking at this with stunned helplessness
when he heard
a voice calling his name. Looking up he saw the face of a ship’s
sailmaker
whom he had known protruding over the gunwale of the famous ship
gave him a
job as rigger.
Among the
scientific bits, we learned that in a storm at sea a man on deck would
go and shut
himself in a cabin in order to hear more clearly the voice of a man
up aloft.
§3
Sundays were
dreadfully dull, especially the mornings, as, although we were
never
troubled with religion in any form, we were not allowed any but very quiet
games. Sunday
afternoon walks brightened things up a bit, and often we used to
go to a dell
called Daisy Nook and pick flowers. Although we lived in a street
composed of
rows of houses, the front doors of which opened straight on to the
pavement, the
neighbourhood was not heavily built up, and there were some nice
walks.
Opposite our house was a neat little municipal park, to which our mother
used to take
us in the afternoons, while our father was in town. There we used
to play ball
on the grass or sit while she read to us from picture and story
books.
Nursery stories were followed by Grimms and Andersen. Grimms I liked,
with their
caverns and magic, but I could not bear Andersen’s habit of making
[18] leather
and broomsticks talk. And I wanted to know, if a princess was shut
up in a
tower, what arrangements were made for her sanitary convenience. Later
The Arabian
Nights’ Entertainments proved a glorified Grimms. Saturday
afternoons
were devoted to shopping. I remember standing outside a greengrocer’s
and looking
at tomatoes. They were something new. It was remarked that they were
“an acquired
taste.”
Twice, I
think, my brother and I went to Sunday-school, upon the solicitation of
a young lady
who called at our house and volunteered to take us. But our
experiments
in religion came to an abrupt end. Somebody had been talking about
Hell, to
which my father seriously objected. He was a keen admirer of Mr.
Charles
Bradlaugh and in a lesser degree of Mrs. Annie Besant; he took me once,
at the age of
about four, to one of Mr. Bradlaugh’s lectures, but I do not think
I profited
much by the occasion, as to which I can only remember a big broad
back blocking
my view.
Still, like
many other children, I was not without my own private hells. One of
these was
called “the bury hole.” Who put this into my mind I do not know, but I
had a good
deal of vague fear in connection with it. I thought that little boys
called
naughty – not really naughty, of course, for there was no such thing! I
was quite
destitute of what the clergy call the sense of sin – were driven away
in a big
black hearse, drawn by two black horses hung round with black tassels,
to a barren
land, where they were then buried up to the neck with their heads
sticking out,
or were put into a deep hole which was then filled entirely with
earth, and
thus left to their future. I had no idea of death as a termination of
consciousness.
Night I
dreaded. My especial trouble for a long time was a dreadful man who had
secreted
himself under the bed and was always about to plunge a sword right
through the
mattress into some part of my defenceless anatomy; I always had a
dread of this
sword, and used to picture quite in detail the events of its
playing about
in my abdominal regions. And what a trouble my father had to
persuade me
to go to the barber’s shop for the first time! Our mother had always
cut our hair
before that. Though he remained beside me the whole time, I
expected
every moment that the barber would cut my throat with one of the razors
of [19] which
he had a handsome display, or else would jab the points of his
scissors into
my eyes.
At night the
gas jet used to be left on low in our bedroom. Nevertheless, as I
looked at the
patch of light on the wall I used to see there malignant grimacing
faces. There
was always a great battle of wills with these. By force of will I
used to
convert them piecemeal into portraits of my father, whom I regarded
practically
as God; but always the portrait would escape control and would
change again
into some new horror, and so the contest would go on until I fell
asleep from
sheer exhaustion. I do not think there were any pleasant imaginings
to compensate
for these. Only sometimes I used to put my head under the
bedclothes
and deliberately imagine that I was passing along some underground
corridors
which were literally lined on either side with thousands upon
thousands of
toys, but only once did I succeed in making it seem at all real to
myself.
I kept all my
fears entirely to myself, and endured them privately until they
gradually
faded away, to be replaced by another implanted by my mother. She had
a fear of her
own, much more real than any of mine, and she did not keep it to
herself. It
was that her husband might fall ill. He had a delicate appearance,
and in some
ways was, perhaps, not very strong, especially being a restless
sleeper and
sometimes subject to biliousness. She considered that after a hard
day in town
the attention of two boys in the evening might wisely be subjected
to a little
moderation, which she administered by telling us to be very gentle
with our
father, lest he fall ill and lose his employment and we find ourselves
in the
workhouse, pictured as a sort of prison – as indeed it was in those days
– or
wandering the streets as dreadful, loathsome beggars – objects of which we
had plenty of
ocular evidence. I then learnt that food, clothing and shelter did
not drop as
manna from heaven, but that certain means had to be taken to obtain
them, and at
best it was a precarious business indeed. This thought preoccupied
me for many
years. This new sword was all the worse because it not only hovered
over myself,
but harried me with regard to all sorts of people, some of them
quite
imaginary.
My mother was
not altogether to be blamed for this. She had felt poverty. When
my elder
brother was born she and her husband had lived in one room in a
ramshackle
house in [20] Liverpool, and a moderate gale had sufficed to blow the
window in,
frame and all, while she lay in bed – a situation distressing enough
to two young
love-birds who, though they had roughed it a bit before marriage,
had known
gentler days, for my father had been to a school where the young
gentlemen
wore toppers, and my mother’s family was not without dignity of name.
These two
young people had quarrelled violently with their respective fathers,
on the
subject in each case of a second marriage of the latter, as those were
times when
fathers were fathers (somewhat as in some remote parts of the world,
men are still
men, if our modern novelists are to be believed). It was also true
that some
boys and girls were boys and girls – at least my parents were, though
they also
proved themselves to be men and women, for they left their respective
homes,
practically penniless, and subsequently met and loved and married on the
munificent
income of fifteen shillings a week. However, my father was well
educated,
trustworthy, intelligent and painstaking, and so he made his way
steadily up
the ladder of commercial life, ill adapted to it though his previous
life had
been.
§4
At the time
of which I am writing our little family had progressed through four
houses
(materially, not astrologically) since my birth. I was born in one of
those houses
which are now becoming scarcer, which have no backs, not of course
that they are
open to the atmosphere, but because the back wall of the rooms is
also the back
wall of the rooms of another row of houses facing another parallel
street.
I do not
remember living in that street, but I saw it afterwards, and also heard
talk about
it. My mother and father always dressed carefully, and even
fashionably,
and the neighbours, lounging at their doors, were wont to pass
audible
remarks about them, sometimes more euphonious than classical. So their
days were not
long in that land. They moved as soon as possible to something a
bit better,
and again moved, when circumstances permitted, to the place of my
earliest
recollections, at 52 Bell Street.
Here I became
a collector, and even something of a connoisseur, the subject
being not
pictures, nor china, nor [21] numismatics, nor philately, but the more
modest one of
handbills – handbills large and small and of every conceivable
colour –
which remained for a long time piled in a neat heap in a corner of an
empty back
upstairs bedroom, until my mother decided that they were harbouring
too much dust
and too many spiders, and swept the whole lot away.
While we
lived in that house, we watched the building of a new row of houses
further up
the street, and when they were ready we moved – from number 52 to
number 26, a
mathematical curiosity which stuck firmly in my young mind.
It was in 26
Bell Street, when I was five years and nearly ten months old, that
my younger
brother was born. That disturbing event happened in the following
manner, as
far as my share in it was concerned. On a certain evening I had been
playing in
one of the clay pits, and by dusk I had accumulated about a dozen
small clay
models, some of them very neatly rounded by rolling between the
hands. These
precious objects had to be taken home with me. When it came time
for sleep I
was not allowed to take them into the bed, but after some discussion
a compromise
was struck and they were placed on a saucer on a small table at the
side of the
bed.
Evidently I
was of a mystical temperament, and quite prepared to regard myself
as a modern
Pygmalion capable of producing even a round dozen of Venuses, for
when I was
awakened in the night by thin squeaking and piping sounds and an
occasional
wail, I was fully prepared to believe that the clay figures had come
to life and
were beginning to express their individuality and independence. This
frightened
me, I confess, and I shut my eyes tightly and kept the clothes well
pulled up
about my head. The next morning I was taken into my mother’s bedroom
by my father
– an unusual procedure, calculated to awaken excitement as well as
curiosity.
But oh! what a disappointment when I entered the bedroom and found my
mother lying
in bed with something resembling a large slug beside her, as to
which I could
see no reason for the fuss that was being made. And my clay images
were as dead
as ever they had been. I do not think I ever played in the clay pit
again. My
temper seems also to have been affected a little, for I remember,
while my
mother was still in bed, threatening [22] both nurse and housemaid to
joint combat
with a diminutive cricket bat, because they had eaten all the jam.
Somehow I
realized that this thing had come to stay in our house. Probably I had
put the
question of its departure and had had my feelings dashed by a negative
reply. In any
case, my misgivings were justified, for, though it was interesting
to watch my
mother washing and powdering the thing in the mornings, I was often
called upon
during the day to “mind the baby,” an occupation – or rather lack of
occupation –
which I loathed for its monotony, and also because I very much
disliked its
dirty ways. What with one thing and another my relations with my
mother lost
their intimacy, and even, I fear, some of their affectionateness for
some time
after this.
I would date
real affection for my mother from about the age of twelve – too old
to show it. I
can remember awakenings to love – they were always sudden, and
distinct
events. One must not expect love in small children. It was related of
myself –
though the incident is not in my memory – that my father once asked:
“You would
not like your mother to die, would you?” The disturbing answer was
“No; who
would get my breakfast ready?” I remember, however, an evening on which
my father
came home without any plaything in his pocket, and I looked
disappointed.
He made some remark that showed that he was hurt, and I
immediately
became aware of his consciousness and was filled with remorse.
Before that
he had been something in my life. Now his life appeared as something
in itself,
though coming into mine.
§5
After this,
world-shaking events began to occur in my life in quick succession.
First came
the death of my paternal grandfather’s second wife (who had been the
cause of my
father’s troubles and poverty, though also the cause indirectly of
his alliance
with my mother – such is the law of compensation) and a consequent
armistice and
even slight rapprochement between my father and his father,
familiarly
alluded to as “the Gov’nor.” Not that I knew much about this, and it
did not
appear that there were any pecuniary benefits attaching to it, but its
results
manifested in my life in the appearance in our house of some dozens [23]
of old school
books which had belonged to my father and his elder brothers and
had now come
to us consequent upon my grandfather’s desire to simplify the
contents of
his household.
I did not
myself see the old man until many years later, and then I did not
harmonize
with him, for I found him to be a short-tempered and dominating old
gentleman,
though I tried, not very successfully, to be polite. He was a man of
some
importance in his own world, being proprietor of a wholesale business which
was the second
largest of its kind in England, and he could not forget it in
private life.
When later on I went into business on my own account at the age of
sixteen, and
was quite proud of the sixteen clerks in my office, his patronizing
air irritated
me much, and I am afraid I caused some anxiety to my father by
showing my
irritability a little sometimes. “The Gov’nor” and I had too much in
common – our
short stature, big noses, instinct for money-making and
incorrigible
obstinacy.
It was my
grandfather who made “the warehouse” into a really big business,
though his
grandfather had established it, but the big nose must have been there
before that,
for tradition had it that it was brought over from the Continent by
some Norman
ancestor who had been given a jaghire in Yorkshire, but my
grandfather’s
grandfather had degraded it to commerce after recklessly ruining
himself in
racing and betting on horses in the neighbourhood of London.
This third
commercial generation, allied to a country girl from the south of
Ireland –
where my grandfather frequently went on business – who smoked a long
churchwarden
clay pipe while sitting in her hooped skirts (although she was the
descendant of
semi-divine kings!) presented my grandfather with numerous
offspring and
also the companionship of a brother of hers, rejoicing in the name
of Aloysius
Gonzigu, who could patronize even my grandfather, and would enter a
shop with the
command: “Show me the overcoat that you would show to the Prince
of Wales if
he came in here,” and would buy it, too! But I digress once more.
Those books
which I mentioned some time ago became almost my principal
playthings.
Many of them contained intriguing diagrams, particularly Newth’s
Natural
Philosophy, as Physics was then called, and Todhunter’s Euclid; while
the
root-signs in Colenso’s Algebra and some [24] trigonometry books puzzled me
exceedingly.
Among the reading books, which were entirely unillustrated, one
attracted me
especially because it contained a series of stories upon “The
Transmigrations
of Indur,” which I read again and again.
A few months
afterwards we brothers caught scarlet fever, and nothing would
console me in
bed but that about a dozen of these books should be arranged in
two piles,
one on either side of my pillow, and though they fell down again and
again they
had always to be replaced. I remember, too, lying in bed and watching
some pigeons
and sparrows which flitted past the window, and wondering whether,
if I died, I
should become a pigeon or a sparrow. There was a Dr. Hamil who came
to visit us,
with his little pointed black beard – a very charming and agreeable
gentleman,
who quite prevented us from developing any fear of “the doctor.” I
remember him
at an earlier period in our previous house, turning our trousers
down and our
behinds up to see if we had chicken-pox.
When we were
better of scarlet fever, but still not allowed out of the bedroom,
my mother
went out by herself one afternoon, leaving us locked in the house. I
remember how
pretty and buoyant she looked as she came back into the bedroom. I
think she was
very happy about the successful termination of our illness. It was
almost a
Christmas occasion, she brought back with her so many toys and books. I
remember
among the books some of the Hesba Stretton series – Christie’s Old
Organ,
Jessica’s First Prayer, and Max Homburg – the last a story of Strassburg
during the
Franco-Prussian war. The advent of these books was the beginning of a
sort of
religious career of mine, which took place at dead of night, was never
made known to
anyone else, and was quite short-lived.
It happened
that my brother was a much steadier sleeper than I. Not infrequently
I would wake
in the middle of the night, and feeling cold, would complain
against him
for taking all the clothes to his side of the bed – until I found
that I was
lying on the floor, having fallen out of bed. The actual fall never
woke me up,
but the subsequent cold did. Again, I was much troubled with colds
in the head
and I would turn periodically from one side to the other, with the
stuffed
nostril on top, so as to get some relief in breathing, for I resolutely
refused to
open my mouth. My mother took [25] what precautions she could against
this, rubbed
goose grease on my chest and placed hot oven plates wrapped in old
blankets in
the bed. And she well knew the warm virtues of newspapers and brown
paper when
laid between the blankets. No, I was not cold, but very restless,
while my
brother was a steady sleeper.
Thus the
stage was well set for my bout of religion, when the handy little books
arrived.
Waiting till dead of night, when all the household was perfectly quiet,
I would
silently slip out of bed, creep across the room and turn up the gas
sufficiently
for me to read. Then I would creep back into bed, draw my book from
under the
pillow and revel in it for one or two hours. Christie’s Old Organ was
the book
particularly suited to the circumstances of my mood. I shuddered over
the evils of
drink and untruth; I was thrilled with the beauty of kindness and
unselfishness.
God was a magnification of my father, somehow invisible, yet
ever-present
– the last an important point. Jesus was my ideal self. 1 wanted to
go about with
Him and even more to melt myself into Him. I did not pray, but I
yearned.
Somehow the references in the stories to persons going to church and
praying and
performing ceremonies made no impression on me. I would hurry
through those
portions and seek for passages of human life. Surely if God is
really
omnipresent these things constitute the reverse of devotion – I felt
this, but I
did not think it. I was seeking the fulness of life, not trying to
understand
it. [26]
-------Cardiff Theosophical Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24-1DL
CHAPTER II
PUPILARITY
§1
SCHOOL came
in its appointed time. My first school lasted a short time for me,
mercifully
brought to an end by the arrival of the scarlet fever already
mentioned. My
brother had been going to that school for some time before I
started. I
think that was how he escaped my fate of having to mind the baby. It
was a dame’s
school run by two sisters. I remember the two ladies – or rather my
vision of
them – quite well. One was old and dry and always dressed in black,
and as stiff
as a ramrod, the other very much younger, rounded and playful. We
were taken to
this school by some elder girls who lived on the opposite side of
our street,
midway between the old house and the new, but these girls have left
no impression
upon my memory except for their legs – black boots and stockings.
I suppose I
was so small that these constituted the chief part of the scenery
when I walked
with them.
I cannot
remember anything in the school except that we sat bunched on benches
in an open
square waiting for closing time. The elder schoolmistress put the lid
completely on
this misery, as far as I was concerned, by expecting me to kiss
her, or allow
her to kiss me. Though it was only a matter of routine – for she
went round
the whole class systematically, and I remember watching with a
sinking heart
the deadly peril coming nearer and nearer – when it came I openly
and violently
rebelled, and thus created quite a sensation and I think a
precedent in
the school. That school did not see me many times more. I had been
so upset that
I was quite ill and unfit to attend. I am sure I lost nothing by
this absence.
It did not seem that they really taught anything, and if they had
done so the
[27] memory of the indignity would have driven it from my thoughts.
My second
school was a more business-like affair. I was much impressed by the
huge building
– a large main half curtained off for several classes, and a
number of
separate rooms. I joined that school on my seventh birthday. My first
memory of it
is that of standing before one whom I may call the reception clerk,
along with
three or four other boys. Do what I would I could not make that man
understand
that it was my birthday.
“How old are
you?”
“Seven”
(years understood).
“And when was
your birthday?”
“To-day.”
He persisted
in thinking I had misunderstood him, and what he ultimately wrote
down in his
record I have no idea. I paid my tenpence – it was tenpence a week –
and that was
that.
That school
was a great place for misunderstandings. Sometimes the teachers
misunderstood
me; sometimes I misunderstood them. I remember an occasion when
our class was
confronted with a large map of Egypt and the land of Canaan. The
teacher was instructing
us in the wanderings of the Jews. I was somewhat
interested in
this, for I thought he was talking about the migrations of some
kind of black
birds. Crows were interesting; ancient Jews not at all. It was
only
afterwards, in another school (my fourth), that I learnt what ancient Jews
really were,
though I remembered very clearly the configuration of the map, and
understood
that quite well.
It was in
that same class and on that very occasion that I was first threatened
with physical
violence at school – first, that is, if we omit the kissing from
that
category. There were about four rows of boys in that class, arranged on the
gallery
system. I was on the second row. At the beginning of the lesson the
teacher used
to appoint one boy to stand at the end of each row and watch the
others, and
call out the names of any boys who appeared to be inattentive to the
teacher, such
boys being then required to stand out in front of the class. There
would usually
be about half a dozen of these boys by the end of the lesson, each
of whom would
receive a whack on the hand from the cane of the teacher and then
would go back
to his place. [28] I remember that my name was called out on the
occasion of
the wanderings of the Jews, but I pretended not to hear, and for
some reason
the monitor did not insist.
Teachers
differed very much in their temper and degree of cruelty. There was one
man, whom we
called Toby, who was constantly and ferociously cruel, until one
day the
father of one of the boys walked in and gave him a thorough thrashing
before the
whole class, which laid him up in hospital for several weeks. There
was one
horrible school-master, very often half-drunk, who used to beat little
boys, but
leave the bigger ones alone, and that was commented upon privately by
all the boys.
Another
schoolmaster, a thick-set man with a very dark beard, assembled the
whole school
of perhaps five hundred boys, and then, holding one small boy aloft
by the back
of his coat, with one strong hand, administered to him a merciless
beating with
a stick held in the other. In whispered consultation with other
boys I tried
to learn what the boy had done, and understood that he had been
guilty of
soiling the wrong portion of the school latrine. This was what was
called “an
example.” Of what? Quite apart from any abnormal soiling, those
school
latrines were dreadfully noisome; it was necessary to go into them
sometimes,
but always a torture. There were obviously sins of omission as well
as of
commission in connection with them, but the former were excused.
I remember
another misunderstanding in that same school. There was to be an
examination.
We were taken into a big room with individual desks on which paper,
pens and ink
and other articles were laid out. Cards were then handed round,
containing
questions which we were to answer. There was no pen on my desk, so I
sat still,
while the others were either writing or chewing their penholders, as
the case
might be. Presently a pleasant young man came along and looked at me.
“Have you no
pen?”
“Yes,” I
replied, meaning, quite logically, that I had not a pen.
He went away,
and I waited patiently for him to bring the pen, but it did not
come. After a
long time someone else came up.
“Where is
your pen?”
“I don’t
know.” [29]
I assumed
that there must be a certain pen intended for me, since he talked of
my pen, but I
did not know where they had put it. However, after some further
confused discussion
he seemed to understand that no pen had been placed on my
desk that
morning. I had lost about half my time, but came through the
examination
all right. All these things occurred in somewhat of a dream, which
only
occasionally took on the aspect of a nightmare.
Many years
afterwards I had a similar experience in a High Court in India, when
I happened to
be one of the witnesses in a rather celebrated case.
“Did you,”
asked the advocate, “on the night of August 22nd, sleep in the next
room with a
big stick, intending to prevent anyone from molesting So-and-so?”
I hesitated,
and was about to try to explain what had really happened.
The Judge
thundered: “Answer the question, Yes or No!”
With obvious
discomfort I answered “No,” though in fact it was only the date
that was
wrong. And later, in the written judgment of the case, in the Appellate
Court
appeared the interesting remark: “I do not believe – (another witness’s
name, very
similar to mine!) when he says that he did not sleep in an adjacent
room with a
big stick for the purpose of preventing any interference with -”
The only
other thing of note that I remember in that school was the spelling
lessons, held
in the same examination room. They did not give me much trouble,
as I seem to
have had an eye for the form of words, but I was much struck by the
lack of
uniformity in the spelling of similar sounds, and I theorized to myself
on the vast
amount of time wasted and trouble caused to children thereby. No
wonder the
English do not learn many languages, when they have to spend so much
time and
energy learning their own.
St. Luke’s
School was about fifteen minutes’ walk from our house. I remember
walking there
by myself sometimes, with a satchel over my shoulder. After
passing the
spot where I had formerly seen the old woman gathering her peck of
dirt, one
came to a road which ran along two sides of a square field which was
fenced in. I
remember that field very well because of an incident that happened
one day on my
way to school.
While walking
along beside the fence I had been [30] entertaining myself with a
little
cinematograph which I carried in my hand. Perhaps I had better explain.
One of the
early childhood toys which my mother used sometimes to make for us
consisted of
a large button, through two holes of which a circle of thin string
or thread was
run and the two ends tied together. Holding the thread taut,
horizontally,
by looping it over the two middle fingers, with the button
standing
vertically in the middle of it, one gave the button a number of turns
so as to
twist the threads, then started the button spinning by gradually
drawing the
threads tight so as to untwist them, and then allowing the momentum
to twist the
thread the other way, by gradually reducing the pull on the thread,
and so,
alternately increasing and reducing the pull, one caused the button to
spin with
great speed. The cinematograph was somewhat on that principle. A stiff
card, with
pictures on the margins, was mounted on two pieces of string. By
making it to
revolve at a certain speed, one caused the pictures partially to
blend, and
10, the cow jumped over the moon.
While I was
strolling along engrossed in this interesting occupation, I suddenly
heard a loud
shout from the rear. I looked round, and there, to my horror, was a
large
policeman, shouting and gesticulating and hurrying towards me. Having no
more
confidence in the law outside school than within it, I fled for my life,
the policeman
after me.
After running
some distance, I looked fearfully round to see how far away my
pursuer was,
and then observed that he was not running very fast and was holding
up to my
view, as he shouted, a school satchel. I suddenly realized that mine
was missing –
I must have dropped it – and that this was it, which he wished to
return to me.
Half-reassured, I warily approached the policeman, and as he held
the satchel
at arm’s length, I took it from him also at arm’s length, and once
more fled.
One never knew what trick a policeman might play to get a little boy
into prison,
so that he could enjoy himself by gloating through the bars, and
saying:
“Fee, fi, fo,
fum,” or something equally dreadful.
Teachers,
too, were a bit ogreish. When they asked a question they did not want
you to say
what you knew or thought on the subject, but they wanted you to guess
what was in
their minds. It was a sort of idiotic game, having little to do with
facts. I
remember that we were once asked to write a small essay on the
telephone – a
typical subject [31] for small boys coming chiefly from penurious
homes! – and
got myself much abused for mentioning, among other things, that
there had
been telephones in Egypt – yet I had read that very thing in a weekly
paper of
snippets or titbits. I do not suppose that one single boy in that class
had ever seen
a telephone instrument. I was fortunate enough to have had a toy
one – two
little parchment drums connected by a thread. My father had played
with us with
it, and talked about it, so I had something to say.
On another
occasion, on a sixth of November, we were asked to write on our
experiences
of a Guy Fawkes’ night bonfire. I said that it was a wonderfully big
fire, and
that it actually had not gone out until ten o’clock at night! The
teacher, having
more spacious ideas and experience, insisted that that must be
altered to
ten o’clock the next morning, though what I had said was perfectly
accurate. The
school day was one round of bickering. If it was not oneself, it
was someone
else in the class.
§2
I did not
stay in that school more than a year. As soon as circumstances were
favourable my
parents decided to move further out of town, into what was then a
little
old-fashioned country place, but near enough to town for my father to go
and come by
train daily. But before I relate what occurred in our new residence
I must
mention The Four Events of the Year, far more important than the
Christian or
any other Calendar. These were – in order of importance in our eyes
– a week at
Blackpool, Christmas, a visit to Hamilton’s Panorama, and a Saturday
afternoon at
the Zoological Gardens.
At Blackpool
the prime thing was to dig in the sand and let the waves supply
water to the
moats of the castles which you made. It did not outrage our sense
of the
fitness of things when the waves overdid their business and flooded the
whole works.
Rather the young mind rejoiced at this opportunity for a spectacle
of
destruction. Niggers were there, but I admired only their athletic
exhibitions,
not their blackness, nor their buffoonery, which hurt my feelings,
which were
over-sensitive to human dignity. Lucky packets absorbed a large
number of our
pennies. The sense of height was satisfied by walks and play on
the pier,
[32] especially when the waves roared and bounded about beneath, as
waves can at
Blackpool. The pier also contained many slot machines, and when I
saw other
people about to drop their pennies therein I used to buzz along to see
the fun.
There was only one slot machine that tempted me – a “try your grip”
machine,
which would give you your penny back if you could ring the bell. I put
my penny
through again and again, joyously listening to the ringing of the bell
when I
pulled, until at last I lost it. There must have been something wrong
with that
machine – a small boy could not have been so strong in the wrist.
Another
attraction was a phrenologist, with his curious diagrams and little
lectures
outside his tent. I sunk sixpence on him once and learned that I ought
to become a
doctor, or failing that an auctioneer, though to this day I cannot
see the
connection between the two.
Talking of
the pier reminds me of my father’s next younger brother, whom we
always liked
for both his jollity and his largess. He was in “the warehouse”
(and, in
fact, inherited it when my grandfather died) and consequently was
well-to-do.
Nearly always when he visited us he would slip coins into our hands
on his way to
the front door. I recollect that at a very early age he held out
before me a
large brown coin and a very little white one and asked me which I
would have. I
chose the threepenny bit, having been born canny in such matters.
He and his
wife came to Blackpool when we were there. The latter was a
profoundly
respectable lady, daughter of a clergyman in a family which took
religion and
social restrictions very seriously. Once my uncle was riding in a
tramcar and
talking to a friend, and his wife’s father happened to be sitting on
the other
side in the far corner (the seats used to run the length of the car).
The friend
got out, and the father-in-law came over and sat beside the
son-in-law.
“I am
surprised,” he said, “to see you so friendly with that man. Don’t you know
that he is a Roman
Catholic?”
Well, my
uncle was always very jolly (except when he was, not infrequently,
steeped in
profound melancholy) and at Blackpool there occurred a grand
opportunity
to have a little game with his wife. She was sitting on a seat at
the side of
the pier, my father and his brother and we boys being on the sand
beneath.
Suddenly my uncle looked up to the [33] pier, cupped his hands at the
side of his
mouth and shouted in the broadest possible Lancashire dialect: “Eh,
missus! ’Ast
’ad ta baggin’?” to her great confusion, and to the amusement of
the numerous
onlookers, who certainly thought they had discovered a shining
example of
the new rich. Still, she could not be displeased for long with my
uncle; he was
so genuinely good-natured, even if his playfulness was sometimes
embarrassing.
Perhaps, by the way, his remark needs translation. It meant
nothing more
than “Have you had your lunch?”
The journey
from our home to Blackpool in the train occupied about an hour and a
half, but
that was all too long. I used to sit whenever possible with my face to
the engine in
a corner window seat. I would put my hand against the side of the
frame of the
window and push as hard as I could, to speed the train along. We
used
generally to return at night so as to make as much of the holiday as
possible.
Looking into the darkness through the windows I was much frightened in
my younger
days by the horrible faces that were to be seen there. Only later on
I learnt that
they were the reflections of the faces of my fellow-passengers.
Children have
a great capacity for looking forward. I believe we began to think
about
Christmas as soon as the summer holidays were over. Its chief events for
us were the
presents to be found at the foot of the bed on Christmas morning, a
visit to the
pantomime, and a tour of the decorated shops. Of all the things
ever found at
the foot of the bed the most exciting were two watches complete
with chains –
watches that really went, and told the time, and made us feel very
grown up.
They had been sent by our jolly uncle. The only thing to mar the full
enjoyment of
them was the fact that we should have to write letters of thanks –
rather a
formidable task.
Perhaps some
readers of these recollections will remember that the three great
symbols of
initiation into the brotherhood of men are the first watch, the first
pair of long
trousers, and the first cigarette. Those watches at least made us
feel our
novitiate, although we knew that the long trousers and the cigarette
were still
far ahead.
As to the
pantomime, one never understood the story, but the transformation
scenes gave a
glimpse of other worlds, perhaps of real fairylands in which the
hard facts of
our world could be escaped at will. One heard some ladies call
[34] these
scenes heavenly, and formed one’s pictures of heaven accordingly.
Hamilton’s
Panorama used to put in its appearance in the largest hall in our
city about
half-way between Blackpool and Christmas. It must have been a
gigantic
undertaking for Mr. Hamilton, or whoever was behind the scenes. For
about two
hours scenes from all over the world would unroll themselves across
the back of
the stage, accompanied by the most realistic sound and light
effects. A
ship would come sailing through a smooth starlit sea. Gradually dawn
would appear,
the sun would rise, and as the day wore on clouds would make their
appearance, a
storm would blow up and lash the elements into fury. Then
lightning, rain
and wind would afflict the scene until at last the ship either
sank before
our eyes or won its way through the storm to a peaceful harbour –
and all in
the comfortable space of about ten minutes. Within a similar period
the Bay of
Naples would present its charm, and Vesuvius its fearsome
possibilities,
while a gentleman in evening dress and a huge moustache explained
in an Oxford
voice the implications of the scene. And interspersed between these
grander demonstrations,
a Chinese juggler or conjurer would perform for us in a
street in
Hong Kong, and Hungarian acrobats would imperil their lives for our
delectation
in marble halls of Italy or among the minarets of India.
In
anticipation of Hamilton’s Panorama, before leaving Blackpool we used to buy
little
panoramas for twopence each. They were shaped like a stage front, and
there were
about twenty pictures mounted on rollers. Unfortunately the pictures
consisted
mostly of scenes of such doubtful educational value as the murder of
the little
princes in the Tower. I will give them credit, however, for being
very
realistically executed.
The visit to
the Zoo was a movable feast, occurring some time between Christmas
and
Blackpool, and much dependent on the weather. It was literally a feast, in
the
restricted modern use of the word, as it always included a period devoted to
the
consumption of ices – not ice cream, but real ices, which were composed, I
suppose, of
ice chopped up small and sugared and then served in small saucers.
This and the
elephant ride were the two chief features of the Zoo. There were
animals to
look at, but they were not very interesting, being shut up in little
enclosures
behind bars, and for [35] the most part looking very bored. It was
much more
interesting to feed the ducks in the park, to see them swim under the
little
bridges and come out on the other side, though when they put down their
heads and
stood with their tails out of the water one did not know whether it
was proper to
continue staring, and wondering at the suppressed giggles of the
young ladies
standing near by.
§3
One day there
came to our house two big furniture vans with splendid
heavy-weight
horses and three men in thick green aprons, who clumped into the
house, drank
glasses of beer at one draught, and in a marvellously short time
deposited all
our belongings on the pavement outside in a sea of straw, for the
covert
scrutiny of the neighbours, prior to packing them in the vans.
Leaving them
to finish their work, my mother took us off by bus, train and foot,
seriatim;
first, through the suburbs into a big railway station, then in the
train – one
never ceased wondering how it could go without horses, nor fearing
that it would
mount the platform as it came with a deafening roar into the
station. For
five minutes the train clanked across a veritable sea of railway
lines, among
chimneys and factories; then it went through a long and perfectly
dark tunnel,
and finally it ran for another five minutes in a cutting with grass
on either
side, ultimately depositing us in a little country station, with
nothing
outside but fields and fences.
Fifteen
minutes’ walk brought us to some new building activities, a few rows of
little houses
with small spaces for gardens in front. One of these, number 30
Brookfield
Avenue, was our destination, and there really were both a field and a
brook within
forty or fifty yards – or I should say one brook and many fields,
as far as the
eye could reach, containing occasional thatched cottages and
rambling
farmhouses – one of them with black and white gables and the
distinction
of having been slept in by Queen Elizabeth on one of her journeys to
the north.
This was
indeed a new world. Often we used to watch the builder’s men preparing
for new rows
of houses by cutting down the old oak and beech trees, watching
with an
illusion of participating in the work. In the mornings we would [36]
walk the long
distance – on a footpath, with a field of poppies on one side, an
orchard on
the other, through the cobbled yard of a farm, then along a road
through “the
old village,” past the smithy – often lingering to see a horse
shod, or a
piece of iron hammered into shape on the anvil, to the accompaniment
of glittering
sparks, which never hurt the big strong man in the leather apron –
past a few
little shops with window panes six inches square, and round a corner
to the old
school, which stood in a garden, looked like a church, and was a
thousand
times nicer outside than in. In front of the school was the village
green – a
small triangle of land, having at one point “the old church” and on
the other two
sides of the triangle respectively, a little thatched farm and a
public-house
with a swinging sign.
In the school
– twopence a week this time – we were taught by a fat girl with a
big flat
face. I remember her name, but forbear to mention it. She liked
history, I
think, for she awoke our young English blood to patriotism with her
accounts of
Caractacus and Cassivellaunus and Boadicea, and dropped us to depths
of gloom and
horror with her grim stories of the many civil wars of England. She
added also to
our already awakened pessimism a picture of probable wars to come.
The boys were
a rough lot, speaking an only half intelligible language. The
first day, at
close of school, a big fellow came up to me.
“I can fight
you,” he announced. He did, too, in a ring of ghoulish onlookers,
but I do not
remember to have been much hurt, and nobody troubled me any more
with
attentions of that kind.
There was,
however, a disagreeable group of boys who used to shout from the
other side of
the road when some of us were walking home. One of these – the
most
troublesome – rejoiced in the name of Livingstone. One day, these boys were
shouting
something particularly offensive from a distance behind us, and in
exasperation
I picked up a flint from the side of the path and threw it at them,
not intending
to hurt but only to frighten them. With beginner’s luck – ill-luck
this time – I
hit Livingstone fair and square on the head. It was several weeks
before he
could return to school.
I expected
dire consequences, but nothing happened.
Evidently the
boys kept the matter to themselves and [37] invented some excuse
for the broken
head. But they must have regarded me as a potential Chicago
gangster,
something quite the reverse of truth, for I was physically nervous. I
did almost
everything from a motive of cowardice. Our teachers seemed to
encourage
that ignoble motive, for they were always telling us to study hard so
that we might
save ourselves from being among those whose faces are walked upon
in the battle
of life, to take physical exercises so as to avoid disease, to be
honest so as
to avoid prison, to be good so that God would not send us to hell,
and finally
and above all to obey themselves, in order to avoid a whacking.
I was really
sorry that I hit poor Livingstone on the head, for I bore him no
malice.
Nevertheless, by some peculiarity of fate or coincidence, I have been
repaid in
kind and with interest for that injury. In the half-dozen or so
motor-car and
other accidents in which I have since participated I have
invariably
been injured on the head and nowhere else. Fate began to work in this
direction
comparatively soon after the incident I have mentioned. One day I had
been much out
of sorts, and I was lying on the sofa while my mother was sewing
near the
window at the other side of the room. Suddenly I said to myself: “It is
all nonsense
lying here feeling sick. The thing to do is to get up and do
something!”
With a leap I jumped up from the sofa, only to meet the corner of an
open cupboard
door just above my head.
I have never
seen a woman cry as my mother did as she took me into her arms in a
rocking-chair
and mopped up the blood with several towels. When I was able to go
back to
school I was the proud bearer for weeks of a conspicuous patch of
sticking
plaster on a partially shaved head. The spot still remains without
hair,
although it is now threatening to merge itself into that bright and
shining place
where there is no parting.
Perhaps I
owed something in the bank of fate, too, on account of the numerous
jacksharps,
tadpoles, moths and caterpillars which had met an untimely fate at
my hands,
having been incarcerated in various bowls, jars and boxes which were
evidently not
suited to them. But I was never cruel, like some of the boys, who
used to catch
frogs, insert straws into their recta and blow them up until they
burst. Or
like the cartmen who were bringing bricks to the houses opposite, who,
when language
failed, used to kick their [38] horses in the stomach with their
hobnailed
boots in order to force them over the rougher parts. Or like the
farmer whom I
once watched through the hedge of the village green as he walked
about his
garden, picked up one duck after another, slit its throat with his
penknife and
then put it down again on the ground, where it walked a few feet
and then
threw a somersault backwards. Or like those other farmers who hung the
squealing
pigs by the back legs while they poured boiling water over them so
that the
bristles might come out more easily afterwards. But once more I am in
danger of
digressing.
I was
speaking, I think, of luck, in connection with stone-throwing. I had
another
stroke of luck one day, or rather one night. Once a travelling fair came
to our
village and set itself up on a vacant plot of ground beside the police
station. One
evening my brother and I begged twopence each and went off with a
few friends
to enjoy ourselves thereat. First I turned my attention to the
roulette
wheel. One put a halfpenny on a chosen number on the circle which
surrounded a
spinning pointer. The man in charge spun the wheel, and if the
pointer
stopped opposite the number containing the coin one received a coco-nut.
Failing that,
the halfpenny was irretrievably lost, with nothing to show for it.
Down went my
halfpenny, I got a coco-nut. As I did not want the coco-nut, I sold
it back to
the man for twopence. I suppose he thought he would get the twopence
back.
Thirteen times running this phenomenon was repeated. Calculate – thirteen
twopences,
minus thirteen halfpennies. I was beginning to be in clover. On the
fourteenth
turn I lost, pocketed my balance and, with a deaf ear to the man who
was urging me
to try again, turned away. I shared the money in equal parts with
my friends,
who quite logically maintained that they deserved it as much as I
did and
watched them spend it on swings and roundabouts, while I kept my
portion, to
go home triumphantly about as rich as I had come out, which could be
said of few
people who attended that fair. I think I shall never play at Monte
Carlo, for no
one can expect such luck twice in a lifetime. Only once have I
ventured to
lay down any stakes at roulette – in the Casino at Santos in Brazil
– when I
found this axiom duly confirmed. [39]
§4
We had the
luck of being removed from the twopenny school after a few months.
Whether my
grandfather had suddenly melted, and decided no longer to visit the
sins of the
fathers upon the children, or whether my father had made one of his
periodical
advances in the business world, I do not know. Anyhow, we were sent
to what was
considered the best private high school within reach. It was rather
a small
affair – about a hundred boys.
We were
excited by the playground, which was actually composed partly of grass,
on which we
could have splendid games of leap frog and “cappy” without hurting
ourselves too
much. The idea of the last was that one boy would make a back over
which the
others had to go in turn, each leaving his cap behind. Sooner or later
one of the
leapers would upset the caps, and would then have to make a “back.”
There was
also a greenhouse in that playground, but I fancy the chief thing
about it was
the schoolmaster’s son, who used to sit there smoking a pipe, to
keep the
insects off the plants, he said. I suppose this exhibition must have
started many
boys smoking surreptitiously. I was once induced to go shares in
the expenses
of a packet of cigarettes. I tried one of them behind a wall, and
decided that
as an amusement smoking was overrated, and though as an assertion
of manhood it
might have its points, a halfpenny in the pocket was much more
desirable
than a cigarette in the mouth.
It was about
this time that my brief musical career began. When our piano first
arrived I had
solemnly announced to my father that I did not intend to learn to
play in the
ordinary way; I simply wanted to make a noise by knocking on the
keys.
However, he firmly informed me that I must learn properly or leave it
alone. The
upshot of it was that once a week my brother and I went to the house
of a little
old lady (that is what we called Miss Nash, though probably she was
only about
thirty – for such is the judgment of the young) and made a sufficient
progress with
her help and an hour’s practice every day. It was a tiresome
obstacle that
my hands were too small to stretch an octave, though I gradually
overcame this
difficulty with regard to the left hand only, by forcing my thumb
to become
double jointed at the root, thus increasing my span by nearly an inch.
[40]
At Blackpool
I had been much impressed by the sound of a mandoline, played in a
concert on
the pier, and nothing would satisfy me but to add this also to my
musical
accomplishments. My indulgent father immediately bought one of the
instruments
and brought it home. For some time I learnt to play alone, and
afterwards at
the big school of music in the city, where they brought me to the
point of
playing in public. I nearly became a professional musician at the age
of thirteen,
as will shortly appear.
It was now
time for us to remove again to a new house. My mother always
absolutely
refused to have one which had been occupied by anybody before. She
seemed to
have an idea that it would retain emanations from the previous
occupants. We
removed a very short distance to a high-standing three-storied
house
directly overlooking a beautiful meadow containing many oak and beech
trees. This
meadow had the form of a valley, the brook already mentioned running
down the
middle. It had also the great merit of being accessible for play, as a
public path
ran across it. It was a fine place for flying kites, which we used
to make for
ourselves often in fantastic shapes. One of mine took the form of a
phrenological
head marked with the localities of the various faculties, copied
from a chart
issued by the professor of the art on Blackpool sands.
Safety
bicycles now came within our ken. The word safety has long been dropped,
but it was
used then to distinguish the new bicycles having wheels about the
same size
from the old ones which had one big wheel in front, with pedals
attached to
its hubs, and a tiny little wheel behind. We used occasionally to
watch
performers on the old type of bicycle – I say performers because they were
rarely
riders, but seemed to spend most of their time getting on and falling
off. We saw,
too, the big roller skates, with wheels which appeared about nine
inches in
diameter. A man ran from London to Manchester on these and we saw him
pass. It
seemed terribly dangerous. I wondered if he had any sort of braking
arrangement.
I saw, too, one of the first motor-cars, with a man running in
front
shouting and waving a red flag, as required by law.
The new
safety bicycles were heavy things, with solid rubber tyres and no free
wheel. My
father bought one cheap from a man who had been stopped in a country
road by a
burly fellow who grasped his handlebar and demanded his [41] money.
Though the
cyclist had saved his money by pulling a spanner out of his pocket
and with it
dealing a smashing blow to the hand on the handlebar, and then
riding
swiftly away, the incident had spoiled his taste for cycling in the
country.
A second
bicycle, for my elder brother, soon appeared. Then, of course, the
question of
one for me arose. One Saturday afternoon my father and mother and I
looked at a
small-size bicycle in one of the big shops. It was, alas, very
expensive –
about five pounds. We had walked some distance away from the shop in
silence and
gloom, when I heard my mother say quietly to my father: “Think of
the child’s
feelings -” My mother was that said-to-be-rare phenomenon, a woman
who does not
speak much. She could always convey a lot of meaning, however, in
half a dozen
words.
My father
went back to the shop alone and later arrived home, having ridden with
great
difficulty on the tiny machine, with his knees knocking the handle-bar at
every
rotation. So I became the possessor not of a heavy old hard-tyred
second-hand
bicycle, but of a brand new machine having the marvellous pneumatic
tyres, which
had only just come in and about which we and apparently even the
shop-man knew
so little at first that my father had actually ridden it home on
flat tyres,
not knowing that they had to be pumped up. Fortunately it did not
spoil them.
How my
brother and I cleaned those bicycles, down even to the ball bearings, in
preparation
for the Sunday morning rides which our father took with us all over
the
surrounding country-side! My mother, however, could not be persuaded to
become one of
“the new women,” who at that date began to go on bicycles and were
generally
treated to rude remarks and sometimes to stones. She was free to come,
as we had by
then a maid, or rather a succession of maids. One of them, I
remember, new
from the country, blackleaded all the spoons, with disastrous
effect when
we started to eat our boiled eggs!
§5
Although our
new school was considered to be very highly respectable, and
intended for
the “sons of gentlemen” (there might have been no ladies involved
from the
little one heard of them in this connection) things were not [42]
entirely what
they seemed. There were some rough boys, a Jew bullies, and some
worse than
that. I remember an occasion when two of these bullies hoisted me on
their
shoulders to carry me off somewhere for purposes of petty torture, but I
managed to
free myself at the expense of a nasty bump, by giving one of them a
kick in the
ear with all my force. They dropped me to the ground, upon which I
ran across
the street, put my back to a large plate-glass shop window, and from
that vantage
pelted them with stones until they went away.
I used
sometimes to see some of the boys rolling on the grass; one would be on
his back and
the others apparently playfully pulling off his clothes. I did not
like that
sort of rough and tumble, and I vowed that if any of them subjected me
to those
indignities I would not stop short of killing them. Only years
afterwards I
learnt from one of them that those invasions of one another’s
privacy were
a prelude to private instruction in sexual vice. In the vista of
years I do
not think as badly as I did of those boys. I realize that heredity
varies
enormously in respect of the sex-excitement and sex-imagination that is
such a
peculiar and unnatural feature of humanity. It never troubled me. Years
afterwards,
in translating from Sanskrit, I wrote with regard to a certain type
of sinner:
“He will be reborn from the womb of a wild cock,” and never noticed
the
incongruity until somebody showed me a marked copy of my book!
In our family
there was always more education in the home than at school. We
were
voracious readers of weekly papers and novels. At an early age, my brother
and I had
read all Dickens and a great part of Walter Scott and Thackeray. While
still in
Brookfield Avenue I had an exercise book containing a list of all the
books I had
read, and it then numbered over eighty, though among these I
included
serial stories which I had read in Chums and The Boy’s Own Paper. Also,
my father was
always willing to teach when we were willing to learn. He started
us off with
French when I was eight years old, and he taught me also Pitman’s
shorthand, in
which I ultimately attained the respectable speed of a hundred and
eighty words
a minute, which I could keep up on the average for an hour and read
completely
afterwards, and he taught me also a good amount of commercial
book-keeping,
including double entry. [43]
I think our
school was almost useless for learning anything, however excellent
its
respectability. If a boy could teach himself in it, well and good, not
otherwise.
Practically nothing was ever explained.
“Form III.
Open your geography books, page 54. Study to the end of page 55. I
will hear you
at four o’clock.” The master would then go out, to obtain a drop
for his
thirst, duly return in an irritable mood, call our form “up,” and
question us.
There was much indignation if we had not learnt the lesson, though
the idea of
teaching it never seemed to enter his mind. He used to give us marks
on the
results of these questions, and call them out for us to enter in our mark
books at the
end of the day. Still I got on pretty well. I was eager to learn,
and was
always running neck and neck at the head of the class with a boy named
Carver, about
two years older than myself. I had ambitions, and used still at
home to make
use of the old school books in subjects not taught in the school at
our age. I
would get down on the floor of the bedroom – somehow I was able to
study better
on the floor – with Initia Latina until again and again my mother
would come in
and literally drive me out unwillingly to play.
We had in our
school a real army sergeant, full of talk about the Crimean war.
He conducted
real army drill with wooden imitation rifles, in the playground,
often with
errand boys jeering over the wall. I detested those wooden rifles,
and the
sneering tongue of the sergeant, and wanted to have as little as
possible to
do with them. One day he offered me the corporal’s stripe in our
platoon and
his indignation when I declined it knew no bounds, I hated the sham
of it all.
Two of our
fellow-students were Greeks. I very much wanted to make a beginning
with Greek,
and begged of the elder to teach me the Greek alphabet, which he
could rattle
off with alluring speed. But the mercenary young scamp demanded too
high a price
– as much as sixpence, I think – which was more than I could make
in a
fortnight by selling marbles at half the shop prices, since it had become
known that I
could win all the marbles that came within reach.
One of our
favourite occupations in the school was map-drawing. The son of the
schoolmaster,
himself a junior master, used to supply us with railway maps from
various parts
of the world, which we would copy on full sheets of [44] printing
paper pinned
on our drawing-boards. We had large and expensive drawing-boards,
which we were
expected occasionally to carry home in black alpaca covers, as
also those
wooden rifles; this no doubt being a subtle advertisement for the
school. It
appeared that each boy had one or two favourite colours for doing the
outlines of
the countries in his maps – mine was pale chrome, and sometimes we
used to
quarrel on account of our loyalty to our respective colours. We had also
favourite
towns. Two that struck my fancy particularly were Boston and
Philadelphia,
and another was the smaller Hyderabad in Sind, where, curiously
enough, I was
to become Principal of the College later on.
Crayon
drawing was also a popular subject – it gave such a good opportunity for
many of the
boys to stand round the hot stove sharpening their pencils. My
brother was a
born artist, could draw and paint as well as write beautifully
without an
effort. Me, I could never write on the line, and drawing was an
effort that
fatigued me enormously, and produced results that exasperated the
drawing
master. When he saw such little and such poor results he accused me of
idling, and
when I denied that, he accused me of lying, for which he lost every
atom of
respect I might have had for him, though he probably cared as little for
my good will
as I cared for his.
I had a
curious experience, which might be called psychic, about this time. As I
was walking
home from school, crossing a little street, I seemed to hear a
voice, which
asked me whether I would rather be tall or short “this time.” I
will not
attempt to say what peculiarity of the subconscious mind or other cause
may have
produced this, but will only record that it was perfectly clear, and
took me in
such a mood that I did not till afterwards wonder what it meant by
the curious
expression “this time.” I had been for some time in a mood of
humility. I
wanted to go through life inconspicuously, and I had some subtle and
indefinite
dislike for anything in the world in the shape of pomp or display. It
may have been
this which caused me to give the reply, after the slightest
hesitation,
that I would choose the short. In any case, I scarcely grew for
several
years, though fortunately I made a bit of a spurt after sixteen, which
at last gave
me my meagre five feet six inches of height. [45]
At last my
brother left school to go to business. I wanted to leave at the same
time, for I
did not think that school could teach me any more, and I was
impatient to
be a man and independent. I was then twelve years old. However,
everybody
decided that I was too young to leave, so I had to spend another year
in a class by
myself at the top of the school – a little fellow, and younger by
years than
many of the other boys. Practically I studied by myself for that
year. I took
some of the ancient school books and showed them to the
schoolmaster,
and he permitted me to study them by myself, saying that he would
help me when
I came to any difficulties. His help did not amount to much. I
remember
going to him with some difficulties in Colenso’s Algebra (I still have
the book –
about seventy-five years old). Poor man, he had to confess that he
had forgotten,
and suggest that I should look at the answers and try to work
from them
backwards.
I had
ambitions. I wanted to become a doctor, or failing that a student
interpreter
in Japan. No luck. What with shortage of money, unkind reports by
the schoolmaster
– to cover his own shortcomings – and the tradition of
business, it
was decided that I should become an apprentice in a wholesale
warehouse. I
was far too young for a shipping firm. [46]
-------Cardiff Theosophical Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24-1DL
CHAPTER III
JUNIORITY
§1
WHEN I left
school my mother pressed that I should be allowed a holiday for some
months before
being sent to work, and gained her point. But it proved
disastrous. I
became one of the unemployed even before I was employed. I must
have
presented myself to twenty or thirty heads of firms before I got a chance.
I would be
called into the private office and questioned on my scholastic
attainments,
which were quite satisfactory, and then the trouble would begin,
always the
same.
“You are very
small. You look pale. Are you strong? When did you leave school?”
– and then
the dreadful question, which I soon learnt to recognize as sealing my
fate: “What
have you been doing since you left school?” And finally: “Well, we
will let you
know,” – which they never did, even negatively. I believe there
were always
anything from twenty to two hundred applicants for those posts.
Some of these
people who interviewed me were kindly, but most of them were rude,
and a few
bullies. One disagreeable man asked if I knew all the streets in the
city, and
when I replied “Yes,” thinking quite naturally that he meant the main
streets,
since no one could possibly be expected to know all the others, he
blackguarded
me disgracefully for a young liar. And this, when I was suffering
from
truthfulness with regard to the date of leaving school! My discomforts as a
truth addict
began early.
However, I
got a position at last as an apprentice in a millinery warehouse. The
proprietor
who engaged me was [47] a charming gentleman, and spoke very kindly
and
encouragingly – he would give me five shillings a week for the first year
and I was to
go through a three years’ apprenticeship. But unluckily he had as
practical
manager (the devil for steward, as so often!) a younger brother of his
who was
rather a freak, six feet three inches tall, and proportionately
disagreeable.
He had a curious manner and way of speaking which made me wonder
whether he
was right in the head and was not put there out of a compassion which
would be very
natural in his brother.
I was in the
ribbon department. We supplied some hundreds, I should think, of
retail shops.
In the early morning I had to see that all the reels of ribbon
were neatly
arranged on the long counters in the enormous showroom, and, with a
feather
duster, to see that they were kept free from the minutest speck of dust.
In the
afternoons our customers would generally come in. Most of them were
ladies,
probably milliners, for ribbons were much used in ladies’ hats. In the
evening two
of us would cover everything up with large dust-sheets.
It was part
of my work to tie up some of the parcels, for the ribbons could not
be sent to
the packing-room in an exposed condition. The senior apprentice,
after having
been told to show me how to do everything, did all in his power to
prevent me
from getting to know how things were to be done, so that it was some
time before I
discovered the best way even to turn the string and form the knots
of the
parcels. Once he demanded money to show me something, but soon came to
the
conclusion, I think, that if I had not come from Aberdeen I must have had an
ancestor who
had.
The hours of
work for everybody were fairly long in those days. I used to go to
town on my
father’s train, which left the station at five minutes to seven. He
would awaken
me at six o’clock, and then we would have an intensive hour working
together (it
was a period of no maid) making the fire, cleaning the boots,
preparing and
eating our breakfast and – I look back upon this with surprise –
doing ten
minutes Sandow exercises, also together (I used dumb-bells weighing
eight pounds
each), in addition to all the business of getting ourselves ready,
including the
fixing of stiff collars and cuffs which were very hard on the
thumbs.
My father
used to wear “solitaire” cuff-links – the kind [48] which came in two
pieces, and
of which you punched the stem of the head into the socket of the
lower piece.
I remember a curious incident that occurred before I left school in
connection
with these. I was walking home, when I saw lying on the pathway the
head of a
gold cuff link. I put it in my pocket. That evening my father told us
that during
the day he had lost the head of one of his cuff links. I pulled my
find out of
my pocket and handed it to him. It fitted perfectly, though of quite
a different
design from the one he had lost. I never found a cuff-link head
before, nor
since, nor did he lose one.
Thus our day
began with forty minutes’ miscellaneous rather strenuous
activities.
Then ten minutes’ quick walk in the dark (for a large part of the
year) brought
us to the railway station. After getting out of the train I had
another
fifteen minutes’ walk through the city streets to the warehouse, and so
I would
arrive in good time. The warehouse hours were from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m.,
with an
hour’s interval for lunch. Then back through the city streets to the
train and
through the country lanes from the train home – wash, tea, a game of
chess with my
father and at last bed. Rather a heavy day for a boy of thirteen,
especially in
a city where the presence of sulphur in the air, from burning
coal,
necessitated the weekly removal to the country of the decorative plants
growing in
tubs in the city square. We were keen chess players at that time; I
entered for
the “Hobbies” correspondence tournament and came out in the third
place.
I lost my job
after two or three months. It was decided to remove one of the
departments
to another room in a distant part of the building. Nothing was to be
done during
the day, lest a customer come in and find us disarrayed. But at 6
p.m. we were
told to start carrying the things. I was already very tired with
standing all
day, having nothing to eat since breakfast except a very meagre
lunch, but I
tried to do my share of carrying. By eight o’clock I could hardly
walk, but
when I said so I was merely rebuked for laziness. By nine I was on the
verge of
collapse, so I told the department manager that I simply must go home,
and I went –
without his consent. The next day the general manager came along,
about six
feet three inches towering above me. He poured out words of
indignation,
and the end of the conversation, or rather monologue, was that I
must [49]
leave when the month was up. I left that night, and forfeited whatever
wages were
due.
§2
Then began
again the answering of questions. As I had no reference I had to say
I had not
been engaged before, which was very galling. And the question as to
what I had
been doing since I left school was more formidable than ever.
Luckily,
after a month or two, a warehouse in which my elder brother had worked
wanted an
apprentice. I applied, and because they had been delighted with my
brother they
gave me the job, merely remarking: “You don’t look strong.”
At first I
was in the ready-mades department – workmen’s shirts, women’s aprons,
children’s
frocks and what not. Attached to our department was a workroom, with
thirty or
forty girls incessantly toiling at sewing machines, the sight of whom
moved me to
the profoundest pity. By working in those dismal surroundings from
morning till
night for fifty-one weeks in the year they could just keep body and
soul
together, but they could not clothe themselves well, nor provide themselves
with decent
and sufficient shoe-leather.
I had once
more to keep the stock clean and tidy, open and pack up parcels, box
shirts and
other things in dozens and half-dozens, layout orders and list the
things for
sending to the packing room. It had been impressed upon me at home
that I was an
apprentice and must not allow myself to be put upon for inferior
work,
particularly that of an errand boy. So I acquired some unpopularity when
the head of
my department and his first assistant desired me to go out to a
little
restaurant near by and bring in their tenpenny lunches on a tray, which I
refused to
do.
After about
three months I was transferred to the shirting and quilt department.
It was a
heavy job to keep those large pieces in order on the racks, to get them
down, unpack
them and pack them and put them back. In this warehouse we were
allowed only
half an hour for lunch, but hot water was given to us on the
premises, so
I had my little store of mixed tea and sugar, and bread and cheese
– how glad I
was to learn from a magazine that the cheapest kinds of cheese were
the most
nourishing – and a tin of condensed milk, [50] which was quite dark
brown in
colour before I had done with it.
This
department was managed by one of the partners, who was seldom in. Next to
him there was
one man, then a senior apprentice, then myself. The conversation
of the senor
apprentice and his friends who used to drop in from other
departments
now and then was not edifying. It was mostly about what they called
“tarts.”
After I had
been in the department some few months it happened that the
assistant
manager was taken ill and could not come to work, and then the senior
apprentice
left, so that I was alone in that department, except when the partner
in charge
happened to come in. Customers rarely came in person, unless they had
already made
an appointment with him. I had now the task of laying out the
orders for
the day, entering them in the daybook, making out department
invoices,
writing letters to the customers when necessary to regret that certain
goods were
out of stock and to explain when they might be expected, and
preparing all
the orders for the packing room. In addition to this I had to
telephone to
various other warehouses and manufacturers’ offices, ordering
patterns
which had run out of stock, or to explain to other apprentices on
outdoor duty
for the day where to look for various necessary items, for which I
would give
them samples, with written orders. All this I managed to do to the
satisfaction
of my employers – and all on the munificent pay of fifteen
shillings a
month. Of course, as an apprentice my compensation was supposed to
lie in an
opportunity to learn the business, which I certainly had in that
department.
Now,
unluckily for me, it happened once in the middle of a day that one of our
biggest
customers – a man who would think nothing of ordering a hundred pieces
of shirting
of one kind at a single time – came in. When he arrived I ran round
the warehouse
looking for the partner in charge of my department, who would
certainly
have wanted to see him, but failed to find him, he being out for his
two or three
hours’ lunch. So I served the customer myself. There was a line
that we
called “Diamond” shirting, which we sold at 5 1/8 d. per yard, and which
our customer
sold at 5 1/4 d. – it was by cutting prices that he had such a
volume of
trade. He wanted some of that.
A new book of
patterns had come from the manufacturers [51] a day or two before,
but I first
let the customer make his selection from the old pattern book and
then said:
“Would you not like some of these new patterns as well?” bringing out
the new cuttings.
He was rather amused at my little trick; it mattered nothing
to him to
order another fifty or sixty pieces, though he had already taken as
many as he
originally intended. But this was to prove my undoing. When he next
met the
partner he seems to have indulged in some jocular remark about the size
of their
“manager” in the shirting and quilt department, though he spoke highly
of me. The
pride of the firm was wounded. They sent down a young man from
another
department into mine and requested me to teach him all about everything,
and he was
then to be my boss! This was too bad, from my limited point of view,
and I
protested that I was quite capable of carrying on alone.
The head of
the firm was a venerable old gentleman, whom we all respected very
much. He
would even take the trouble to say “Good morning” to all the employees
whom he
passed, even though they were worth only 3s. 9d. a week! He called me
into his
private office and reasoned with me. But it was quite hopeless. I could
manage their
department, but I could not reason. He begged me to have patience,
and pointed
out how well I might expect to succeed later on. I was an obstinate
young donkey.
One point I remember very well. He said: “Suppose in your father’s
warehouse
such a thing had happened. Do you not think your father would want an
older man in
the department, because of what customers would think?”
But the surly
boy only replied with a logical rudeness born of wounded pride:
“But it could
not happen there, where they have eighteen or twenty men in every
department!”
What patience
the old gentleman had! Here was I threatening him with notice, and
at last he
gave in with a sigh for my sake and accepted it, and I for the third
time joined
the army of unemployed at the age of fourteen.
The mention
of my father’s warehouse here requires some comment. I have
mentioned
that my father had become the manager of a stationery concern, but it
happened that
by the time of which I am now writing he had joined our family
warehouse.
“The Guv’nor” had died, and my jolly uncle who, out of five brothers,
had solely
inherited the [52] business, invited him to join him, which he had
done. The two
warehouses knew each other, being among the biggest in their
respective
lines, and the proprietor of mine took it for granted that my father
was a man of
greater importance in the family concern than he really was. It was
only later on
that my father became the head of the family business, after my
uncle died.
In the meantime, my uncle was sole proprietor, and the natural
course of
things was that his two sons should go into the business and inherit
from him,
while the rest of the grandchildren should keep outside and be content
with certain
monetary bequests which “the Guv’nor” had bequeathed them, to
become theirs
on tile death of their parents.
It might be
wondered by those who do not know the customs of city merchants why
my benevolent
proprietor did not expect me to go into the family warehouse. The
explanation
is simple: it was not usually considered desirable for the character
and
development of youngsters that they should serve their apprenticeship in
their own
family warehouses, where they might become slack in work or in
character on
account of family indulgence and the superior respect with which
the other
employees might treat them in view of favours to come.
I must also
explain that my brother had left the warehouse where I now worked
because he
had taken a fancy to retail business. He had gone into a “gents’
outfitters”
to learn the business, having been promised a shop of his own – he
had a chain
of shops in his mind’s eye – when he and the time should be ripe. He
had always
been interested and careful in his own dress, and therefore was quite
at home in
that business. In our Sunday afternoon walks when we were still at
school, when
we had come to the stage at which we were expected to walk along
sedately
without shaking our bowler hats off our heads, it had been I, not he,
who had
raised objections to this uncomfortable headgear. I had objected to
stiff cuffs
and collars and fronts, as well as bowler hats, but had had to
submit to
them.
It must have
gone against me in business that I was careless in dress. As a
young man, in
fact, I refused to wear anything but cloth caps, which put me
rather in the
“workman class.” But I had another reason for that. I had been
taken one day
by my father to see one of the big felt hat manufacturing works at
Denton, near
[53] Manchester. I saw the chopped fur being blown on to the
revolving
cones, and in a later stage of the process the felts being washed in
steaming vats
over which several people were bending. All those workers seemed
rather hollow
cheeked, but one man was worse than the others. My father
commented on
this.
“Yes,”
replied the proprietor, “he will not last long now. They never last more
than about
five years at this job.”
To my vivid
young mind, the wearing of felt hats was thenceforth to be regarded
as nothing
short of indirect murder. I had already seen the unhappy girls in the
shirt
factory. I learnt from my father of other and even worse cases. There was
one factory
known to him where he had asked why better ventilation was not
provided. He
learned that there were plenty of windows that would open, but the
work-girls
objected to their being opened, because the fresher air made them
hungry and
they could not afford to buy more food.
§3
My third bout
of unemployment was more trying than ever. It went on month after
month – some
six months of the hardest and most soul-destroying kind of work –
that of
looking for a job. Do not talk to me about unemployment in the
nineteen-thirties;
it was hellish enough in the eighteen-nineties. My only
solace during
those days of searching in the city was the public art gallery,
where I used
to go for an occasional hour, no, not to rest, but to look at the
pictures and
escape from reality into a more heroic world. I lingered also at
the
booksellers’ windows, and especially longed for those little books which
told how to
achieve success in life with nothing but ability and honesty to
recommend
one, or how to perform miracles of development of character or memory.
I have spoken
of our new house. The address was officially 6 Nell Lane, but the
inhabitants,
not wishing to be regarded as living in a lane, generally called it
Clough Road.
It had attics, which we had not enjoyed before. One of these attics
had been put
at my disposal, and I had seen it through several transformations –
a gallery for
archery, a gymnasium, a theatre – in which I had been sole actor,
in various
capacities, to an audience of imaginary people on imaginary [54]
chairs – and
lastly a sort of Venice, which I announced on a placard on the door
as
VENICE
on the
ADRIATIC SEA
(A dry attic.
See?)
I was a
little disappointed that nobody ever laughed at it! Sometimes I used to
go up there,
play my mandoline, and imagine myself in quite another world.
Now, it
happened later, during my unemployment, that the biggest department
store in the
city – Lewis’s – fitted up a tank in its large basement, decorated
the entire
floor in Italian style, and called the ensemble “Venice.” There was a
charge of one
penny to enter, and another penny for a tour, which was quite
extensive, in
a real gondola.
Two or three
times when I was searching for work I went down there and lingered
for hours
trying to make up my mind to ask for the manager, in order to put
before him a
business proposition which had entered my head and also, in fact,
my heart. I
thought it might be an additional attraction if they had a small boy
playing the
mandoline on one of the gondolas. I could play it well enough for
public
purposes, in fact as well as the average professional, almost as well, I
thought, as
the German professor and his two daughters who had taught me for
some two
years in a class of about fifteen girls in the school of music.
However, I
could not screw up my courage to the working point. I was also afraid
of what my
mother would say, that she might think I was disgracing the family by
becoming a
cheap musician in a public place. The incident reacted badly upon my
interest in
music. I announced to my father, much to his regret, that I must now
give up all
my music and devote myself entirely to the thought of making money.
I rarely
played the piano or the mandoline after that, and soon gave them up
altogether.
§4
My third
period of unemployment bade fair to become permanent, but at last a
vacancy arose
for an apprentice in a “gents’ outfitting” shop which had been
newly opened
in our suburb at the end of a row of shops near the railway [55]
station. It
was thought that I might follow in the same path as my brother and
ultimately
have a shop – or a chain of shops – of my own.
This time the
apprenticeship was a more formal affair, and I had to sign on for
three years.
Apparently, as the formalities increased the emoluments diminished.
I had sunk
from five shillings to three shillings and nine pence a week, before,
and now the
salary was to be nothing for the first year, five shillings a week
for the
second and I forget what for the third. The hours of work also
increased,
from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m. on weekdays (except for Wednesday, which
contained a
half-holiday), but to 10 p.m. on Saturdays, with an hour for lunch
and an hour
for tea. The work was not hard, but some ten hours’ standing and one
hour’s quick
walking every day proved fatiguing, and often I used to arrive home
so tired at
night that I had to go upstairs to bed on my hands and knees. I was
left alone in
the shop a great deal and used to consider it a pleasant thing
when a
customer came in. I was soon able to do everything connected with the
business,
except the actual buying of goods – on that side the proprietor seemed
anxious that
my tuition should be delayed as long as possible. I think that all
he wanted was
a cheap salesman, which he certainly got!
From
beginning to end I disliked the year and a half which I spent in that shop.
I used to get
tired, as already mentioned. Sometimes my attitude when alone –
which was
constant, as the proprietor more and more stayed at home, and once he
was away for
weeks in hospital – might have served as illustration for a modern
murder story,
as I lolled across the counter in a state of mental as well as
physical
despair. To add to my distress, my clothes gave me endless trouble. My
socks were
always coming down (it was before the invention of sock suspenders).
My hands were
always tensely curled up, trying to hold up my loose cuffs. The
stiff loose
shirt front was always trying to get through the opening of my
waistcoat.
One size of collar was too small and the next size was said to look
too big. My
shoes were heavy and clumsy, but this was my own fault, for I bought
them myself
and got them like that to thwart a craving in myself for something
quite the
opposite.
Sometimes in
the long idle hours of waiting for customers I used to picture how
I could be
quite cheerful and comfortable in that shop if I could dress in a
style of my
own, [56] combining the conveniences of dress worn by all kinds of
people – I
never thought of sexes as such. There would be long stockings,
supported
from a light corset, which would save me from the need of lolling on
the counter,
would give my back comfortable support through the long hours of
waiting and
provide a convenient place for a belt to hold knickers buttoning
beneath the
knee. There would be some soft kind of tennis shirt – emphatically
no collar,
nor front, nor cuffs, nor hard hat. There would be no waistcoat, but
a simple
coat. There would be light shoes, shaped so as not to press the toes
sideways, and
with perhaps a two inch heel to add a little to my height, which I
was then
beginning to desire increased, for practical convenience in association
with other
people.
I think that
for the most part I hit in my imagination upon a costume which
would have
made mankind healthier and happier if it could have been introduced,
though it was
certainly not in keeping with aspiration for success in the
“gents’
outfitting” business! It would have made all the difference in my own
life. It may
be that there was some morbidity in part of it, but as I look back
upon it I see
that it contained not only a desire for relief from very real and
constant
discomfort, but also a longing for something positive in the way of
lightness and
refinement – a desire for material spirituality.
But all that
was not to be, and I remained thoroughly out of accord with my
environment.
The demands of a ridiculous and cruel orthodoxy in dress,
associated
with caste ideas (in America they talk of the “white collar” class,
but we had no
word for it in England), have always been inexorable. I remember
when I was at
school that one day there came along the street a gentleman
wearing a
soft felt hat dinted in at the top. The boys ran after him shouting,
“Trilby,
Trilby!” I was the only one not to share in that pursuit, though I too
thought the
hat an absurd shape. Perhaps the masculine element of mankind is a
bit cynically
acceptive of coarseness and earthiness. A rough assertiveness,
even if
clumsy and unintelligent, adds to its sense of personality or life.
It would be
interesting to record the beginnings of adolescence. But that does
not seem
possible. Either there was nothing in particular or I cannot remember
it. Such
slight physical discomfort as I may have had was not [57] associated
with any
sexual imaginings. I am quite sure that I never dreamed or thought
about girls
or women. I knew that men and women got married and set up joint
establishments,
but I did not know that there was any physical connection
between men
and women, either for pleasure or the production of children. I must
have been
unusually unknowledgeable for my age in such matters.
Where did my
thoughts run? I am afraid they were mostly negative, preoccupied
with present
discomforts and future economics, with only an occasional lifting
of the
imagination to pictures of freedom, open skies, sunshine and foreign
travel,
though at the same time I knew that these could not satisfy me, for I
wanted to
solve the economic problem for everybody, not only for myself, though
that came
first.
Two or three
times I had been to the city to an old house which had fallen on
evil times,
to get the shirts cut to measure by my employer for his richer
patrons. My
destination was one room, bare of furniture but for a sewing
machine, a
crooked table, some broken chairs, a screen, and a dirty mattress
laid on the
floor in one corner. There were an old woman and two girls, the
former bent
out of human shape, with red eyes, an underlip hanging far over
(from
constant wetting of thread) and a thickened flattened thumb (from pressing
the cloth),
the latter preparing for the same dreadful fate. With my own eyes I
had seen
something which might well have inspired Hood’s
Stitch,
stitch, stitch ...
In poverty,
hunger and dirt.
I had not
been at the shop more than a few months when I was saved the long walk
several times
a day by our removal from Clough Road to 12 Silverdale Road – I am
bound to say
that builder had a genius for inventing fetching names for his
streets. The
new house was only two or three minutes’ walk away from the shop,
and this time
it was not rented but bought outright – a nice semi-detached house
with a
good-sized lawn, on which one could, and did, play croquet. On this
occasion my
employer earned a bit more of my dislike by quoting, I suppose for
want of
something else to say, that three removals were as bad as a fire, which
I – absurdly
sensitive as usual – took to be a criticism of my father, which I
could not
tolerate. [58]
It was at
this period that I made my first experiments in Indian Yoga. I found
an article in
a popular magazine, describing how the yogis developed
extraordinary
powers by means of special methods of breathing. I felt that I
needed
special powers, since the ordinary ones seemed of little use in life
unless
conjoined by some chance with special opportunities. So once, in the
midday, when
I had the shop to myself, I went into the back room (which had been
newly
acquired and contained a chair) and sat down to practise the breathing
exercises
prescribed. I did it for about forty minutes. At that point I heard
somebody come
into the shop. I rose from the chair and walked to the front room
without
feeling the floor I walked on or any sense of my own weight. My employer
entered and
asked for a pair of scissors, which I found and handed to him
without any
feeling of the article or sense of its weight. I must have looked
peculiar in
some way, for I remember he stared at me very hard and with a
surprised
expression. The incident passed off. Gradually my sense of touch and
weight
returned. I did not perform the experiment again, as I considered it to
be dangerous.
Still it remained in my mind as an interesting possibility, to be
pursued
further if an opportunity for greater knowledge in connection with it
should turn
up.
Another
occult possibility came within my ken about this time. When we were out
cycling one
Sunday morning my father told me about a lecture of Mrs. Besant’s
which he had
just attended. She had spoken of visits to the worlds of the dead,
describing
the modes of life of the departed as continuing the mental and
emotional
interests with which they had left the earth, and she had concluded by
saying that
almost anybody who would take the trouble could develop the use of
astral and
mental bodies so as to move in those worlds and observe for
themselves. I
vowed to myself that I would hear Mrs. Besant on her next visit,
and would do
this thing myself if it were really true. These were dangerous
subjects, I
knew – populus vult decipi – but I would be scientific about them.
[59]
-------Cardiff Theosophical Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24-1DL
CHAPTER IV
MASTERY
§1
LIKE many
other boys, I had in my schooldays collected foreign stamps, and in my
last year at
school I had been in the habit of exchanging and selling my
duplicates, and
had even done some selling for a London firm on a commission
which I
shared with the purchasers. It happened that while I was at the shop I
one day saw
an advertisement of an old stamp collection for sale for £7. I went
to see it,
and knew it for a rare bargain. I had, however, only £2 saved up. I
borrowed £5
from my father, promising to repay the amount soon, and bought the
collection.
I started to
sell the collection piecemeal. Within a week my father had his
money back –
much to his surprise – I was some pounds in pocket and I had still
most of the
stamps in stock.
I began to
deal. I advertised cheap packets of stamps in some of the weekly and
monthly
magazines, and with the packets I sent out “approval sheets” of a better
class of
stamps than those which appeared in the packets. Within a month I was
doing a
roaring trade. There was a good element of luck in it. I happened to get
that
collection and to hit the market at a favourable moment, not at the time of
financial
depression. I was thus able to obtain the business of a large number
of boys in
the public schools and also a certain number of more mature
collectors. I
opened up trade connections with prominent dealers, and began to
import the
cheaper stamps in sacks containing a million each, from the
collections
made by Swiss convents. I was also selling these by tens of
thousands by
weight, after picking them over and extracting the unusual kinds.
This [60]
work occupied my Sundays, my Wednesday afternoons, my early mornings
and the
greater part of my lunch and tea hours. My father, always ready to help
his sons in
any way, used to come up into the attic to help me in his spare
time. My
elder brother had by now gone to live in another town, where he was
employed. My
younger brother was at school.
After some
time and discussion my employer consented to the cancellation of my
agreement of
apprenticeship, so, with a joyous heart, I bade good-bye to
warehouses
and retail shops, to stiff collars and fronts and loose cuffs.
Very shortly
afterwards I rented the living quarters over a large stationery and
toyshop, and
began to employ clerks. At first two, then three and more until at
the age of
sixteen I had sixteen clerks in my office. These were all girls.
I employed
girls instead of men, not because they were cheaper, but because my
father
emphatically assured me that they were steadier for simple work, more
honest (my
business offered many opportunities for theft), more contented, and
less likely
to learn my methods of business in order to go away and start rival
businesses,
perhaps with a list of my customers in the pocket. He also hinted to
me that apart
from business this method had, however, its dangers, and impressed
upon me again
and again the blessings of a bachelor’s life. He was not thinking
of
immorality; I fancy he knew that I was as safe from that as the Bank of
England, so
to speak; but there might be several young ladies who would not
object to
marrying my business, however lacking in charms the proprietor
thereof.
I did, in
fact, fall in love with the very first girl I engaged, and even before
I engaged
her, during the five minutes’ preliminary interview. She was a
handsome
girl, with large brown eyes and a smile which, when she let it loose
towards the
termination of our interview, nearly carried me off my feet. She was
a typical
“Gibson girl” – the style of the period – of the same age and just as
tall as
myself, with a pompadour, a blouse and skirt costume with an
unbelievably
small waist, and shoes – which I disapproved, for anything in the
nature of
voluntary deformity always made me feel quite sick – which must have
been pushing
her big toe very much out of line.
I never gave
her the slightest indication of my devotion, though it lasted for
several
years, and we were together all day, laughing and chatting over our
work. There
is no [61] doubt that I should have let myself go sooner or later –
a little
later rather than sooner – but for one fact. She used to come to
business by
train, and some weeks after our first meeting I heard, from her
conversation
with the other girls – which was not concealed from me, as I did
not try to
stop my employees from talking, since I wanted them to enjoy
themselves
while they worked – that she had met on the train a young city clerk
or secretary
in a good position in the Ship Canal (which turned out to be
perfectly
true) who had become very much attached to her and used to take her
out to
theatres and other entertainments. She liked him, too.
That was
enough for me. I reasoned it out that the young man concerned was in a
better
position to make her happy than I was, untrained as I was to society and
theatres and
dancing, and my business after all was not a very safe one in
economic emergencies,
as I dealt only in luxuries. I had indulged in pictures of
good business
and a happy wife with a little child in her arms (though, believe
me, I did not
yet know that there was such a thing as physical connection
between man
and woman and the birth of children thereby), but I put these aside
decisively
and finally when the other young man appeared on the scenes, and
rigidly
confined myself to a “fatherly” interest after that. Y ears afterwards
they were
married. I met her again some fourteen years after we parted; she was
happy and
well kept and very fond of a little daughter.
§2
This girl
became my head clerk, and manageress whenever I was not on the spot.
She was very
intelligent, and flung all her vivacity and energy into the
business as
if it were her own. She was an expert typist, playing the whole
keyboard with
one finger of each hand, after the fashion of those days. She
could rattle
off letters by the dozen, once given the idea of the points to be
written
about. I had a card-index system of my own invention, which was a great
time-saver.
It was a little tricky, but she understood it and could handle it
perfectly. It
was no mean business that I was carrying on, for it was not at all
unusual for
me to have to open five hundred letters in the morning mail, and I
used to make
it a practice to clear out all orders on the same day, [62] even
those which
came by the afternoon post. I had an old four-wheeler “growler” –
horse cab –
to take my mails to the post office; nothing so musty exists on
earth now, I
think.
I took care
to pay wages about fifteen per cent above the market, and most of
the girls
were fairly happy. One, an orphan, had a cruel time living with a
distant relative
who expected her to be general servant as well as to bring in
some money
every week, but I could do nothing about that. One was absolutely
alone and
entirely dependent upon the small wage she received from me; I could
never send
her away, though she proved to be very slow and incompetent. Two or
three of them
were rather down at heel, especially one girl who had some younger
brothers and
sisters to help to maintain. One was a clergyman’s daughter, a
delicate,
pretty girl, with a club foot; she was the only one who objected to
take her turn
at making the fire, because she said she was afraid that her
mother would
take her away if she did, and then she would not have her
pocket-money.
We had all sorts.
The
conversation of the girls was always interesting and laughter was constantly
passing round
the tables. It was always clean, in contrast with that of the
young men I
had known in business. Rarely, there was a little bit of
spitefulness.
I remember an occasion near the beginning, when the head girl was
wearing a
blue serge dress, which was probably home-made and had represented a
good deal of
economy and care. One or two of the other girls made fun of it,
quite
unnecessarily. She was greatly upset and did not wear it again. I very
much wanted
to tell her that I liked her better in that dress than any other,
but I dared
not rise to such intimacy. Altogether, the company of those girls
was much to
my taste, even if it did partake somewhat of the nature of a musical
comedy scene.
When my religious aunt was visiting our house one day she
expressed
wonder that I did not fall in love with one of them. I startled her by
replying –
without thought – that there was safety in numbers.
I was a firm
believer in the adage that it pays to advertise. Every week I used
to make a
careful estimate of my profits, and at least half of them I would
immediately
put into advertising, while most of the other half went to
increasing
the stock. I was also quite willing to sell some stamps at [63] a
loss in order
to make a profit on others. The cheap packets of stamps which I
advertised
and sold at twenty-five per cent less than the actual cost to me of
the stamps
contained in them brought me thousands of customers, from many of
whom I
obtained further business, once my catalogue and approval selections were
in their
hands.
In my regular
lines I did not raise the price to compensate for these losses,
which I
regarded as part of my advertising expenses, but on the whole I sold
well under
the general market, as I worked on the principle of small profits and
quick
returns.
Another
little stroke of luck came for me at this time in the sudden enthusiasm
for penny
post throughout the Empire. It became possible to send letters under
two ounces
weight to all parts of the Empire, except, I think, Rhodesia, for one
penny. This
may seem a small matter, but it instantly increased my trade with
the Colonies
about tenfold. That postal arrangement was entirely reciprocal,
very much in
contrast with the present, when the Englishman sending his letter
to India puts
on it a 1 1/2 d. stamp, but the poor Indian posting his to England
must put on 2
1/2 annas, equal to about 2 3/4 d.
After about a
year I began to find my premises altogether too small. As no
suitable building
was available for rent I decided to build. My father disliked
the idea of
my stock lying practically unprotected in a vacant office at nights,
so he
suggested selling his house and building a new one along with my proposed
new office.
First we planned a house with a huge basement for my business, but
my mother
objected to that idea because it would bring business and employees
actually into
her house, even if there were a separate entrance to the basement.
We then
decided on a two-storied office, each floor sixty by eighteen feet, to
stand in the
garden at the side of the new house. All this took many months to
build, as it
was a year of abnormal rains and the contractors also got
themselves
into some financial difficulties.
Before we
moved, however, I had an experience which bade fair to terminate the
entire
proceedings, as far as I was concerned. My upper lip began to swell and
become hard,
then my cheek and forehead, and then the side of the head near the
temple. I lay
in the front bedroom in Silverdale Road. It was an abnormally hot
season, and I
could [64] hear the hum of a mosquito in the room – a rare thing
in the north
of England.
The doctor
came and did what he could. He opened the swelling, but nothing would
come out. Then
I heard my father and the doctor talking in the adjacent
bathroom.
They forgot that the walls were very thin. My father said, in a broken
voice: “He
was a good boy” – was, mind you. The past tense was quite
unequivocal.
I told myself that I did not want to die, just when I was
beginning, at
the age of seventeen, to get a bit of success and fun out of life.
The doctor
said that if I survived the night he would make another trial to get
the stuff out
in the morning. He duly arrived with an instrument shaped like a
glove-stretcher,
made an opening in my lip, pushed the long end of the
instrument in
gradually, about as far as my eye, and stretched it open a bit by
means of the
handles, which he then told me to hold while he knelt on the side
of the bed
and pressed his knuckles on my face with all his weight behind them.
I thought the
bones would cave in under the pressure. Fortunately he succeeded
in squeezing
out some of the bad matter, a hard greenish substance. The doctor
insisted that
I was a brick, but I rather thought it was the bones that had
proved
themselves of that category.
That day the
weather broke. Rain fell in torrents. The trains were running a
foot deep in
water in the railway cutting. The air became cool. I felt immediate
relief, and
in a few days was able to attend to my work in a modified degree. In
the interval
my father had carried on the selling end of the business with the
aid of the
head girl. [65]
-------Cardiff Theosophical Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24-1DL
CHAPTER V
FRATERNITY
§1
SHORTLY after
we removed, Mrs. Besant came again to our city, and gave two
lectures in a
small hall seating about six hundred people. I went with my father
to hear her.
She had a sort of superhuman halo or atmosphere about her. She did
not carry
herself or act like other people. All the people present seemed to
believe that
she walked as easily in the worlds of the dead as in those of the
living, or at
least were impressed by her sincerity and held the idea that “it
might be so.”
Her fluent words, impressive voice and holy manner, and the
importance of
the subject combined to produce an atmosphere intense, devout and
even
aspirational. I was quite carried away, though I cannot remember the
subject of
her oration.
On the
occasion of a second lecture I bought at the door a book of hers called
In the Outer
Court. I was greatly impressed by it and read it again and again.
The heights
to which a human being could climb thrilled me; the practical ways
in which this
could be done called for instant endeavour. They were simply the
old time-worn
formulae of virtue, but carried to their climax with
uncompromising
rigidity – spotless truth, love for all, even for those who hate
and hurt,
perfect control of thought, the building of character by imagination,
purity and
above all self-sacrifice. The climax dwelt upon words quoted by her
from another
book, as follows:
Before the
eyes can see they must be incapable of tears.
Before the
ear can hear it must have lost its sensitiveness.
Before the
voice can speak in the presence of the Masters it must have lost the
power to
wound.
Before the
soul can stand in the presence of the Masters its feet must be washed
in the blood
of the heart. [66]
Mrs. Besant
held the crucible theory. We must make ourselves into crucibles,
standing in
the fire while in us the evils of the world are transformed to good.
My father was
not quite so much impressed as I. He remarked that when such a
little book
was sold for two shillings, somebody must be getting something out
of it.
It happened
perhaps a year before this time that my jolly uncle gave to my
father an
extract from The Light of Asia, which had been given to him in turn by
a doctor
friend of his who was a student of mystical literature. My uncle had a
passion for
poetry. One afternoon, when my elder brother was with us, I entered
the kitchen
and found him leaning against the dresser, obviously thinking hard,
with a slip
of paper – this extract – in his hand. He said: “Have you read
this?”
I took the
paper, and read of Buddha carrying the wounded lamb down the
hill-side to
the hall of sacrifice, and speaking to the king such words as made
the priests
hide their crimsoned hands:
While still
our Lord went on, teaching how fair
This earth
were if all living things be linked
In
friendliness and common use of foods,
Bloodless and
pure; the golden grain, bright fruits,
Sweet herbs
which grow for all, the waters wan,
Sufficient
drinks and meats. Which when these heard
The might of
gentleness so conquered them,
The priests
themselves scattered their altar-flames
And through
the land next day passed a decree
Proclaimed by
criers, and in this way graved
On rock and
column: “Thus the King’s will is:
There hath
been slaughter for the sacrifice
And slaying
for the meat, but henceforth none
Shall spill
the blood of life or taste of flesh,
Seeing that
knowledge grows, and life is one,
And mercy
cometh to the merciful.”
My brother
said: “If you will become a vegetarian, I will.”
“All right,”
said I.
From that
moment we were vegetarians, though my mother put up a good deal of
opposition,
fearing that we would lose our health. My father also would have
become a
vegetarian then, but for his consideration for her feelings.
We listened
to all the arguments against vegetarianism, but none of them was
sufficiently
convincing to counteract [67] the moral issue. It was said by some
that the
animals would overrun the earth if we did not destroy them for food.
The Chinese
might as well argue to the American that his continent would be
overrun by
frogs if he persisted in his foolish policy of not eating frogs. On
the contrary
it is found necessary to breed animals by the million to fill the
meat markets.
This very aspect of the matter, however, constituted in my eyes
the greatest
argument in favour of flesh food.
I was once,
years later, speaking to a lady on a boat, and she put me this
issue: “But
do you not realize that if we did not eat meat there would be
millions of
animals which would never have any life at all?”
A bit Irish,
perhaps, but I understood, and replied: “Yes. I could be reconciled
to that idea,
if we could have an agreement that every animal before being
killed should
be given its share of the bargain, that is, a reasonable long
life, at
least to the other side of maturity, and there should be no lamb and
sucking pig
on our tables, and no horrors such as pate de foie gras, goose liver
produced by
nailing the bird’s feet permanently to a board so as to deprive it
of all
exercise, and stuffing food forcibly down its throat so as to enlarge its
liver.”
There was no
answer to this. Besides, if it is on the ground of providing life
to other
creatures that we ought to eat them, we ought on the same ground to
insist on
using horse-carriages and refuse the use of motor-cars for ordinary
short-distance
traffic. A city taxi-cab should be an object of execration and
our streets
ought still to be filled with growlers and hansom cabs. There must
be millions
fewer horses on earth than there were twenty-five years ago.
Speaking of
vegetarianism reminds me of an amusing incident with reference to
smoking. My
elder brother, always rather thin and fragile, was obviously smoking
too much. My
father used to advise him strongly against it. One day my brother
suddenly said
to himself, as he was going along a path across a field which led
to our house:
“What is the
use of smoking, anyway?” and he took out his pipe from his pocket
and flung it
away. A day or two later my father was crossing the field, when he
happened to
see the pipe lying in the grass. He recognized it and brought it
home.
“It seems a
pity,” he remarked, “to throw away a good pipe that cost several
shillings.”
[68]
The next day
my brother was puffing away as hard as ever at the same old pipe.
I never
smoked. I preferred the money. I was very careful about money – except
on one
occasion when I was travelling on the top of a tramcar at night, and on
reaching home
I found that in the dark I had given the conductor two sovereigns
in mistake
for two halfpennies to pay the penny fare!
§2
After Mrs.
Besant’s lecture the chairman announced that there was a branch of
the
Theosophical Society in the city and there would be a meeting on Tuesday
evening at
which the public were invited to ask questions. My father and I
attended. We
were both thoroughly dissatisfied with the answers to the
half-dozen
questions put by members of the public.
My father
asked: “If there were a good power or principle as the basis of all
things, how
could there be imperfection, pain, cruelty or any evil in the
world?”
Several people tried to answer this – quite hopelessly. One illogical
answer was
that God had given man free will and it was man who produced the evil
– quite
innocent of the obvious implication that God must have produced man as
an evil being
and therefore have produced the evil.
The only man
there whom we appreciated and respected was the chairman, a
venerable
gentleman (afterwards to be my father-in-law) who explained that
members of
the Theosophical Society were only students, and that though man
could not yet
solve such ultimate questions, it was still worth while to study
and find out
what we could. He himself felt that were there not some good
principle
gradually emerging and increasing its sway, there could be no good at
all in man,
since no purely material being could be unselfish or could rise to
the heights
of self-sacrifice. Such a thing would mean that matter could
overstep the
nature of matter. And besides there was that mysterious divine
discontent
which at last left no one completely satisfied with any material
pleasures or
gains. He begged the audience not to go to extremes in any way, but
to use reason
just as far as it would go with the very limited data at our
disposal. My
father was very much taken by this old gentleman who was old enough
to be his
father. We went [69] to the meeting a second time, only to find a man
reading an
extremely dull and futile paper. We went no more, but decided that we
would hear
Mrs. Besant whenever she came to the city.
It was not
long before I obtained a copy of The Light of Asia. It affected me so
deeply that I
had to read it in the privacy of my own room. Here at last was
true
religion, from my point of view. The life of Buddha, as given in this poem,
was supremely
gentle, beautiful, unselfish; but what was it that Buddha had
discovered
which brought hope into the world? It was the law of karma. Why?
Because it
showed that man was making himself through a series of lives, and if
it was
somewhat hard that such a puny being was faced with such a herculean task
– that he
could obtain nothing except by his own efforts – there was at the same
time the
assurance that he could never suffer in the least except by his own
doing, that
present cruelty and injustice to himself was but the payment for his
own past
cruelty and injustice to others, and that the door was open for him to
make of his
own future just what he liked. Here was no capricious God who, if
capable of
creating cancer on earth, would be equally capable of providing
dreadful hells
hereafter. No blind unmoral chance also, which could so easily
bring to
naught in a moment the most strenuous endeavours.
I still
thought of Mrs. Besant in connection with all this Buddhism. It was one
thing to have
a theory or a voice from the past, however beautiful and eminent.
It seemed
quite another to have at hand a living person, a noble, trustworthy,
and unselfish
character, who could add to that theory the living testimony of
direct
super-sensuous vision, who could declare these things to be true,
certain,
scientifically sure, in a ringing convincing voice.
§3
In the new
building, I invited my elder brother to join me in the business. He
left the shop
that he was then managing, and we opened new departments in the
upper floor
of the office. We started making rubber stamps, and by following the
methods that
I had already found successful, succeeded in developing a large
postal
business, importing most of our raw materials and small mechanisms from
America and
Germany. We opened out also in the sale of picture post [70] cards,
and luckily
got in right in the height of the craze, selling especially
Continental
views, most beautifully collotyped in Germany. We missed, however, a
good trade in
safety razors and some other small articles, through over-caution.
In my new
offices on the ground floor I had partitioned off a portion as private
office. Here
I used to attend to my account books and also retire occasionally
to practise
various mental and physical exercises which I had found in Mrs.
Besant’s
book, and in some books on hypnotism and cognate subjects which I had
obtained
elsewhere, particularly one called Your Finer Forces and How to Develop
Them. I
practised breathing exercises but not of the Hatha Yoga kind. I had had
for some time
after my experiment in breathing at the shop a romantic notion of
curing large
numbers of variously afflicted people in practically no time by
means of
mesmeric passes.
Some months
after the visit to the Theosophical Lodge I began to desire more
knowledge
about it. I remembered to have seen a small library there and thought
it might
possibly be open to the public. I was determined to read extensively,
if I could
find suitable books. So one evening I went again to the Theosophical
Lodge premises.
I found there, sitting at a table, an oldish gentleman with a
bald head, a
small “horse-thief” beard, and a snuffle. Later I learned that he
was by
profession a knocker-up. He lived in the mill area and made his living by
going round
the streets in the early mornings and rattling on the bedroom
windows of
his clients with a long stick. This occupation gave him plenty of
time to
indulge in his hobby – the study of Greek and Neo-Platonic philosophy,
in which he
had read profoundly. Anyone would have taken him for a university
professor of
the old style, or a second-hand bookseller. I also found a notice
saying that
books could be borrowed for a penny a week, or two shillings and
sixpence a
year.
I walked over
to the table, and when the old gentleman looked up at me I put
down a
half-crown and said I wanted to join the library. He stared owlishly at
the coin for
a few moments, then pushed it back towards me and said: “No, take a
book; pay a
penny when you return it. Perhaps you will not want to read any
more.”
This negative
sort of salesmanship took me, a business [71] man, very much by
surprise. But
I had made up my mind. Pushing the half-crown back again I
replied: “No,
put me down for a year’s subscription. I am going to read them
all.”
It happened
at that moment that two small middle-aged ladies entered the room.
One, I learnt
afterwards, was the wife of the president to whom my father and I
had taken a
liking on the occasion of our first visit to the Lodge; the other
kept a small toffee
shop in the mill area. They spoke to me – words of welcome.
I was shy,
and wanted to get away with my book. Would I not give them the
pleasure of
my company at the meeting that was about to take place? I preferred
not, I
explained that I had come only to obtain books to read, to find out more
about Mrs.
Besant’s philosophy. Oh! But it would give them so much pleasure if I
would stay.
So I went with them into an adjacent, larger room, which was by day
a sort of
board-room connected with a solicitor’s office. They sat me down on a
large settee
and brought me a number of photographs to see. “This is Mr.
Sinnett. This
is Mr. Leadbeater. This is Mr. Mead. This is Mrs. Mead. This is
Mr.
Keightley” – and so on.
I said: “Yes;
yes; yes; yes,” very politely, though full of inward wonder at
this sudden
transition from an atmosphere of rare philosophy to the intimacies
of something
resembling a family album. And the persons represented in the
portraits did
not resemble the perfect men or Mahatmas of whom I was in search,
though Mrs.
Besant had done so to some extent, with her priestessly robes and
manner.
After several
other people had drifted in and the chairman had called the
meeting to
order with two minutes’ silent meditation, I listened to an hour’s
lecture by a
parrot-faced and parrot-voiced lady, on the theory that the earth
came from the
moon and not the moon from the earth, and then went home, having
given a
promise to attend again the next week.
§4
Though the
lodge-meetings bored me, the literature had the reverse effect. At
the beginning
I read mostly books written by Mrs. Besant, of which there were a
large number,
and five largish volumes entitled: Isis Unveiled and The [72]
[Photo
missing: DR. ANNIE BESANT IN HER PRIME (Lafayette)]
Secret
Doctrine, by Madame Blavatsky, chief founder of the movement. With the
portrait of
the author in Isis Unveiled I almost fell in love.
In both of
these authors I read about Mahatmas. I was already prepared for the
main ideas of
Theosophy (as this philosophy was somewhat erroneously called) by
my reading of
The Light of Asia. I was a worshipper at the shrine of Buddha as
depicted
therein. I had read that other people could follow in his steps and
bring to an
end the procession of their lives (or rather bodies) by attaining
Nirvana, a
state which could not be defined, but certainly bore no resemblance
to any sort
of heaven.
According to
Buddha, this Nirvana was to be attained not by any external means,
not by
breathings or posturings, not by prayer or supplication, not by the aid
of any
teacher or guide, but simply by surrendering absolutely all selfishness
and turning
the full light of reason upon the imperfection of the world and all
human
fancies, and thus reaching “illumination” and the “true life kept for him
who false
puts by.” I understood that thousands had attained Nirvana, the state
of Buddha,
the Wise, just as he himself had done, and had gone on into Nirvana.
But in these
works I read of Mahatmas, men who had attained Nirvana but were
nevertheless
actually living in human Indian bodies in Tibet. Though they had
attained
perfection, they had not accepted the full liberty of Nirvana, but
remained in
touch with man on the threshold of that state, so that they might
help others
to attain.
I wanted
above all things to find one of these Mahatmas, to serve him, to learn
and practise
at his feet. Notwithstanding my coolness towards the celebrities of
the
Theosophical Society, my lack of response to the contents of the family
album, I was
completely captivated by the greater, though similar attraction of
the Mahatmas.
I found from
conversation with my new friends that they were very humble in
these
matters. They worshipped the Masters or Adepts from afar. They said that
if they
behaved themselves in the station in life to which they had so far
attained,
they might hope, after some more lives, to approach the feet of the
Masters and
begin to tread the Path which led – usually through seven or
fourteen
lives of intense endeavour – to Their estate. In the meantime they sat
at the feet
of those who were already Their disciples. [73]
This was not
good enough for me. I had pictured myself as another edition of the
Buddha
himself, a Nirvani in this life. I was prepared to surrender everything,
everything. I
wanted this joy not only for myself. I wanted everybody to see
that they
suffered from themselves, that none else compelled them to hug the
wheel of
birth and death, and kiss its spokes of agony. The Theosophical Society
was founded
by the Masters for the purpose of spreading this knowledge of the
open door to
Nirvana above and brotherhood on earth. I would work for it with
every ounce
of my strength, with every gasp of my breath.
I gave my
name for membership to the President, vowing in a broken voice that I
would do my
best to help the great work. My vehemence disturbed the members
standing by;
it was perhaps a little unseemly to be so religious in public. My
name went up
to higher quarters, and after several months’ delay I received from
London a
certificate of membership, though I was only at the age of nineteen.
Their rule
that minors could be admitted only with the consent of their parents
and guardians
seems to have been overlooked in my case.
In my reading
I had pictured one of the Mahatmas as particularly suited to
myself. I
wanted to go to him and learn. In the privacy of my room I would throw
myself on the
ground in my longing, like any medieval devotee. Life was barren,
unthinkable,
impossible. It could not go on without Him. I doubt if any hart
panted after
the water-brooks as I after the Master. I wrote to Mrs. Besant
about this.
She replied that I had a good brain, deep devotion, a great gift of
expression,
and would certainly go far in this life. She said that her own
literary and
scientific education had been of great value to her in her work,
and advised
me to prepare myself by completing a sound education. Old people
must be taken
as they are, she said, but young people should study and make
themselves
worth having.
Some little
time afterwards Mrs. Besant came to the city again and I was told
that I might
have an interview with her. She stayed at the house of the
President. I
went there on the appointed day. There was a hushed atmosphere.
Several
people were sitting tensely on chairs in the drawing-room, waiting for
their turns,
while our hostess, the little lady mentioned before (who was
destined to
become my mother-in-law, though I did not know it then), busied
herself [75]
with the arrangements. It was a large well-appointed house, for the
President was
a successful business man, proprietor of a fairly large ironworks.
In due course
my turn came. I had had time to work myself up into a considerable
state of
agitation, the suppression of which produced an outward state of
abnormal
stiffness. I entered Mrs. Besant’s room. She was sitting on a chair at
the far side.
I balanced myself on the edge of another chair at a respectful
distance,
very conscious of my clumsy boots, my tennis shirt and my long dark
beard – would
have been very promising material for a caricaturist of
Bolsheviks. I
waited nervously for her to speak the words which would change the
whole of my
life and even future eternities, deeming no words necessary for me
in the
presence of practical omniscience! She looked at me intently for what
seemed a long
time – it was characteristic of her great heart that she did not
burst into
laughter or else into tears. At last she asked me what my plans were.
I told her my
desire. She advised patience and preparation – strangely like the
advice given
to me by the kind old gentleman who was the proprietor of my second
warehouse.
This time I had the sense to take the advice. I was consoled to some
extent by her
suggestion that I should keep in touch with her by correspondence.
It was in
that house that I became acquainted with a little girl who was to play
a big part in
the future that was then troubling me so much. I was frequently
invited
there, with other friends, and occasionally we used to sit for a kind of
group
meditation. Eight or ten of us, very much in sympathy with one another,
used to
gather at a big round table in one of the spare rooms, for an hour’s
meditation,
after which we would tell to one another our experiences. In order
to counteract
to some extent the impure “magnetism” of our daily clothing, at
these
gatherings we used to put on white robes, all alike. Afterwards we would
generally
return to the drawing-room and have a little refreshment and
conversation
before proceeding to our various homes.
It was on one
such occasion that I first met the little girl above mentioned.
Ordinarily
she was not in evidence at any of our gatherings or tea parties,
being sent to
play somewhere or being entertained by the maids. But she was
brought to
meet the visitors and to receive a good night kiss [75] before going
to bed. She
drove me nearly out of my wits by starting to go round the whole
circle of
visitors for this good night kiss. I was in a mild perspiration when
my turn came,
but I managed to do my duty by planting a most undexterous
osculation
somewhere in the neighbourhood of the parting of the hair. I had not
kissed
anybody, not even my mother, since my dreadful experience with the
school-ma’am,
and I was not sure now but that it was a most dangerous thing to
do, leading
to one could not tell what lengths on the downward path!
Although the
little girl was quite willing to kiss the visitors, she
nevertheless
most obviously regarded us with the greatest possible scorn. I had
never before
seen such a proud child, nor indeed any person so expert in giving
a snub or
showing the cold shoulder. There was, of course, nothing deliberate in
this; it was
simply that she did not hide her thoughts or feelings. She had her
own views
about the white robes!
§5
Mrs. Besant’s
advice sent me back to school – the last thing in the world I
could have
expected. Not satisfied entirely with the theosophical library, I had
developed the
habit of going to the big city reference library. There I became a
voracious
reader whenever I could find time. Every book was interesting –
philosophy,
science, travel, biography, history. Once more I wanted to read them
all. But my
ardour for this was damped when one day I made a calculation and
discovered
that if I spent eight hours a day reading in that library I could
finish the
job in about five hundred full life-times! I must select. One thing,
however, I
would not set aside – the Sanskrit books.
I had read in
one of Mrs. Besant’s printed lectures that the philosophy of
Shankaracharya
– an Indian metaphysician who lived about three hundred years
B.C.,
according to some, but about a thousand years later than that according to
others –
could not be fully understood unless one read it in the original
Sanskrit. The
implication was that she herself could do this. She also spoke of
him as the
greatest of Masters.
To me her
words had the force of divine authority and imperative necessity. At
the city
library I called for their [76] small collection of Sanskrit books,
including
several grammars, and was overjoyed to find that it was a language one
could learn
by oneself, without a teacher. There were no difficulties of
pronunciation,
since the script in which it was written was purely phonetic. The
grammar books
were not all quite clear about this pronunciation, but by
comparing
three or four of them and making my own deductions I arrived at what I
was
afterwards very pleased to learn (when an Indian friend visited us) to be
the correct
pronunciation, according to South Indian standards. Then I wrote to
Bombay for
grammar and other Sanskrit books of my own.
Hanging on
the side of a screen near the entrance to the library I one day
noticed a
pamphlet of the University Tutorial College of Cambridge, which told
about the
London University examinations, and how one could prepare for them by
postal
tuition. Here was my opportunity to complete the sound education advised
by Mrs.
Besant. I would give point to my studies by reading for examinations as
explained in
that booklet. I wrote to the College. I wanted to take their course
for the
Matriculation Examination first of all; but I did not want to take Latin
or French for
my second language, though I had learnt both at school. I wanted
to take
Sanskrit, which was permissible at the examination by payment of an
extra fee of
£2. But when I learnt that the tuition fee for Sanskrit would be
£10 extra for
every ten lessons by post, I dropped the Tutorial College and
decided to
learn everything by myself.
I bought the
books, settled down to three or four hours’ study every day, part
of it in
business hours in my private office. For the scientific subjects I
attended the
Municipal School of Technology – a magnificent affair, costing half
a million
pounds, modelled somewhat on the lines of the famous Boston
Technological
Institution – for two and a half hours every evening, except Lodge
nights. Thus
in about a year I matriculated in London University, having passed
in my coveted
Sanskrit as well as the other subjects required by the University.
I had then to
decide whether I would go in for the Arts or the Science course
for the
Degree. Philosophy and metaphysics were to me the veriest child’s play.
I decided,
therefore, in order to avoid a bias in my education, to take up
science, to
which I devoted a large part of my time for four [77] years, in
chemistry,
physics, geology and mathematics, attending the Technical College
nearly every
night.
I loved that
College, and the teachers; they were real teachers, in complete
contrast to
what I had known in my schooldays. I no longer had any qualms about
going back to
school. The College was part of the Victoria University, but the
night
students were not allowed in those less democratic days to have the
degrees (as
they are now) so we had to content ourselves with the numerous
certificates
of the Board of Education in separate subjects of study. I obtained
many first
classes and numerous prizes, which more than covered the cost of my
fees. Meals
necessarily became very irregular at this time, and I expert at
poaching eggs
and toasting cheese on a gas ring. [78]
-------Cardiff Theosophical Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24-1DL
CHAPTER VI
MYSTERY
§1
THERE were
not many members who cared to attend the Theosophical Lodge
regularly;
the average was perhaps eight or ten, though there were about thirty
members on
the rolls. Lecturers would come occasionally from London and other
places, and
then the Lodge room would be filled with members and their friends.
The President’s
wife, who was hostess for the Lodge, had the difficult task of
bringing
about a closer association of the alpha and omega of society. She would
go much out
of her way to encourage any visitors of education and culture to
come more
intimately into touch with the Lodge; but she would also do what she
could for the
poorest and the most ignorant, and invite them also to her house.
There was one
old man, a boot and shoe repairer from a back street, who was
half-crazed with
incoherent visions, and would talk on all occasions. The
problem was
accentuated by his indifference to soap, water and nail scissors.
She was
always kind to him, yet tried firmly to quieten him and prevent him from
unconsciously
insulting other people who happened to hold views differing from
his. There
was a highfalutin’ widow of the semi-artistic world, with two
marriageable
daughters. Our hostess thought it would do me immense good if I
could hit it
off with one of those, and did her best to make suitable
opportunity.
But it meant nothing to me in my then mood. My position was rather
that of a
pedigreed cat belonging to a friend, which turned up its nose at the
pedigreed
partner thoughtfully provided for it, and preferred to devote its
amours to a
rapscallion which lived in a convent near by – in my case the great
orphan,
humanity. [79]
The
membership was not permanent. There were always some coming in and some
going out,
for various reasons. One gentleman, who had been in the habit of
reading
papers at the meetings, showed me a new book one day. It was full of
coloured
plates of astral and other auras of various kinds of people. He said it
was
impossible to believe. Did I not think so? No, I did not think so, nor
apparently
did any of the others. We had a rational argument, even if there was
a weak spot
in it. These things were probabilities. Those who claimed to see
them were
good people. Therefore what they said was probably true. The gentleman
went home and
came no more.
There was one
professional man whom we had made our treasurer. He was very
ardent, but
the annual meeting finished him off. There was a deficit of £9. What
was to be
done about it? He suggested we should increase the annual dues to wipe
it off. But,
as had happened year after year before, the President paid it.
Thereupon our
Treasurer resigned membership, saying he was unwilling to
associate
with such irresponsible people, who came there for what they could get
and had not
the dignity to pay their way even when they could.
Gradually the
attendance at meetings diminished. Only five or six would turn up.
Our financial
position grew worse, so that we had to remove to inferior
premises. I
was then librarian. I said we must have Sunday evening lectures for
propaganda
purposes. But who would lecture? I would, if no one better could be
found. Hm!
But I knew I could, for I used to lecture my studies in my empty
office on
Sundays in order to impress them on my memory. The situation gradually
became acute.
I pointed out that few people in the city had even heard about
Theosophy.
The public ought to be given a chance to know about it, to accept or
reject. We
had all come into this splendid thing, which had changed our lives,
by some
accident; let us make some more accidents! If they would not do
anything, I
must go and take a room somewhere and try by myself.
Very well,
they would make a trial (no doubt the lesser of two evils). I must
arrange the
meetings and take the responsibility. The President’s wife would
come to help,
though she was no speaker. One or two others volunteered to be
present. I
put a two-line advertisement in a newspaper; there would be a
discussion on
Reincarnation at [80] the rooms of the Theosophical Society on
Sunday
evening, all welcome.
Twelve people
turned up, all tongue-tied. To save the situation I had to get up
and make a
speech on the subject. They would like to ask one or two questions,
that was all.
I did the answering.
I followed my
old business methods, took a collection to pay for the
advertisements,
spent it all on the advertisement for the next week, and was
rejoiced to
find an audience of sixteen people. The third week twenty came, and
so on. Some
came again and again, became friends, joined the Lodge. The
membership
rose to about ninety and the Lodge meetings began to present quite
busy scenes.
Week after
week I lectured. Audiences began to average nearly a hundred. The
Lodge had to
move again into larger premises. I was a wonder, a phenomenon, a
lecturer in our
midst, inspired, etc.! They made me Vice-President. Other Lodges
wanted me to
speak for them. Tours were arranged in different parts of England,
and I would
take an occasional holiday from my business to carry on this good
work.
Once I
undertook a walking tour in Yorkshire – three lectures in seven towns –
Harrogate,
Leeds, Wakefield, Sheffield, Huddersfield, Halifax and Bradford. By
day I walked
from one town to the next, an average of perhaps fifteen miles; in
the evenings
I lectured. I certainly proved to myself the accuracy of Emerson’s
saying that
no man would break down in a speech on the day in which he had
walked ten
miles.
Behold me,
tramping along – clumsy boots, cloth cap, tennis shirt, long beard –
which would
not grow on the front of the chin – ardent expression, mackintosh
over arm,
and, above all things, in hand a large green umbrella which would not
close up
closely, which had belonged to my grandfather! It spoke volumes for the
self-control
of the English people that I was only once awakened to a sense of
how others
saw me. It occurred in a tramcar, when one workman sitting opposite
me said
explosively to another: “Oh, Christ!” and everybody stared. Yet I vow
there was no
pose in my composition. I was quite unself-conscious. When friends
had
occasionally suggested the removal of the beard I had always replied that I
did not see
why I should scrape myself with a piece of iron, and the beard was
quite natural
– as truly it was! [81]
Really, I was
quite scientific in my dispositions. It was the world that was
full of
absurd customs. Why should I bow to these follies? If there was love and
truth and
beauty in the world, why all this nonsense of preserving unnecessary
fashions,
habits and customs? In the Theosophical Lodge itself I used to feel
uncomfortable
when there were expressions of blind faith. I was all for reason
and a
scientific basis for belief. It was on that account that I started and
carried on
what was called a third object group.
§2
The “Third
Object” of the Society was: “To investigate unexplained laws of
nature and
the powers latent in man.” About twelve of us took part in the Third
Object group.
Our aim was not to experiment with mediumship, but to see if we
could obtain
first-hand knowledge of clairvoyance and such faculties, under test
conditions.
We had successful results from the very beginning.
The first
experiment was the “battery of minds.” We all sat round in a
semicircle,
except one member who was seated at the centre of the circle and
blindfolded
with a thick scarf. I sat at the end of the semicircle, wrote the
name of a
simple object on a bit of paper and passed it round for all to read.
We all then
concentrated on a picture of the object written down and tried to
send it into
the mind of the subject, whose business it was to keep the mind
quiet but
alert – like that of a person looking out of a window with wonder as
to what might
pass by – and to state whatever arose or appeared in the mind.
After a short
time, the lady who took the first turn as subject said: “I am
afraid I do
not see anything at all. All that has happened is that I seemed to
hear someone
calling ‘Puss, puss, puss’.”
We were quite
satisfied, for the word which I had written on the paper was
“cat.” Then I
wrote the word “watch,” and she was at once very accurate and
precise: “I
can see the dial of a watch.” Other members took their turns. One
gentleman
received the messages with about fifty per cent of correctness. I
remember that
in his case penknife came out as a table knife, and dog as a pug
dog. Of all
the experimenters only two or three had a zero result in reception.
We tried many
experiments in reading words written [82] on a paper placed inside
a closed
envelope. The first time, I wrote HEAD. The subject spelt it out: “H –
then a vowel
– two vowels – E and A -one letter more – I cannot see it clearly –
it is R, or
rather D.”
On the next
paper I wrote XMAS. Immediately on touching the paper she said,
laughing, “O,
Christmas.” “Got it in a Hash,” she added, “without seeing the
letters at
all.”
Generally the
letters were spelt out. When asked how she got the word, our
subject said
that in most cases she actually saw the letters. That must have
been so, for
on one occasion when I wrote the word STEAMER she spelt it quite
methodically:
“S-t-a-i-m – no – s-t-a-r, star.” This showed that there was some
broken kind
of sight. None of us had thought about a star, so it could not have
been
thought-transmission in this case.
In a variant
of this experiment each member in the semicircle wrote his own word
on a separate
piece of paper. I collected the papers, shuffled them and handed
one to the
subject, without knowing what was written upon it. She took hold of
the paper and
presently said: “I see a dragonfly.”
The word
written on the paper was “fly.” In this case t here must have been
visualization
of a thought rising from the written word.
One of the
most interesting experiments gave us a probable answer to the
question: Is
the thought conveyed by some sort of wave in ether, like wireless
telegraphy,
or is something tangible transmitted from mind to mind, like a
letter
through the post? We obtained evidence of something tangible at least
that the thought
could impress itself on material objects and could be taken
from them by
the receptive mind.
For these
experiments I prepared a number of small pieces of paper by trying to
impress
pictures upon them by thought; on one I would imagine a house, on
another a
tree, and so on. I wrote something in the corner of each paper in tiny
almost
illegible writing, so that I would know them again. Then I shuffled these
papers and
put one out without looking. The subject said: “I can see a hen in a
farmyard. She
is surrounded by chickens and is scratching the ground to get
something for
them to eat.”
I looked at
the paper. It was the one with the word “hen” written on the corner.
I had
pictured simply the hen, not the chickens, the farmyard and the
scratching.
[83]
At the second
paper the lady shuddered: “Ugh! I do not like this. It reminds me
of vermin.”
Then, after a moment: “I see an underground archway and a sewer. It
is swarming
with rats.”
I had thought
only of a rat, not consciously of any underground place. None of
us knew which
paper had been put out. My thought must have impressed the paper
in some way,
and that impression could be seen or received direct from the paper
by the
sensitive person.
It is
interesting to notice that in every case the sensitive added something to
what was
transmitted by the sender. When we experimented with proverbs instead
of simple
objects there was much scope for imagination. For example, “Too many
cooks spoil
the broth” elicited quite a story: “I see a large room – a kitchen.
A lot of men
are hurrying about and getting in each other’s way and spilling
things. O! I
know” – with a laugh – “Too many cooks spoil the broth.”
A different
kind of experiment was that of sensing the presence of a person. The
subject was
blindfolded, as before. Then one of the experimenters would quietly
stand near,
while the rest of us remained at some distance. On one evening this
was done
fourteen times with our best subject, and every time she named the
person
correctly, frequently adding further information, such as: “You have been
in the
presence of death, lately,” or “You have been sick so that you could not
eat” -remarks
in every case admitted to be correct.
The fifty per
cent gentleman was remarkably good in this experiment. Out of
seventeen
trials he named ten correctly immediately, five correctly on the
second
attempt, after the word “No” had been called out once, and the remaining
two on the
third attempt. In a variant of this experiment we scattered chairs in
different
parts of the large room; then moved about, stamping and making
clapping and
other noises, until we suddenly sat down in the chairs which we
happened to
be near. Then the subject pointed to us individually and correctly
named us all.
When we asked for explanations of the process, the answer was: “I
can see
colours round you, and recognize you by those colours.” One curious
detail was
that when I stood near to the subject and strongly imagined myself to
be in a
distant place, the subject could not identify me. [84]
Outside the
group another sort of experiment (highly recommended by Mr. W. T.
Stead) was
undertaken by myself and one of the members. We sat for ten minutes
each morning
in our respective homes and alternately “sent” and “received” a
thought,
keeping a record, which we compared only at the end of six months. It
showed no
results for about a month at the beginning, then some correct
transmissions
in increasing frequency, until in total there was an average of
more than ten
per cent correct.
Our group
ultimately broke up through the illness of some of its members and the
departure of
others to new homes.
§3
As far as I
ever heard, ours was the only Lodge of the Theosophical Society in
the world in
which such scientific experiments were conducted, under test
conditions.
The prominent clairvoyants in the Society, Mrs. Besant and Mr.
Leadbeater,
and in a minor degree two or three others, always said that they
were not
allowed by the Masters to give any definite evidence of their unusual
faculties or
powers. Mme Blavatsky, however, had performed many remarkable
experiments
in the presence of numbers of persons who had signed their names to
written
statements of what they had collectively seen.
Most of the
members of the Society accepted unquestioningly anything said to be
seen by Mrs.
Besant or Mr. Leadbeater. When, later, I was in intimate touch with
them, I
learnt that they frequently received letters somewhat as follows: “It is
not necessary
for me to describe my trouble. With your wonderful powers you will
know
everything when you receive this letter. Please help me, or advise me ...”
In reply to
such letters they always explained that it was not right or
permissible
to use psychic powers in matters which could be attended to by
ordinary
physical faculties; it would be a waste of power; if the writer would
explain his
case clearly, and briefly, they would see what could be done!
Some members
declined to believe without evidence, notably Babu Bhagavan Das of
Benares, who
used to say: “I am sorry. If you are not permitted to show, I am
not permitted
to believe.”
In this he
followed the tradition of the Indian yogis, [85] who always show
their powers
to their prospective pupils, as I had occasion to learn in my own
experience in
India.
Dependence
upon leaders was always a weak point in the Society, although the
original
intention had been to base everything on rationality, even in the study
of abnormal
things. Some would say: “See how the mother cat has to carry her
kittens about
while they are small. Why should it not be so in occult matters?”
Others,
thinking this a trifle extreme, would prefer the simile of the young
monkey, which
clings to its mother with its own hands. This “monkey policy” was
often put
forward by leaders and would-be leaders who considered that the act of
choosing a
leader to be approached for orders and hints to be obeyed implicitly
constituted
all the positivity of character necessary for occult development.
Only a few
held that if members of the Theosophical Society had not yet been
weaned it was
about time to begin; I was one of these, and therefore destined
for ultimate
unpopularity. But I anticipate.
My membership
in the Theosophical Society brought into my life a social element
which had
been lacking before. At first I used to walk part of the way home from
the Lodge
meetings with a young business man who was very much taken with a
literary
young lady who used to bore us with her excessive enthusiasm for Plato.
They tried to
supplant our President, and put the young lady in office instead,
but the
scheme was not a success. The young man did not remain a member for very
long.
After that, I
generally walked home with a lady who was about thirty years my
senior, but
as lively as a cricket, and I am almost tempted to say as small. She
had been
manageress in some sort of factory where many girls were employed, and
had retired
on a tiny pension. We used to talk much about systems of yoga and
methods of
meditation, in which I was greatly interested.
She was a
member of the Eastern School of Theosophy, an organization composed
only of
members of the Theosophical Society, but not officially connected with
it. There
were frequent references to this school in the writings of Mme
Blavatsky and
Mrs. Besant. When introducing new members to the Society Mrs.
Besant would
often speak of the “further step” which they could take after some
time by
joining the E.S. Its proceedings were entirely secret, [86] under
pledge, so I
could not ask what its methods of meditation were. But I used to
tell my
friend that I was puzzled by the fact that its members appeared to have
no more
knowledge and no more self-control than other people, and I disliked the
slight
atmosphere of superiority and sacerdotalism which seemed to surround it.
When it came
to matters of election to office, or the selection of speakers,
membership in
the “E.S.” was certainly an asset. At the time of the election of
Committee
members for the British Section of the Society, lists of “suitable
people” were
sent round privately.
I joined the
School after some time, and did not find its systems of meditation
as good as
those which I already knew and had been privately practising. In
saying this I
do not break any pledge, for I do not say what those meditations
were.
I was always
very much against anything which might have an hypnotic effect in
meditation.
Repetition of formulas; dwelling in thought on Masters’ forms, with
vows of
fidelity and obedience; prayers to the Masters, asking them for guidance
and blessing
– all seemed to be bad psychology and bad reverence. If Masters
were there,
surely they would do their utmost without being asked. And the habit
of thinking
every day of them or of their disciples with requests and hopes for
orders or
guidance seemed to me to lead to paralysis of initiative, in which
alone I
thought either intuition or inner guidance could find its opportunity.
I was ready
to admit the principle of mystical union with higher intelligence
than my own.
That was a matter of both logic and experience. Logic, since in the
world visible
to the senses our physical powers are enchanced by harmonious
co-operation
with the laws and forces of nature. I disliked the formula “the
conquest of
nature” often employed in connection with scientific achievement. In
the use of
wind, steam, electricity, we were simply co-operating or associating
intelligently
with the forces of the greater world outside our personality.
To one
convinced of thought-transference such association mentally was also a
reasonable
idea. When a thinker has a flash of intuition, as is common among
scientists
and philosophers, I could regard it as a kind of mental contact with
a deeper
intelligence, or a world of ideas, even a universal [86] mind or some
great world
of life in which live the liberated souls. That also was in accord
with
experience. Many people had declared that they sometimes felt themselves
illuminated
with an intelligence altogether greater than any which they felt
that they
could call their own. I had myself had such experience a number of
times. Even
if the Masters did retain actual human form, their aim would be to
advise men to
become responsive to that world, not to become worshippers of
themselves
and mere followers to carry out orders or hints given by them. Such
were my
thoughts. Certainly above everything I wanted to meet a Master, not to
worship him externally,
but to be of his company and his mode and order of life.
§4
The new
social contacts of the Lodge were most precious to me. Here was
friendship
and brotherhood, without safeguards such as those of the
drawing-room,
where religion and economics are tacitly avoided. I resented the
E.S. a
little, as forming a cleavage within our brotherhood. How could we
discuss
important subjects if some among us were pledged to mental reservations,
or if you
assumed that they knew what others did not know and were not allowed
to know?
Another
movement which seemed to me to harm our brotherhood was the Co-Masonry,
which was
taken up eagerly by some of our members some time after I had joined
the Lodge. I
was perhaps a little jealous of this, as the members who would not
help the
Lodge in its financial difficulties could find much money for the new
Masonic
movement. We had had various proposals to reduce expenditure. We had
even removed
the Lodge to smaller premises, comparatively obscure and
inconvenient.
Scarcely had the removal taken place when up came this question of
starting a
Co-Masonic Lodge. All the leading members were canvassed on the
subject; it
was whispered round that the Masters were keenly anxious to have the
new movement
promoted, and would give of their power and force to or through
those who
joined it. In a trice the members hustled to ransack their monetary
resources,
and very soon hundreds of pounds were forthcoming. Most of those who
could afford
it could not resist the concreteness and the [88] pomp of a
ceremonial
movement, backed by the statement or its organized access to the
Masters’
power and blessing.
Again and
again prominent members pressed me to join the Masonic movement. Did I
not believe
that there was a European Master behind it? He would probably
manifest
himself visibly to the members; it might be at the meetings to be held
during the
forthcoming Theosophical Convention in Budapest. One leading member
told me about
a doctor who helped a certain poor man as soon as he learned that
he was a
Mason. This was real brotherhood, was it not? No, communalism. But that
was a step
towards universal hrotherhood? It did not seem so to me; it was a
step
downwards from it. Later, I joined the movement in India, on the proposal
of Mrs.
Besant. After the first meeting I was chatting with Mr. Leadbeater.
“How did you
get on?” he asked.
“I have told
more lies to-night than in all the rest of my life,” I sadly
replied. This
was, of course, no criticism of Masonry. It is no secret that
there are
rituals and formulas. It was simply that I had said what I had been
told to say,
but again and again it did not agree with my own thought and
belief.
After I had
been Vice-President of the Lodge for two or three years, our
President fell
ill and it became my duty to carry on his work. At last he died,
and I was
elected President in his place. During these years a deep friendship
had grown up
between us. I had been a frequent visitor at his house, and had
even been on
holidays with him and his wife and little girl. We went to the
country and
to the Isle of Wight. It was something new to me to pick flowers in
the woods
with a little child. When the father died, I was there to help, to
console, to
fill the gap to some extent, or rather to be a distraction from the
emptiness.
Often after that I took the little girl, now thirteen years old, for
bicycle
rides. Something new, clean and simple came into my life, which till
then had
consciously known nothing but struggle and conflict.
I had no
intention of going to India. That was brought about by psychic
experiences.
I cannot say whether these in turn were brought about by some
activity of
my subconscious mind or were actual occurrences. I can only report
what happened,
or seemed to happen.
One evening,
when I was sitting in meditation with the [89] group of friends I
have already
mentioned, I suddenly became aware of a Master standing opposite me
across the
table, and speaking to me. He put me through a kind of catechism. Did
I understand
what honesty meant? Did I know the importance of it? Did I consider
myself
honest? Somehow I was made to see the tremendous value of perfect honesty
– not simply
honesty in speech and in dealing with others, but also honesty in
knowing
oneself. Yes, I was very honest according to the world’s standards, but
I could not
say that I was always fundamentally honest to myself. After some
time there
was a pause and suddenly I became aware of a hand lightly resting on
my left shoulder.
Looking that way – though I do not think that I opened my eyes
or made any
movement – I saw, or thought I saw, Mme Blavatsky (who had then been
dead for
about seventeen years) standing beside me. She was laughing, and
looking not
at me, but across in front of me towards my right. Following her
gaze I saw
Colonel Olcott standing there (he had been dead about a year). Mme
Blavatsky
spoke to him, merely the words: “He’s ripe, Olcott; we’ll send him to
India.”
Then the
vision faded. I opened my eyes and became aware again of my friends
sitting round
the table. At the time the vision gave me no surprise. It seemed
perfectly
natural that the Master should be there; he was as familiar to me as
my own
father. It seemed quite natural also that Mme Blavatsky and Colonel
Olcott should
be there, like familiar friends.
It was not
this vision that decided me to go to India, however. I was not
prepared to
give so much credit to visions. Besides, had I not seen in our
experimental
group that even reliable clairvoyants unconsciously embellished
what they saw
with elements drawn from their own personalities? I went on with
my life as
usual, merely wondering whether I would ever go to India or not.
Something
more happened, however. One night, as I was going home alone on top of
a tramcar, I
seemed to see Mrs. Besant in front of me, asking me to come to her.
Still, I took
no notice. In my opinion there was nothing decisive enough to call
for any
action. Then another vision came. I was going down some steps from a
railway
station at night. The steps were roofed in, and only dimly lighted.
Suddenly the
whole cavern-like place was brightly illuminated, and [90] I saw
Mrs. Besant
standing before me in a golden radiance. She spoke: “I want you to
come and help
me.”
That night,
when I reached home I told my father that I had a fancy to take a
trip to India
for three months. Would he help my brother to look after the
business in
my absence? Yes, of course. I did not tell him nor my friends at the
Lodge of my
reason for going, though I had told my friends in the meditation
group of my
vision there. I took a Japanese steamer to Colombo from London, in
November,
1908, and my father came with me to London to see me off. I meant to
go for a
three months’ trip to see what would happen. I had no idea that India
would become
my home and that I should not see England again for over thirteen
years. [91]
BOOK II
-------Cardiff Theosophical Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24-1DL
CHAPTER I
A VOYAGE TO
INDIA
§1
IT was with a
sense of emptiness that on the evening of departure I watched the
white cliffs
of England disappear into the dusk, having established myself on
the extreme
edge of the poop deck. That became my favourite spot on the ship.
From there I
viewed the coast of Portugal and watched Gibraltar go by. From
there day
after day I gazed down into the swirling, churning waters, which were
so
sympathetic with my mood. There, when we had stormy weather, I enjoyed the
lift and
fall, as of a child’s swing, with no uneasiness save the thought that
something
might break, when the propeller rose clear of the water and raced
madly,
vibrating the ship with its superfluous energy. Sitting there on a
stanchion, I
had no sickness, did not even think of sickness, only remembered
vaguely
having seen people sick years before on an Isle of Man boat, among them
a lady who
kept on saying, in her anxiety: “Oh! I am sure I shall be sick,” and
was sick even
before the vessel left the landing stage.
During that
voyage I suffered great hunger, physical as well as spiritual – the
former
because I would eat nothing that had ever wagged a tail. There must be no
trace of such
impurity in the body that was going to the Masters’ land, and
perhaps to
his immediate society! There must also be no pollution of the mind
with trashy
novels or magazines; I took with me only books of Hindu philosophy.
As to the
spiritual hunger, it was absolutely indefinite, a kind of protracted
gaze into a
formless sky.
Only
occasionally my fellow-voyagers drew me out of this mood to some extent.
Sometimes the
important question of the day was: who, standing on one foot and
toeing a [95]
certain line, could place a little block of wood furthest away?
Sometimes we
would watch a small Japanese professor of ju-jutsu – who had gone
to England to
make a living by teaching the art, and failed to do so – and a
gigantic
Scotsman – who was going out to be a policeman in Singapore – wrestling
on a large
mat spread on the deck. The Japanese always won, though the Scotsman
constantly
thought that next time he would be able to escape his opponent’s
wiles.
Sometimes I
would play igo or “fives” with the Japanese officers and passengers
– in fives
you put counters on the crossings of the lines of a chequered board,
not on the
squares, and you try to get five of these in an unbroken line, while
your
opponent, placing counters of opposite colour in his turn, tries to prevent
you and to
make a five of his own – quite a fascinating game, requiring,
however, a
board of about twice as many squares as an ordinary chess board.
Once I gave a
lecture explaining, with reference to many experiments made in
France and
other countries, the peculiar activities of the mind possible under
hypnosis and
in other abnormal conditions.
Frequently,
two young Japanese salvationists, who had been to London for study
and training,
would try to convert me to Christianity, as they understood it. I
was fond of
those two boys, and went with them for a walk on shore at Port Said,
our only port
of call between London and Colombo. We had much in common
temperamentally
though little in beliefs or ideas, and so, ignoring the curio
shops, we
walked far into the interior of the town to see life there in the
gathering
darkness, until an urchin, running alongside us, called out: “Want my
sister, sah?
Want my sister, sah?” when we turned back to the ship with
something of
a shudder, and some fear that where such things could be there
might also be
robbery with violence.
When we
ultimately parted one of those friends gave me a little Bible, with a
suitable
inscription in the fly-leaf. Though they had argued much with me about
the contents
of the Bible, they did not realize that I knew the book far better
than they
did, having read it through and through at school. It had been the one
intelligent
act of our schoolmaster, I think, to make that our reading book in
English, in
daily use year after year.
My cabin
companions, three burly men of mature age and [96] language, going out
East to
police duties after some furlough, also went together on shore. On
returning,
one of them stepped from the boat into the Mediterranean Sea instead
of on the
ship’s ladder, to the great amusement of his companions and the
lookers-on.
One
respectable police officer travelling with a large family – florid wife and
six or seven
children -would constantly talk of sex adventures in China. He
assured me
that if a European man went with a Chinese woman, the children his
own European
wife bore to him afterwards would show some Chinese peculiarities.
I did not
notice any such features in his own children, so assumed that this was
his way of
warning the young idea not to shoot!
In addition
to the three policemen there were other companions in my cabin,
namely,
hundreds of cockroaches; actually in my bunk, which was back to back
with the
washing-up table of the steward’s pantry. They were a smallish, rather
ethereal type
of cockroach, mostly pale brown and whitish in colour, and gifted
with
considerable speed of movement. It did not occur to me to complain about
these. I had
a sort of idea that such things were to be expected on shipboard –
my father had
talked of cockroaches on sailing ships. I knew there were not many
of them,
perhaps none at all, on the other two sides of the cabin, where the
policemen
slept, but did not change over to their side, though there was a
vacant bunk,
as the proximity of beetles was preferable to a stronger smell of
whisky than
that to which I was subjected even where I was. Besides, was I not
going out to
India to face anything, anything, and perhaps these cockroaches
would serve
as a small apprenticeship?
§2
After
twenty-three days at sea we arrived at Colombo. One of my friends – the
very
gentleman who had told me the story of the doctor and the poor man, in
support of my
coming into the brotherhood of his Masonic circle – proved
superior to
his creed, and wrote to a friend in Ceylon, introducing this
inexperienced
young man and recommending him to tender care.
A messenger
came on board to meet me and took me in a little boat to the quay.
We went
through the Custom House [97] with my luggage, consisting of one rather
large
gladstone bag. “Any firearms? No? It seems very heavy. Let us see.” They
saw – one
side filled with clothes, the other with books and lecture notes.
It was not
till I was out in the street that I realized that I was drinking hot
air into my
lungs. I think the greatest trial in Ceylon and South India is never
to be able to
get a breath of cool air. The messenger guided me a short distance
to the
premises of Volkart Brothers, a large Swiss shipping company, and into a
private
office where a kindly Cingalese gentleman, who occupied an important
position in
the firm, received me most affably and entertained me for a while
with
conversation containing more than a spice of humour.
I waited
while my host finished up his business for the day. He then hailed two
rickshaws,
and we bowled off to his bungalow in the Cinammon Gardens, where he
entertained
me for four days. I had my first introduction to Oriental
expressiveness
when the rickshaw coolie tried to extract from me, as being a
greenhorn,
double the proper fare. My host vituperated him with violence of
language and
gesture and threw the money on the ground, leaving him to pick it
up. The East
is full of contrasts.
What a
pleasure it was to walk in the mornings in the red roads, and to see the
blue and
white sky through the leaves of magnificent trees forming a natural
archway
overhead! Seldom in England had one known such a clear atmosphere, such
a blue sky,
such splendour of twisting trunks and lengthened arborages, and
never such
red roads – which, however, have long since disappeared, buried under
tar surfaces
required by the new motor traffic.
Notwithstanding
my host’s kindness, my hunger was not yet to be dispersed. He
was a
bachelor, well served by a variety of attendants – one for the bathroom,
another for
the kitchen, another to tidy the bungalow, and several others whose
occupations I
could not discern at all. In the mornings he went to his office
quite early,
having arranged for my morning meal. This duly arrived – dry boiled
rice in a
fluffy heap, soup in a little silver bowl, vegetable curry, some small
savoury
cakes, and two or three bananas on the side, all served at one time,
with an
attendant in the offing, waiting to put out a little more of anything
which I might
consume to the end. [98]
The attendant
waited in vain. My meal actually consisted of rice and bananas. As
to the soup,
curry and cakes – these gentle little Cingalese, were they provided
with leather
interiors to compensate for external softness?
In the
evening my host came home, hoped I was comfortable, had been well served
with all that
I needed, and so on. Oh, yes. The inexperienced young man was not
going to look
the gift horse in the mouth, nor to hurt anybody’s feelings.
In the
evening we called on friends, and sat in wicker chairs under the trees.
While we
partook of fruit and cool drinks, the mosquitoes were busy on other
richer juices
not yet thinned by sojourn in the tropics, drinking in through
little trunks
put up through the interstices of the canes, and dexterously
punched
through the seat of my pants. Ah, the generous tropics – generous to one
and all! No
wonder in the East men do not regard themselves as quite different
and separate
from the rest of creation. Their greater sense of unity with it is
only the
counterpart of a greater intimacy in actual living; in the air above,
on the ground
beside us, in the earth beneath, life surges in a restless tide.
It was at one
of these evening parties that I first met Mrs. Musaeus Higgins, a
lady of
German birth, who had determined to bring modern education to Cingalese
girls without
making it a means to draw them away from their own social and
religious
traditions. She was working at the development of a school on those
lines. At the
time of my visit she was writing a volume of stories of Cingalese
history, and
I had the pleasure of helping her with the final edit, especially
to give
English instead of German structure to the sentences where necessary.
She had had
her experience of the life beneath. She told how one day as she sat
in her former
school hall she had looked up and seen the roof swaying. Quickly
she had
called to the girls. They all ran out of the building just before it
collapsed in
a cloud of dust and palm leaves.
The white
ants had eaten the entire interior of the posts and roofing timbers,
leaving only
a shell, and now it had reached the point at which a puff of wind
could do the
rest. This spectacular disappearance of the old school building
had, however,
been good publicity, and funds had soon come forward for housing
the school in
a modern bungalow. Later it grew into a splendid and most modern
institution.
[99] The book of stories also prospered; it rose to the position of
one of the
favourite text books in schools all over Ceylon.
§3
On the fourth
evening I was placed in a steamer bound for the Indian port of
Tuticorin – a
night’s journey. The entire hold of the steamer was filled with
plantation
coolies, men, women and their children. It was a stormy night. Ever
and anon I
woke to hear the wails of the crowd below, rising even above the
sound of the
wind and the lashing waves.
The daily
mail train from Tuticorin to Madras appeared to me phenomenally slow.
It was so, in
fact, for it took twenty-four hours to accomplish a journey of
less than 450
miles. New as the country through which we passed was to me, it
did not
excite my interest very much, for I was intent only upon reaching my
goal.
Sometimes I would look out of the window and watch the deeply-coloured
country-side
slinking by – large, flat shrub-covered plains for the most part,
often under
water at that time of the year, browns of the dry crops and the
fallow lands
alternating with the greens of rice fields – richest green in the
world.
Now and then
we would clatter over a level crossing, and see a small scattery
crowd of
wayfarers waiting at the gates – men clad in two white cloths or one
cloth and a
shirt, the lower garment reaching just below the knees if they were
workmen, to
the feet if they were of the land-owning or the literary class –
women in one
long check-patterned cloth of reddish-orange or brown or,
occasionally,
blue, and a little bodice skin-tight over the shoulders and
breasts, with
children clustered beside them or sitting astride the hip, and
sometimes
bundles or baskets upon their heads. There would also be occasional
two-wheeled
carts with round covers – matting stretched on canes -and drawn by
bulls.
Two things
repelled me; the trident marks on the foreheads of men who wished to
advertise that
they had done their morning worship according to the rules of
certain
sects, and the betel-chewing of men and women alike, with its attendant
spitting and,
even worse, its display of unnaturally red mouth and discoloured
teeth.
Men were
there with long hair, fuzzy hair, and no hair at all, except a tuft at
the crown.
All were shaved at [100] least round the back, the sides and the
front,
leaving only a circular cap to grow. None had the scissor crop of Europe,
though it has
come into vogue since then. The women had, all alike, a centre
parting and a
bun low on the neck. The tradition of the Hindus is to avoid
scissors and
tailoring, which are left mainly to the Muhammadans. But all this
as regards
the men is much changed; relatively few shaved or long-haired men or
decorated
faces are now to be seen.
There were
lengthy stops at the larger railway stations and junctions –
sometimes as
much as half an hour. As the stations were never in the towns, but
some distance
away, the transition was sudden from the open countryside to a
raging sea of
human beings on the platforms. Hurrying and scurrying people
crossed one
another in all directions in search of room in the long train – some
having
started at one end and some at the other – amid a babel of noise created
by their own
excitement and the effort to keep large family groups together, and
by cries of
vendors of cooked foods and fruits and drinks and coloured toys and
cloths and
cheap imported trifles. At length someone banged discordantly and
deafeningly
on a length of old railway-line suspended to act as a bell, someone
else
whistled, and we clumpetty-clumpetty-clumped out of the station and away
into the
fields again, the carriages swaying on their narrow track.
The
passengers varied enormously. How different all this from the uniformity of
English life!
There was a man travelling without a ticket; he had done it many
times by
judiciously changing from one carriage to another. He did not seem to
have any
other business on the train. Perhaps it was his hobby. But seemingly no
one would
give him away, even if they disapproved. There was a man looking for a
man
travelling without a ticket. He was fierce with his muttered threats that he
would get him
sooner or later. Both were in my carriage for part of the journey.
There was a
stout Muhammadan merchant, with loose white trousers, silk coat to
his knees,
and a golden hat. There was a young priest, fresh from his training
in Ceylon,
who somehow gravitated to me and fell into a discussion on theology –
which ended
when he affirmed a belief in hell-fire and I asked him if he in
heaven would
be able to look on happily while his mother or someone else whom he
loved was
burning in hell, and he replied that God would somehow [101] make it
acceptable to
him, and I remarked that I liked his God even less than his hell.
All along the
train, except in the first class, occupied chiefly by the insular
English,
people were talking volubly. In the third class they seemed to have
wonderful
power of concentration or selective attention, as well as of the
lungs. The
huge carriages seemed to contain anything from fifty to a hundred
people, who
travelled in a roar of the globular liquid sounds of the Tamil
language,
which, to the uninitiated ear seemed to be composed entirely of
vowels. The
faces, too, matched the voices, large, soft and round, all feminine,
though the
eyes very occasionally might be acquisitive and fierce.
At night came
sudden dusk and dark, the short twilight of the tropics. Upper
bunks,
loosened from hooks, were dropped to the horizontal. Passengers unrolled
their bedding
and laid themselves to sleep. But the bustle and babel at the
stations –
all shouting, none listening – went on as before, whatever the time
of night.
When we drew up in the morning to the orderliness and comparative
quiet of the
Egmore station in Madras, coolie porters leaped into the carriages,
passengers
poured out and away in a great stream, mixed with the coolies bearing
bedding and
boxes and bags and baskets and bundles of every conceivable
description
and no description at all, and passed out through the gates to the
bullock
carts, the pony carts and the horse carriages waiting outside. [102]
-------Cardiff Theosophical Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24-1DL
CHAPTER II
A “MOTHER” OF
INDIA
§1
IT was a long
ride to the suburb of Adyar in a dismal victoria hired at the
station,
behind a horse which had learned syncopation in advance of the times,
on a seat
whose springs had known heavier passengers than I and had not
forgotten
them. Down road after road we went, all very similar, past large
dilapidated
bungalows standing in spacious compounds with broken walls or
perforated
hedges. Everywhere was decay, but everywhere also the glorifying
feature of
magnificent trees -mostly banyan and peepul – meeting overhead.
At length we
came to the Elphinstone Bridge across the Adyar river – the bridge
a furlong in
length, the river varying constantly from half to four times that
width – a
quiet sheet of water, a lake rather than a river, disfigured only by
two or three
mud flats in the centre. My eyes were all for the headquarters’
building of
the Theosophical Society, standing out prominently on the opposite
bank – a
bungalow transformed by additions until it resembled a rambling
monastery.
We were soon
across the river, in at the gate, along the drive, under the
corrugated
iron porch – and presently I was out of the carriage and into the
office of the
Treasurer, Mr. Albert Schwarz, who received me kindly and took me
upstairs to
the sanctum of Mrs. Besant. Shoes off on the terrace outside her
door, a kind
welcome inside, enquiries about the journey, a statement that a
room had been
prepared for me at the Blavatsky Gardens’ Bungalow, an appointment
for the next
morning to discuss plans, and I was guided along narrow paths,
through a
grove of palm trees, to my temporary abode. [103]
Mrs. Besant
looked more at home in her Indian surroundings than in Europe. The
chief
furniture of her sitting-room or office was a large square chauki or
platform
about one foot high, on which were placed a thick round white bolster
for her back,
a carpet for her seat, and a large low desk for her writing as she
sat
cross-legged and barefooted in her white or cream Indian woman’s garb. At
the back of
the desk were racks for papers, and office conveniences in great
profusion – a
dozen pencils ready sharpened at one hand, correspondence waiting
to be
answered at the other.
Mrs. Besant
never varied the arrangement of that room during the twenty-five
years that I
knew her there. Never varied her own posture – leaning back to
read, leaning
forward to write, and so growing rounder and rounder shouldered
year by year.
Of all people I have known, Mrs. Besant had the greatest habit of
repose. Her
body would be quiet, her features placid, while her hand ran rapidly
over sheet
after sheet of paper, producing page after page of small, neat,
beautiful and
– when one knew its little tricks – uncommonly legible
handwriting.
She liked to be alone to write; would have no secretary and no
typewriting
machine for this, even to the last, and when services were offered
in these
directions would always reply that she could think best at the end of
her pen –
which was, however, a lead pencil.
As I sat with
Mrs. Besant, discussing plans, my thoughts were more on her than
on the plans.
Here was cleanliness and peace of body and mind; not simplicity by
any means,
but an orderliness that achieved simplicity.
In person,
then about sixty years old, she was short and corpulent, but not
clumsy or
coarse. Her face, long; forehead, tall and rather narrow; lips, wide
and rather
thick; nose, long, straight and rather fleshy; eyes always round and
wide-open,
and only to be described as starry and conspicuously beautiful (her
daughter
inherited them) but not quite far enough apart for modern taste;
expression,
saintly and human at the same time, with no trace of anything
cryptic,
reserved, aloof, self-considering or superior; hair, pure white, short
and curly,
equal all over the head; smile, dazzling.
I had written
to her before my arrival telling her of my visions, of my plans to
take a three
months’ trip to see what [104] would happen. She did not comment
upon the
visions, and I did not question her about them. She told me that she
would like me
to stay there and write for the Theosophist, the Presidential
magazine of
the Society. Would I do so? Yes. Money? I had sufficient for the
simple life
at Adyar, if I sold out my business and invested the capital. She
would help me
with money from some funds that she had. No, I could manage; I was
there to
help, not to be a burden on anybody. Still, I felt uneasy at the idea
of living on
interest, consuming the fruits of the labour of others without
taking any
part in the world’s work myself. No, I really ought not to feel like
that, for I
was not intending to live in idleness but to give my best to the
collective
life of humanity. Very good, then; settled. It was decided that I
should stay
indefinitely, so I wrote to England, parted with my share of the
business on
reasonable terms, and in December, 1908, at the age of twenty-five,
settled down
at Adyar to my new life, which was to be more varied and eventful
than I
imagined.
§2
The estate or
compound at Adyar stretched for nearly a mile on the river side,
and it was
about half a mile long in its greatest width, which was along the
seashore, at
the farther end from the Elphinstone Bridge and the road leading to
Madras. Most
of this land had been acquired since Mrs. Besant had become
President.
The original compound, of the time of Colonel Olcott and Mme
Blavatsky,
was about a tenth the size of what it became by the purchase of
surrounding
properties in the years during which Mrs. Besant was President. She
wanted to
make the headquarters into a settlement for Theosophists from all over
the world;
not that they should live there permanently, except a few workers in
the estate
itself, in the book department or on the staff of the magazine, but
that they
should come to reside there for about two years’ devotion to study and
meditation,
so as to prepare themselves for better Theosophical propaganda work
afterwards in
their own countries.
There were
several bungalows scattered over the estate, suitable for the
European
style of living, as it is known in Madras, and other smaller buildings
– converted
stables and [105] a few cottages -providing rooms for those who
wished to
follow the Indian mode of life. I commented on the use of the word
bungalow for
such large solid two-storied buildings as that in the Blavatsky
Gardens, with
spacious rooms having ceilings fourteen or sixteen feet high, and
massive
verandas supported on huge round pillars. My idea of bungalows had been
the English
one; little one-storied houses, detached from one another in garden
plots. Now I
was informed that the word bungalow was derived from the word
Bengal, where
a new mode of suburban dwellings had become popular even among
Indians, in
preference to the old system of dwelling in flats or tenements or in
town houses
which, though they were entirely individual in architecture and
alignment
(differing from the rows of town houses in Europe and America in this
respect)
formed one solid block all along the street.
The diversification
of frontage on every street is one of the pleasing features
of Indian
towns. Diversification of interiors is likewise one of the charms of
Indian homes.
When an Indian enters the house of a neighbour he will find
certain
principles which are common to all. He will find a small veranda in
front, then
an entrance hall – a little room with a raised platform or sitting
place in the
portion not devoted to passage-way. Beyond that he will find an
interior
courtyard with verandas on all sides and rooms opening from the
verandas. But
all these will be different in arrangement and shape from his own.
I do not
think anybody in India ever built a street of houses, except the
British, who
have built them for the use of policemen or railway workers, and
then they
have had the grace to call them “lines” – “police lines,” etc.
The houses in
an Indian street have been built individually by each family, and
most of them
have passed on in the same family for many generations. Where the
Indians have
had reason to develop the bungalow system, as in the city of
Bangalore and
some of the suburbs of Madras, they have retained their old liking
for
individual design, so you will find one resembling a palace and another a
cottage
standing in adjacent compounds (“plots” sounds too small) in the very
same road.
The bungalows
of Adyar stand amid magnificent trees. The biggest banyan tree, in
the portion
of the grounds known as Blavatsky Gardens, is regarded as the second
[106] largest
in India, and possibly in the world. I have seen audiences of
three and
four thousand people sitting comfortably listening to lectures in its
shade. When I
first went to Adyar it was thronged with birds, and squirrels
constantly
chasing one another along the horizontal branches and up and down the
pendant
roots, but now the squirrels are few and the little birds almost none,
for the
Theosophists brought in town-life habits – leavings which have attracted
and bred
innumerable noisy crows, and cats which have reduced the population of
squirrels to
a tenth of what it was.
§3
At the time
of my arrival there were perhaps fifty human residents at Adyar,
more or less
equally European (as all the white-skinned people are called in
India, even
if they come from America, Australia or South Africa) and Indians.
Among the
latter there were two from the north, different in shade of brown and
in dress from
those of the south. One was a well-known – famous in India
-thinker and
writer, Babu B. Bhagavan Das, a close friend of Mrs. Besant’s; the
other a young
prince of a Punjab ruling house. The former wore long coat and
trousers on
important occasions, the latter long coat and cotton riding breeches
extending to
the ankle.
The South
Indians all looked very much alike to me at first, as my eye was
struck by the
main features of colour and form until it became used to those and
could attend
to minor differences – short of stature, stocky of build, and
dressed
mostly in a pair of white cloths with coloured borders, the upper cloth
cast over the
shoulders like a shawl, often leaving hairy chest and prominent
abdomen
exposed to view, the lower cloth twisted round the waist and pendant to
the ankles.
I soon
committed two solecisms in the matter of dress; the first, when I went
out in the
garden in a tennis shirt and grey flannel trousers; and Mrs. Besant
told me it
shocked the Indians to see the lower part of the trunk not loosely
draped; the
second when I took to Indian dress and failed at first to drape the
lower cloth
sufficiently over the ankles! There was no eight-inch skirt-line for
men. Two
inches was quite a maximum, unless you were willing to be mistaken for
a workman!
All the same, the European [107] ladies at Adyar were still wearing
blouses and
skirts in the Gibson style, and some of the Indian ladies, when they
sat down or
walked about, exposed a three-inch ring of bare waist, except where
it was
crossed by a strip of the sari, which was wound round the lower part of
the body a
number of times and then carried diagonally to the shoulders.
There was one
European, rather tall, with cropped fair hair, and wearing a cloth
or a pair of
cloths – this was difficult to distinguish – whom I saw first when
we were all
walking through the gardens one evening with Mrs. Besant. I asked my
neighbour
whether it was a man or a woman – a question which was material for a
ripple of
whispered amusement among the Europeans for some time, though I think
it did not
embarrass the lady it chiefly concerned, who was intent upon her own
thoughts. She
had been one of Mrs. Besant’s helpers many years before in the
working
girls’ club in London.
I was
received among the residents not as an unknown Theosophist, but as a
lecturer and
a bit of a celebrity in my own country, and President of one of the
biggest
Lodges in the world. I had already written two booklets which were much
in use, and
some copies of which had found their way abroad. Mrs. Besant had
also spoken
of me as “very promising.” So on the very first Sunday morning at
Adyar I was
requested to give a lecture, which I did, on mental training and
meditation.
Besides the residents of Adyar there were a good number of people
from Madras,
so the hall was comfortably filled.
After the lecture
a stout young Brahmin with thick spectacles got up and asked
some question
about memory, which led me to tell a story I had heard about a
young man who
went to work in a Custom office. One day the head of the office
gave him a
booklet showing the rates for all kinds of articles, and asked him to
familiarize
himself with it. The young man – an extremist evidently – did not
turn up at
the office for several days, and when he returned the boss wanted to
know why he
had been absent.
“I have been
learning the code,” replied the clerk, much hurt at being
misunderstood.
He had taken the trouble to learn the whole pamphlet and could
repeat it by
heart. But when it came to the application of his knowledge to
practical
things he was all at sea.
“The young
man’s name was Subrahmanyam,” I [108] concluded, showing off my
knowledge of
an Indian name. To my surprise the audience dissolved into fits of
laughter. Was
my pronunciation so very funny? No, it merely happened that
Subrahmanyam
was the name of the questioner, and he was well known as a
talkative,
theoretical and not practical young man.
§4
There were
plenty of occasions for personal contact with Mrs. Besant. On the
morning of my
arrival she looked in at my room to ask if it were comfortable,
and not
content with my answer, to inspect it for herself, make some inaudible
irritable
remark – could she be irritable? Apparently so – hurry out of the room
and reappear
in a few moments carrying a cane chair nearly as big as herself.
A day or two
later she suddenly startled me, standing at my side and watching me
make notes
for a review she had asked me to make of Babu Bhavagan Das’s new
edition of
The Science of the Emotions – a work of his which I valued highly.
I also went with
her and several others to visit different Panchama schools,
which had
been founded by Colonel Olcott to provide free education for the
poorest of
the poor – once known as Pariahs, then as Panchamas (fifth caste –
orthodox
Hinduism admits only four castes), and now as Harijans (God’s people –
God help
them!) as politeness and democracy have advanced.
Picture
several irregular cottage-like buildings round an open plot of ground,
and three or
four hundred tiny children, some of them clad in space (to use an
Indian
expression), some in a brass fig leaf on a piece of string, some with a
shirt
reaching to their middles and nothing below, some with a skirt below the
middle and
nothing above, some – the biggest – with both shirt and skirt or
shirt and
little pants.
It would be a
special occasion when Mrs. Besant visited the school, and all
would gather
under the shade of a big tree or temporary palm-leaf shed. There
would be an
opening song or prayer by the children. There would be some
collective
dancing by the girls – one dance something like a maypole dance, and
another in
which the girls with a short stick in either hand wove themselves
into patterns
to the tune of a song and the clapping together of the sticks,
[109] as they
passed and wound round one another. There would be brave
recitations
and dramatic scenes by the boys. There would be speeches by the
Superintendent,
the Headmaster and the visitor. There would be distribution of
sweetmeats.
And there would be hurrahs and farewells and departures in horse
carriage and
pony carts, and an aftermath of scattered conversation among the
visitors and
wide, open-eyed and open-mouthed wonderings by the children as to
what was
going to happen next or was it all going to end in just nothing at all?
Mrs. Besant
had a horse named Sultan. Like the early motor-cars it had the
defect of
possessing no self-starting arrangements. She would sit in the
carriage all
ready to start, and several coachmen and syces would coax and pull
and push,
sometimes for ten or fifteen minutes before it would go. When it did
go it went
like the wind, with a splendid high-stepping display. She would never
allow the
whip to be used, but would sit smiling in her carriage, confident of
reaching her
meeting or train in time, as she invariably did – partly, I think,
because she
always used to go much earlier than was necessary to the railway
station or to
any appointment.
Shortly after
I reached Adyar someone presented Mrs. Besant with a motor-car – a
rare thing in
India at that time. She learnt to drive it herself, and used to
take us out
one by one with her for a ride in the early mornings. She seemed a
little
disappointed when I told her, being overly addicted to truth, that I did
not enjoy it
very much. I was interested in other things – not the road nor the
telegraph
poles at the side of the road, for she was a good driver. On the
platform and
in the meetings so much was talked about glorious occult matters,
it was not
really my fault if I took them seriously and was impatient of
ordinary
occupations and amusements.
Every evening
Mrs. Besant held a meeting on a roof some forty feet square
outside the
door of her own set of rooms. It was delightful under the stars and,
sometimes, the
moon, the only artificial light a hurricane lamp on a teapoy at
her side. In
the centre of the square a large carpet was spread and round this
was a row of
chairs. The Indians and a few of the Europeans sat on the carpet
with faces
turned upwards. Mrs. Besant sat on a basket chair, and the others in
a miscellany
of chairs collected round the square. [110]
Some doubted
whether those who sat on chairs could be as spiritual or as “highly
evolved” as
those who sat cross-legged on the floor!
“Our Teacher”
– a usual expression among the Hindus – used to expound a book of
her own on
one day, give answers to questions on another and discuss some
subject on a
third. Once only she tried the system of questioning us. It fell
very flat.
She started by asking what difference the knowledge of the law of
karma should
make to our conduct. No answer. A long time passed, and still no
answer, while
Mrs. Besant regarded us with an uncomfortable smile. I do not
think she
could see our faces as well as we could see hers. If she had she would
have seen
them stamped with fear – each was afraid to make a fool of himself
before the
others, and most of all before the Teacher! At last, after sizzling
for a while,
I blurted out: “None whatever.” The tension was relieved. Mrs.
Besant’s face
broke into a real smile. “Quite right,” said she. “Presumably you
will all do
the right for its own sake and not to gain reward or escape
punishment in
future lives.”
Mrs. Besant
was very downright in those days. Once, when some member was
injured, she
told us that it would not be right to wish that she might get
better
quickly, for who was to say what was the blessed lesson that the
experience
was bringing her? Ours only to send thoughts of sympathy, not to
indulge in
ignorant wishes. (Strange how she changed later on, and approved of
ceremonials
involving prayers for aid, intercession and mediation.) In her own
person she
seemed to object even to sympathy, though she was lavish of it to
others. One
morning when I went to her room I found tears streaming down her
face and a
newspaper in her hand. She could not speak, but handed me the paper,
and pointed
to a paragraph about a mining disaster in Wales.
I was with
her once at Mayavaram, a city approaching two hundred miles south of
Madras. We
had been to a theosophical gathering in a large high-school, and had
been given
rooms for personal use in the upper story of the building. The
meetings
being over, and our train soon due, we came out of our rooms and
proceeded
down some rough stone outside-steps which led to the garden below. In
the dark, she
slipped on one of those steep irregular steps and fell, bumping on
her back,
down about six of them to the [111] ground below. I hastened after her
to assist her
to rise, but my expressions of sympathy met with a curt response.
She let no
one else know of the incident, but went to the train, and had a bad
night’s
journey with headache and pains, as she told me when we reached Madras
the next
morning.
§5
Sometimes Mrs.
Besant could be very rough, uncompromisingly so, when she thought
we were
failing in some duty, but generally she was very gracious, quite in the
Victorian
manner.
Early in the
year 1909 some South Indian Lodges had decided to hold a general
gathering in
a town in the Tanjore district. The secretaries called upon me,
asked me to
be present and to deliver one or two lectures. I went to Mrs. Besant
to see if I
could be spared at that time.
“Why,” she
exclaimed, “I have promised to go and preside for them. They cannot
expect two of
us “– two of us! -” at the same time.” Then, after a moment’s
thought: “I
will tell you what we will do. You go and preside on the first day
and I will
come on the second” – and it was arranged accordingly. She wanted to
give me a
chance to show what I could do.
It was
further arranged that I should make a tour of seven towns ending at the
place of the
general gathering. I was immensely impressed by the brilliance of
her public
lectures at the gathering. I think that in Europe and America, where
she was by
many regarded as the foremost orator of the day, in days when oratory
was not in
disfavour as it is to-day, she never rose to such heights and powers
of moral
appeal as she did in India. Yet, with all that eloquence, she had no
small talk. I
remember an occasion when we were together with some
non-theosophists
(amusing, but familiar expression); notwithstanding my lack of
savoir-faire
I had to come to her rescue in conversation. In that she was quite
the opposite
of Mme Blavatsky, who had been a brilliant conversationalist at a
time when
conversation was a great art, but no public speaker at all. [112]
-------Cardiff Theosophical Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24-1DL
CHAPTER III
WONDERS
§1
TRAVELLING
with sympathy for Hinduism and with vegetarian and teetotal habits,
and a
spiritual or at least a philosophic purpose, and staying in Indian houses,
I soon had an
opportunity of knowing India as no tourist or merchant or official
or
schoolmaster or even missionary ever can. My first stop was for two days at
Madura. My
new friends met me in force at the station, flooding the platform as
the train
came in, and heaped me about with garlands of flowers and coloured
metallic
paper and filled my hands with limes, while they introduced the
celebrities
among them. Apparently official position constituted social rank
also: “Mr.
So-and-so, our Sub-Judge; Mr. So-and-so, our Tahsildar (a revenue
officer and
magistrate); Mr. So-and-so, Headmaster of our high-school; Mr.
So-and-so,
Vakil (advocate)” – and so on.
They carried
me off to a simple lodging. One corner of a lecture hall was
screened off
as a room for me. Two benches were put side by side to act as
sleeping couch.
I had already learnt to sleep hard. The common type of bed at
Adyar was a
cot frame with webbing drawn tightly across it as warp and woof, but
I had taken
to the wooden benches provided in the Indian quarters. It happened
that Mrs.
Besant spoke to us one evening about the way in which she had learnt
to sleep on a
bench, so that she could do so when necessary, though she usually
slept on a
webbed bed. That night found me sleeping, or rather lying awake, on
an old
dining-table which happened to be standing on a veranda at Blavatsky
Gardens. The
second night, however, I slept soundly. I have always been able to
sleep
comfortably on a bench since then. The secret of this art is relaxation,
for [113]
that allows a maximum of contact with the surface of the board. It was
said that one
could sleep better on a board than on the softest bed, because
relaxation
was there compulsory. I attained this by imagining that my body was
loose and
could collapse like that of a cat, and at the same time that I was
sinking into
the board.
This trifling
accomplishment greatly increased my prestige, and caused my words
to be
received with an amount of consideration and credibility which they
otherwise
would not have attained. The Hindu is essentially a pragmatist; he
will judge a
man’s philosophy by seeing his life. Contrary to popular idealistic
fancy, I am
convinced that this is the most utilitarian race in the world. They
will not move
a finger to do anything that is not absolutely necessary to
achieve a precise
result. Even the religious ceremonials are each based upon a
clearly
stated quid pro quo. The people have little sympathy with play. Either
work or be
still – and both these they can do marvellously well. Talking too,
but always
talking with a purpose in view. They are not conversationalists. They
credit the
Englishman with similar practicality. When he enters a village or a
town, the
whisper goes round: “What has he come to get?”
By judicious
placing of screens and matting, a bathroom had been fixed up for me
in the
courtyard, which was a pretty little enclosure with some flower-beds and
a well in the
centre, fitted with a pulley wheel and surrounded by a paved
platform from
which the water ran off to the flowerbeds. I discarded the
bathroom and
took my bath at the well in old Indian style. Naked but for a loin
cloth I stood
at the side of the well, drew up pots of water and poured them
over myself,
soaping and rubbing between. This was a luxury I had learnt at
Adyar, in the
Indian quarters, where I had developed a friendship with the young
Brahmin
Subrahmanyam Aiyar, already mentioned. We used to draw water for each
other in
turn. One sat cross-legged near the parapet wall of the well, while the
other drew
large pots of water and poured them mercilessly over the head of his
friend, who
gasped for air as the flood burst upon him from time to time.
The water was
never cold in Madras, and as it came direct from the well the
touch of it
had a richness and fullness like velvet – a feel which cannot be
described.
The [114] same water left to stand for a while in any vessel, and
then used, as
in European bathrooms, felt harsh and hard. My friend Subrahmanyam
was
deservedly proud of his physical strength. He would insist on my having the
“fifty-pot
bath,” the “seventy-five pot bath,” and even sometimes the “one
hundred-pot
bath,” while I used to give him about twenty-five pots. A pot would
equal an
ordinary bucket of water. When the bath was over we would towel
ourselves
vigorously in the sun, and at the proper moment would slip off the
loin cloth
and substitute a towel therefor, the same to be replaced by the lower
cloth or
dhoti in its turn. Orthodox Hindus do not bathe naked, even in a
private
bathroom.
With all my
sympathy for Hinduism, I never liked the system of worship – the
shrines, the
temples, the ceremonies. Of course, there is no idol worship, but
there are
thousands of statues and symbols, and there is some belief in material
agencies for
approach to Ishwara (God – literally, the ruler) or His agents,
such as one
finds still among ritualistic sects in the West. In Madura there is
a gigantic
temple covering acres of ground. Several times I wandered in the
twilight of
its vast stone corridors and chambers, and lingered to admire its
innumerable
statues and legendary figures, or the four great gateways with
pagodas
rising hundreds of feet into the air, and covered with symbolic and
legendary
figures. It was here that I first learnt the peculiarity of Indian art
– that its
main intention is to suggest. A statue is beautiful to a Hindu for
what it
suggests to his mind, not what it displays to his eye.
I will not
trouble my reader with a description of my dwelling-places in other
towns, or of
the other massive temples which abound in South India. I was not
interested in
them myself. To discuss philosophic questions with small groups of
people who
would call at my quarters, or to expound my views before large
audiences
seated upon mats, was more to my taste. Instinctively I held to the
adage that
the proper study of mankind is man. But man is very unsatisfactory as
he is and the
idea therefore was to find in man something superior to the
ordinary, for
which India has always had a great reputation, and to discover the
steps by
which those superior elements might be developed and increased. [115]
§2
There are
various wandering conjurers in India, who generally gravitate to
places where
great gatherings and festivals are being held, but there are also
men of
extraordinary powers who hide their lights completely under the bushels
of simple
religiosity and even pretence of madness, and are prepared to open
their hearts
only to very sympathetic souls.
It fell to my
lot to be introduced from time to time to men of this latter kind,
when it
became known that my mode of life and aspirations were so close to their
own.
It was in
Trichinopoly that I first met a man with remarkable powers of mind.
The invitation
came from him, he having heard of me through my lectures. One
morning two
Hindu acquaintances asked me if I would go with them to see this
gentleman, so
we took our way in a pony cart to the foot of the “Trichy Rock” –
really a rock
mountain, precipitous on one side but sloping on the opposite –
and then on
foot along a passage leading between small houses up the sloping
side. Some
distance up, we were guided into the interior of a little house,
where I was
introduced to an elderly man, well educated, speaking English, who
offered to
show me some interesting things and to tell me how they were done. He
wanted, and
received, no money, nor anything else.
I think the
most interesting of his experiments was one which he did with a pack
of cards.
First he handed the pack to me for examination. They appeared to be
quite
ordinary. Then he wrote something on a small piece of paper, folded it up,
gave it to me
and asked me to place it in my pocket.
“Now,” said
he, “shuffle the cards as much as you like, spread them face
downwards in
front of you, and pick up anyone.”
I was sitting
on a kind of platform with my two friends, they being on my right,
forming a
row. The Shastri was sitting down below in a chair, directly in front
of me, at
three or four arms’ length. I shuffled the cards and spread them over
a large
portion of the platform in front of me with their faces downwards,
allowed my
hand to hover above them, moving about, then suddenly dropped the
hand casually
and picked up a card.
“Now take the
paper out of your pocket and look at it.” [116]
There on the
paper was written the name of the very card that I had picked up.
Next, I
gathered the cards together, passed them on to my friends who reshuffled
them, spread
them out, and had the same experience with regard to pieces of
paper which
had been given to them.
I then
thought I would like to try a little experiment of my own, so I requested
my host to
give me a new paper. We went through the same procedure, but this
time, as I
was allowing my hand to drop among the cards, I fixed my thought upon
him and said
mentally: “Now, whatever card you have chosen, I will not have that
card.”
I took out
the paper and found that the name of the card written upon it did not
agree with
that which I had picked up. When I showed this to the Shastri he was
much
surprised; but when I told him how I had willed not to have the card of his
choice he
smiled with amusement, and said that that explained everything,
because his
method was to concentrate on a card and transmit the thought of it
to my
subconscious mind, which could know where the required card lay and could
direct my
hand to it. My two friends then decided that they would try the same
experiment.
He gave them new papers, but in each case – not being taken unawares
– he
compelled them to take the cards which he had written down.
It will be in
place here to relate a curious sequel to these experiments, which
occurred
about ten years later when I was sitting one evening with one of the
Professors of
the college where I was Principal at Hyderabad in Sind. This
professor was
entertaining me and my wife with some conjuring tricks with cards
which he had
somehow picked up while a student at Oxford University, where he
had taken a
brilliant degree. While this was going on, I suddenly heard a voice
speaking
strongly and clearly, as though in the middle of my head. It spoke only
six words:
“Five of clubs. Try that experiment.”
At once I
wrote “five of clubs” on a piece of paper, folded it up, and gave it
to the
professor. Then I asked him to shuffle his cards, spread them out face
downwards
before him and pick one up. This having been done, I told him to take
out his paper
and look at it. His astonishment was great. I believe he thinks to
this day that
I played a very clever trick on him. But my own belief is that the
Shastri [117]
whom I had seen in Trichinopoly had somehow become aware of what
we were
doing, and had performed the whole experiment somehow, after speaking
telepathically
to me. There were other psychological possibilities, of course,
but
considering all that I have seen done by such people, I think that the most
probable
explanation.
The same
gentleman showed me the power that he had over his own bodily
functions. He
asked me to put my ear to his bare chest and listen to the beating
of his heart.
He would, he said, stop it at my bidding, and keep it in suspense
until I told
him to start it again. This he did with perfect success. As soon as
I said
“Stop,” the heart stopped, and when a few seconds later I said “Start,”
it went on
again. I took care not to keep it long in suspension, as I was rather
afraid of the
possible consequences!
He then
showed me his control of the flow of blood. He took a nail and stood it
upright above
his knee, a little to the inside of the centre line of the thigh.
Holding it
with one hand he hammered it down to the head with the other. He was
a fat man, so
there was plenty of room. Then he pulled out the nail, leaving a
small wound,
and said: “Tell me when you want the blood to flow, and to stop.”
Several times
I said: “Flow” and “Stop,” and it obeyed my words. Afterwards he
wiped the
place and said: “Now I will show you the healing of the flesh.”
He slowly
passed the ball of his thumb over the spot with a little pressure, and
when it had
passed the skin was perfectly normal and there was no sign of the
wound.
It might be
suggested that the old gentleman used some form of hypnotism in
connection
with his exhibition, but that would be inconsistent with his friendly
desire to
talk about the various items, and with my having tried a little trick
of my own and
taken him by surprise.
§3
It was on the
same tour, but in the town of Mannargudi, that I was taken to see
an astrologer
who certainly knew a thing or two. In that town I was accommodated
in the public
travellers’ bungalow, a spacious building a little distant from
the town.
About midnight I was awakened by a knocking on the door. I got out of
bed, turned up
the lamp, opened the door, and observed with some trepidation
[118] a group
of men standing in the darkness, dimly lit by a hand lantern. They
proved to be
quite harmless, in fact, benevolent. They were students of the
local
college, who had been to my lecture and had taken a fancy to me.
“There is a
certain astrologer,” they informed me, “who would like to meet you
and make your
horoscope. Will you please us by coming to his cottage?”
I went with
them through the dark night, with the aid of the lantern. We came at
last into a
little whitewashed room, and found a bearded man with grey hair
sitting on
the floor, with a palm-leaf manuscript beside him. After salutation,
we all sat on
the floor in a group, quite near to him.
I had no
prepossession in favour of astrology. The lady who had given such
accurate
tests of telepathy in my home town used to practise the art. She had
made
horoscopes of most of her friends, which gave very accurate diagnoses,
within the
limitations of a certain vagueness which seems to pervade most
astrology and
to prevent any very definite proof of its general accuracy.
Moreover, a
leading London astrologer had given to the President’s wife (my
future
mother-in-law, as before mentioned) three several dates for the probable
death of her
husband, which had occasioned her considerable anxiety each time,
but proved
inaccurate.
The
astrologer whom I now met did not know English, but one of the students
acted as interpreter.
Would I tell him my place of birth? Yes – Manchester,
England. Date
and time? I understood that I had begun to appear about ten
minutes past
twelve Greenwich time in the early morning of August 18th, 1883.
That would be
about midnight according to the sun, would it not? I supposed so.
The
astrologer looked at his palm-leaf manuscript and fixed his time, then drew
a diagram of
twelve “houses” in the form of a square. Translating into English –
the Sun was
in Leo, in conjunction with Venus, in opposition to the Moon in
Aquarius;
Cancer was the rising sign; Jupiter was the rising planet, and so on.
Then he began
to interpret the meaning of these relationships, with the aid of
his palm-leaf
manuscript, and I kept notes of what he said.
“You have
money,” said he, and he named the amount which I possessed in England
after the
selling of my business!
“But, sir,”
exclaimed one of the young men, [119] reproachfully, “we thought you
were a
sannyasi” – a penniless, wandering preacher, who has renounced all
possessions.
I explained
that I was a Theosophist, paying my own way at Adyar, but taking no
money for
writing or lecturing. There were some professional Theosophists, who
made a
living, and quite a fortune out of it, but I was not one of them. I
thought it
was best to retain my small capital, live on the proceeds and do what
I could
without being a burden on those whom I was trying to help.
They were
pacified, and the astrologer proceeded: “You will marry at about the
age of
thirty-two.”
I thought it
unlikely that I would marry, but I did so, seven years later, at
the age of
thirty-two.
“The lady
will be of a smiling disposition, and she will have a small mole in
the middle of
her neck.”
Yes, the
smile was all right; people have sometimes asked me if my wife’s
portrait
represents a “movie star.” It looks like that – or a tooth-paste
advertisement.
She has acted on the screen, as I also, but only once, in a film
bearing the
dreadful title, The Devil and the Damsel. She was not the damsel nor
I the devil.
I was a perfectly respectable judge on the bench, and she a
hospital
nurse. The devil was DRINK; the damsel a stoutish young lady – very
charming,
however – whose husband, a veritable hero otherwise, had been caught
by the devil,
but was of course ultimately saved by the sweetness of a little
child.
As to the
mole, I found it some years after marriage, when my wife one day
succumbed to
the new fashion, a little belatedly, and cut short her hair. It
revealed
itself exactly in the middle on the back of the neck.
The
astrologer gave me five or six other items of information about my future
wife, all of
which turned out correct, except one, her age. He went on:
“You have two
brothers.” Correct.
“One is
younger, the other older.” Correct.
“Both are
still unmarried.” Correct.
A description
of the brothers and their future wives followed – accurate enough,
but I abstain
from publication!
“You will
have five children, three boys and two girls.”
Wrong. We
have had no children. A curious incident was that some time before our
marriage, and
while my future wife was engaged to someone else, a wandering
conjurer –
who had turned rupees into scorpions in her hand and [120] performed
other
alarming and impoverishing feats – told her that she would not marry the
man to whom
she was then engaged, but would marry a small man and have five
children.
I think,
however, that I can explain this lapse. There was a highly respectable
friend of
mine, Mr. Sitarama Shastri by name, who at the time of our marriage
told us that
it was considered the height of spirituality among Brahmins for
husband and
wife to abstain from actual marital connection for seven years. My
wife had
already told me that she did not wish to have any children for several
years after
marriage, as she was so young. So we decided on this seven-year plan
– or absence
of plan. Unluckily, when the seven years were over, nothing
happened. I
went to a doctor and he told me that he thought there must be some
atrophy in my
case, on account of disuse until nearly the age of forty.
“You will
write many books.” I have since written about fifteen of them, and
here is
another.
“You will
become well known in many countries.” To some extent. I have
undertaken
lecturing tours in about forty different countries in almost every
part of the
world, and some of my books have been translated and published in
several
languages. One of them is computed to have circulated to the extent of
about a
quarter of a million.
“Karma will
bring you no bad disease.” A trifle ambiguous. Though I have had
dangerous
illnesses, they can be traced to immediate causes.
“You will not
tell lies.” There is some hope for me then as an autobiographer!
“This will be
your last life on earth; you will not need to reincarnate any
more.” Let us
wait and see.
“You will
return to England in a year and a half.”
This did not
come about, though it nearly did, as I shall relate in due course.
It will be
seen that most of the predictions were fairly sound. As I write I
have before
me the horoscope and the written notes that I made in the little
cottage while
the astrologer spoke and his words were being interpreted to me.
[121]
-------Cardiff Theosophical Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24-1DL
CHAPTER IV
FEATS
§1
IN contrast
with these high accomplishments of the Hindus I had some very humble
and
elementary ones to attain myself. It was in the small town of Tiruvallur
that I
essayed my first pair of sandals – not the kind specially made for
Europeans,
with a criss-cross of leather enclosing the toes, and a strap round
the back of
the heel, but real ordinary Indian sandals, with a band across the
instep, a
strap between the big toe and the second toe, and nothing at all but
the sole at
the heel.
By some
peculiar fate I started to wear these in that particular town, which has
the sandiest
streets that I have seen in any town or village of perhaps three
hundred which
I have visited in India. As it happens that sandals are the
footwear most
unsuitable for walking in sand – why on earth are they called
sandals? – I
made a most amusing exhibition of myself. When I put my foot
forward with
any degree of confidence, the sandal, like John Gilpin of immortal
memory, could
not stop in the proper place, but would continue on its way and
end up two or
three feet beyond the place where my foot would touch the ground.
My friends
roared with laughter and the public joined in, as I pursued my
languid,
though by no means elegant way. I persevered – as I have never objected
to adding to
the gaiety of others; and also I think it increased the audience at
my lectures –
until at last my toes had learnt to work. It was their business,
as the foot
lifted from the ground, to press downwards and a little together, so
as to grip
the sandal until it reached the ground again. Afterwards, I never had
trouble with
sandals, and I can recommend them to all who wish to have strong
and shapely
feet! [122]
Another
accomplishment was the twisting of the dhoti or lower cloth about the
waist so that
it will not fall off. The Hindus use no belt or pin for this.
After draping
the cloth behind and crossing it in front, you hold it with each
hand at its
own side of the body, give it a little twist at those two points
with the
finger and thumb, and there you are, at least until you begin to walk,
and then you
wish you weren’t, like the celebrated conductor of an orchestra
whose buttons
came off in the middle of a piece. No one seemed able to say how
the dhoti
holds up, but after a little time you have the knack and all is well.
Still another
accomplishment was that of eating by hand. This proved to be less
difficult
than it looked, even with semi-liquid foods. As a result of my own
experience my
advice is that one should not try it at a table, for then you must
carry the
food through an angle of perhaps forty degrees with the surface of the
table. But if
you sit cross-legged on the floor, you lean forward a little as
you raise the
food to the mouth, and as you now have an angle of seventy degrees
or more you
are less liable to drop the food by the way.
The speed of
movement of the arm also bears upon this science – there must be a
certain
momentum to carry the food from the fingers into the mouth – for it is
bad form to
put the fingers in the mouth or even, in some parts, to touch the
lips at all.
If the speed is too little the food will slide down your chin, if
too great
there is danger that you may choke, if indeed you do not receive it in
the eye,
instead of the orifice which nature intended.
My friends
were tolerant of spoons; they would provide them, if necessary, for
the ignorant
and unskilled; but still, how could the European continue that
dirty habit?
The same spoon had been in many people’s mouths, and everyone knew
that you
could not wash metal perfectly clean. The spoon had also been in one’s
own mouth in
the previous mouthful, and had therefore gone away unclean. But
hands were
washed before you ate and skin was very easily cleaned – could one
not see that
bare feet were far easier to keep clean than feet which wore shoes?
– and besides
you had your own magnetism, not someone else’s. In drinking, too,
it was
cleanest to pour from the cup into the mouth without touching the lips
with the cup,
though it might be admitted to be somewhat less artistic. This
[123] last
feat I never learned, though I might have done so if I had practised
in private.
Instead, I carried my own tumbler and washed it myself when I washed
out my mouth,
as was the custom, before and after each meal.
In most of
the houses I ate by myself, generally with an audience, ostensibly to
attend to my
needs. But some of my hosts and friends, defying convention and
caste rules,
would sit along with me, saving the situation by sitting at right
angles to me,
not in the same line or row, except in recent years, as caste
rigidities
have decayed. The orthodox ladies would never sit with us. That would
have been a
terrible disgrace. They held it their duty to see that the food was
properly
cooked and properly served, and the greatest honour to the guest was to
serve it
themselves.
First a large
plantain leaf would be placed before one. Then would come dish
after dish,
little heaps, ladled direct from the cooking pots, placed along the
far edge of
the leaf. Then two small bowls of brass or stitched leaf would be
put
alongside, and filled with water and soup (generally mulligatawny –
literally
“pepper water”), and perhaps another containing buttermilk, or sweet
milk with
raisins, nuts and spices cooked in it. Then would come a large heap of
rice in the
centre and on that a thick soupy mixture of vegetables and grains.
From time to
time you take portions from the little heaps, mix them with the
rice,
according to taste, give a little circular motion to form a loose ball,
and then with
the proper motion, as explained before, convey the bolus to the
mouth.
When several
are dining together none must rise until all are finished; it is
very bad form
to “break the row;” then all rise together and troop off to the
veranda, where
water is placed at the edge for washing the hands, rinsing the
mouth and
pouring over the feet. Hands must never be dipped into the
washing-bowls.
The water must be poured over the hands. In bathing, too, one
must never
sit in the bath. If you do you are getting your own dirt back against
the skin
again and again. One must take up the dipper, dip it into the tub of
water, and
pour it over oneself again and again, allowing the water to run away,
unless one
bathes at the well and pours directly from the pot attached to the
rope. [124]
§2
When I
returned to Adyar I took up my residence in the Indian quarters. These
were
converted stables, with the addition of a few new rooms, the whole forming
a quadrangle
with a large well in the centre, which for a long time was
delightful
for bathing, until the water, much neglected by the management,
became dark
in colour and unpleasant in odour on account of the fine rootlets of
trees coming
through the brickwork and growing into large tufts inside the well.
The only
drawback to life in the quadrangle was that the Hindus would read aloud
very early in
the mornings. That gave no trouble to themselves, for they have
wonderful
powers of concentration or selective attention, due perhaps partly to
lack of privacy
from earliest childhood, and partly to the method of teaching in
many
elementary schools, where a large number of children in one room or veranda
read and
repeat aloud their individual lessons, while the schoolmaster sits in
the midst
listening to them all and picking out and correcting any mistakes
which he may
hear.
Besides,
there was no harm in early waking, as it was our habit to go to the
shrine room
at headquarters for an hour’s meditation at five or six o’clock in
the morning.
In this Mrs. Besant used to join. Some of us would also make use of
the room for
an hour or a half-hour during the day. We used to sit on the floor,
or on little
mats or cushions. I was proud because Mrs. Besant lent me her
antelope skin.
Among Hindu devotees it is considered best to use an antelope
skin of a
dark colour, or as explained in that most popular of Hindu religious
books, the
Bhagavad Gita, straw on the ground, and on that a cloth, and on that
a skin.
Mrs. Besant
had ideas of a very monastic life in those days, but these were
brought to an
end by the introduction of electric light, which tempted people to
sit up at
night and even to have supper parties, and gradually put an end to
most of the
early morning meditation.
For the
Indians food was cooked in the back quarters of a little old cottage,
the two rooms
of which were set aside for Brahmin and non-Brahmin caste
dining-rooms.
It was not until 1913, when Mrs. Besant took up political work in
India, that
she turned against the caste system and told us that it [125] must
be brought to
an end. Before that she spoke and wrote strongly of its essential
excellence,
and in favour of attempts to rid it of excesses and abuses so as to
make it again
what it was reputed to have been in very ancient times. There was
no objection
to hereditary occupations, because, in accordance with the theory
of
reincarnation, one would be born into the circumstances or the caste suited
to one’s
needs. Abnormal cases could be adjusted.
Mrs. Besant
was in favour of strictness among the Hindus in pursuit of their
ancient
customs, except the early marriage of children, the ban on widow
remarriage,
and the habit of men of forty marrying girls in their teens. When
the father of
my friend Subrahmanyam Aiyar died, and the young man, being very
modern in his
views, and much opposed to the priest-craft which prevails in
connection
with ceremonials, which anyhow he regarded as superstition, declined
to perform
the orthodox ceremonies supposed to assist his father’s soul in the
beyond, she
gave him the alternative of performing them or leaving Adyar, for
she said his
neglect of them would bring the Society into disrepute among the
orthodox,
especially as his father had been a well-known man in a good position.
I sympathized
with Subrahmanyam.
There was no
general dining-room attached to the Hindu kitchen, so Mrs. Besant
allowed me
the use of her private dining-room – for she ate the food from the
Indian kitchen
– which she had built near by, until some jealous person reported
to her that I
was inviting stray dogs in to eat the leavings, which she believed
– what is a
king to do when spies hand in their reports? – notwithstanding my
protest that
it was not so, and further, that even if she believed it had been
so she could
rely upon it not occurring in the future. It was my first
experience of
a sharp temper which sometimes appeared. After that I used to sit
and eat on
the outer veranda of the cook-house itself.
“But what did
you eat in the European dining-room before you changed over,” some
voice seems
to ask. Oh, stewed guavas. I admit there were other things preceding
it at the
meals, but somehow stewed guavas constantly dominated the spread.
Guavas are
cheap beyond compare in Madras. You see, the butler was paid a fixed
price of ten
shillings a week per head for feeding us, and he was expected to do
it as well as
he could. So there were soup, boiled rice and curry, some
vegetables,
cutlets, bread with white [126] buffalo butter on the side, and
stewed
guavas. Yes, and bananas. I did not mind bananas if they were fully ripe;
otherwise
they proved themselves – as some of the members used to say with
brutal
frankness – nothing but wind and water.
I took up my
literary duties seriously. It was the time of the beginning of many
new
activities. One member, Mr. Sitarama Shastri, had started a little press in
a closed-in
veranda of a store-room. That grew into the large Vazanta Press,
which afterwards
printed the Theosophist magazine (theretofore printed in Madras
city) and a
great variety of books, supplying the theosophical market all over
the world.
A little book
of mine, entitled A Guide of Theosophy, was the first published
book to be
printed on the Vazanta Press. Mrs. Besant liked it much and put it
into her
advertised list of “books recommended for study.” That was followed by
my “Tanjore
Lectures” – a selection from the lectures given during my tour in
the South.
Mrs. Besant herself reviewed this little book and said it ought to be
on the
shelves (I supposed she meant in the hands) of all Theosophists, as she
said it
contained interesting elements of original thought. I was the first to
point out, I
think, that karma could not be taken as punishment for our sins,
but it must
be a scheme for presenting at each moment the very best
opportunities
to each individual. Even yet that idea has penetrated the
intelligence
of comparatively few Theosophists. Others still go on speaking and
writing of
“bad karma” as something that can retard a man on the upward way
until he had
“paid his debts.” In later years I followed it up with a statement
that there
could be no material casuality, nothing material to connect my
striking a
man two thousand years ago and somebody else’s striking me to-day,
but that the
casual connection must be in our own will – in the depth of my
nature I
choose to “pay the debts” of yesterday, because the experience of what
I willingly
do to others is the greatest need of my own nature, with a view to
my
realization of the unity of life.
While I was
on tour someone had said in a meeting that one of the old Indian
books, the
Garuda Purana, dealing with death ceremonies, conditions of life
after death
and the means to liberation, was similar to the teaching of Mrs.
Besant on the
subject. I therefore took up the translation [127] of that book as
an additional
literary work, with the aid of Mr. Subrahmanyam Aiyar, who had the
capacity of a
walking dictionary. Afterwards I carried the manuscript on tour
through many
towns of North India, discussed with many pundits in different
towns the
possible meanings of obscure passages, and finally completed it and
prepared it
for the press, when it was published in The Sacred Books of the
Hindus Series
in Allahabad.
§3
In 1909 two
people came to live at Adyar who were destined to play a large part
in my life.
These were Mr. C. W. Leadbeater and J. Krishnamurti – the latter
then a
schoolboy.
For many
years Mr. Leadbeater had been established in the minds of most
Theosophists
as the principal psychic investigator of the day. True, Mrs. Besant
was credited
with psychic powers, but she had not written extensively, as he
had, about
personal experiences of the astral and mental planes, of the modes of
life of the
dead, and of the auras and the thought-forms of men.
His presence
at Adyar was a great relief to Mrs. Besant, who had borne the whole
burden of the
daily meetings until he arrived. He now sat beside her and shared
the work to
some extent, and took the meetings himself in her absence on tour.
In the early
summer of 1909, Mrs. Besant having gone to lecture in England and
America, I
took the opportunity to make another lecture tour, through Poona,
Bombay and
many towns to the north of Bombay. In Poona I spoke in a large
theatre, with
Mr. G. K. Gokhale, the famous politician and social worker, in the
chair. After
the lecture, questions were invited. It then appeared that a large
number of people
had come to the meeting for an opportunity to question and
heckle the
chairman, not to hear the lecture. Up jumped several of these,
followers of
Mr. B. G. Tilak who were bitterly against Mr. Gokhale, and began to
speak against
him. Others got up and protested, and the meeting was soon out of
hand. As the
ferment increased, Mr. Gokhale caught me by the arm and we made a
precipitous
exit by a little door at the back of the theatre, and so removed the
chief cause
of the excitement. I continued [128] my tour to Bombay and other
towns, and on
into the promontory of Kathiawar.
It was in
Kathiawar that I first saw something of life in the States ruled by
Indian
Princes, which retain old-fashioned manners and customs much more than
British
India. In four different States I was the guest of the Raja.
It happened
at Morvi that I fell in with one of the Indian “memory men,” or
ashtavadanis.
This title is a very modest one. It implies memory of eight
(ashta)
things, but generally the performers show the memory of fifty or a
hundred
things. I was invited to the exhibition. We sat in a large hall in the
palace. The
memory man – Mr. Nathuram P. Shukla – took his place on the carpet.
Immediately in
front of him sat twenty selected people, while the rest formed
the audience.
He attended to each one of the twenty people five times, that is,
going along
the line five times. Several of them gave him sentences composed of
five words,
each person using a different language, and these words were given
out of their
order in the sentences, such as “My third word is ‘field’.” One man
gave him
moves in a game of chess. Two others gave him figures to be multiplied
together.
Another carried on an intricate conversation. Still another struck a
bell a number
of times on each round. After all the items had been given, Mr.
Shukla sat in
meditation for five or ten minutes, then answered questions
relating to
the items, and finally repeated the whole.
It was here
that I had a sample of real old-world politeness. After the
exhibition
was over I was talking with one of the Raja’s ministers, and I
expressed
admiration for the hall. He told me that it was about thirty feet
high. I
happened to say that it had appeared to me about forty feet. Then he
said: “Oh,
yes, it is forty feet.” I was quite sure afterwards that it was only
thirty!
While in the
train I was surprised at one of the wayside stations with a visit
from a
gentleman who brought a message from the Maharaja of Limbdi, who had his
special
carriage attached to that train. The Maharaja expressed a desire to see
me. I went
over to his carriage, where he received me with formal and yet
intimate
politeness. He wanted me to come over for a while to his State and give
two or three
lectures. I did so, was most kindly received [129] and ultimately
presented
with two big red embroidered shawls, such as are given to pundits on
special
occasions. As I wanted no possessions I posted these off to my mother in
England,
which was just as well, for during my next tour my room at Adyar was
burgled stark
naked.
It was in the
guest house at Limbdi that I again met Mr. Shukla. We spent a good
deal of time
together and experimented a little with thought-transference, in
which we had
a fair measure of success, apparently due largely to sympathy of
temperament.
He was good enough to explain to me some of the methods of memory
culture in
vogue in his profession.
I had already
taken great interest in this subject. I now obtained from Europe
all the books
I could about it and was fortunate enough to secure a variety of
them, one of
them as much as a hundred and fifty years old, some of them giving
very full
information about the systems in vogue in earlier centuries in Europe,
when it had
been a popular subject amongst the monks. These, and a considerable
amount of
personal practice, enabled me to perform the ashtavadana feat
occasionally
for the entertainment of friends and in public – the latter very
rarely – as I
shrank from display and did not want to become an entertainer of
any kind,
only a very serious philosopher and preacher! The last time I
performed the
feat, with fifty things at once, was at the Jubilee Convention of
the
Theosophical Society in Madras in 1925. Since then I have refused all
requests to
make any of these exhibitions as I consider them dangerous to brains
more than
about fifty years old. All these things, however, enabled me to
produce a
system of memory training which still appears to me to be the best
extant,
superior to many expensive and well-known courses. [130]
-------Cardiff Theosophical Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24-1DL
CHAPTER V
A EUROPEAN
YOGI
§1
On my way
back from Kathiawar I broke my journey for a few days at Surat. What
was my
surprise on receiving there a letter from Mr. Leadbeater, enclosing a
cable from
Mrs. Besant: “Please stop Wood’s proceedings may cause serious
trouble in
work.” Mr. Leadbeater wrote very sympathetically, telling me not to
be uneasy,
that he knew what was the matter and would explain everything. By the
time I
reached Adyar a letter also arrived from Mrs. Besant saying that she
thought,
after all, that my proper work lay in England, that many people wanted
me there, and
I would do well to make arrangements to return – quite forgetting,
however, that
I had given up my business and would be, to say the least,
financially strained
if I attempted to live in England on my small resources.
I learned
from Mr. Leadbeater that somebody at Adyar had heard about the
disturbance
in the Poona theatre and had written to Mrs. Besant to the effect
that I was
taking part in politics, so she hastened to stop my speaking lest the
Theosophical
Society come under suspicion of being associated in any way with
political
thought and activities. Mr. Leadbeater wrote to her and explained the
whole matter,
so that on her return she told me that everything was quite all
right, and
requested me not to trouble about it any more.
The incident
threw me into very close contact with Mr. Leadbeater, whom I had
met
previously only rather casually. I had called on him one morning to ask for
his opinion
on some subject. When we had finished talking, it occurred to me to
offer to help
him in his literary work. He was much pleased at the idea. He
opened a
drawer full of [131] letters. “Could you answer these for me if I give
you the
points?” We went over the letters, discussed the hundred and one
questions
that they contained, and I cleared them all up in two or three weeks.
In the
evening meetings I took notes of his answers to the various questions
raised in the
meetings. I became his constant companion for a long time, to such
an extent
that in 1913 I was in a position to write an article about him
entitled “Ten
Thousand Hours with Mr. Leadbeater.”
Mr.
Leadbeater lived in a small octagonal room with a little dressing-room and a
bathroom at
one side and a broad veranda round the rest of it. As he sat at his
roll-top desk
in the middle of the room he presented a striking figure,
notwithstanding
his sixty-two years of age. He was a massive, muscular man, five
feet eleven
inches in height, and some sixty inches round the chest, with arms
to match,
fair hair, almost white, a straggly beard, and an abnormally great
development
of forehead at the centre just above the eyes, with a sharp retreat
above that.
He might have sat for a portrait of an ancient Dane.
He wore only
cotton trousers and shirt, with throat and feet bare. He would go
out in the
hottest sun without a hat and would enjoy it, and never experience
the slightest
ill effect. Though prepared always to work from early morning till
far into the
night, having his meals – such as they were (for a long time I
estimated the
cost at twopence each) – on a cleared space amongst his papers, he
would
nevertheless take an hour off every evening for a walk down to the shore
to bathe in
the river mouth or in the sea.
He was very
fond of long walks also on occasions. One night, when we were taking
a walk to
deliver some proofs at the printing-office in Madras, as we went along
the five-mile
marina, the famous water-front of Madras, he fell over a heap of
road metal in
the darkness. He was somewhat shaken, but nevertheless completed
the
twelve-mile walk almost as if nothing had happened. On another occasion we
took a walk
of twenty-four miles in the mountains near Kodaikanal, a hill
station seven
thousand feet high. On that occasion he did a bit too much for a
man of his
age, and had to lean on my shoulder for the uphill climb of the last
two or three
miles. We had been to try to find the men who, according to some
guide-books,
lived in trees, but our search had been in vain. [132]
Once, when I
was being carried out to sea by a treacherous current – several
swimmers have
been drowned in the Bay of Bengal at Adyar – he managed to help me
in, standing
on a sandbank and reaching out for my hand. Inch by inch he edged
backwards
until we were out of danger. Though a powerful swimmer he could not
have overcome
the current if he had lost his footing.
§2
It was during
one of these bathing expeditions that Krishnamurti, soon
afterwards to
become famous as the prospective vehicle for the impending return
of the
Christ, burst upon our view.
It happened
that a certain Brahmin widower, with four sons, retired about that
time from
Government service, and offered to come and live at Adyar and give his
services in
some capacity. Mrs. Besant, however, objected to having any boys
living on the
compound, so it was finally arranged that he should live in a
little
cottage which happened to be let just outside the estate, and should come
in daily to
do some secretarial work.
There was
nothing, however, to prevent the boys – seven in all, four sons and
three wards –
from coming into the compound, and on the beach, as Mrs. Besant
never liked
the idea of closing up the compound walls, so as to prevent our
neighbours or
others from coming in and enjoying the gardens and the shade of
the trees. So
ere long we had for our swimming parties quite an audience –
highly
interested, these boys from the country, who had scarcely seen a white
man in their
lives, and were now presented with an uncommonly full view.
Krishnamurti
was one of those boys. He was tallish for his age, about thirteen,
but woefully
thin, with almost every bone showing.
The boys also
came to the Indian quadrangle at nights to see Mr. Subrahmanyam
Aiyar, who
was a particular friend of their father’s and to obtain from that
genial young
man, who was always ready to help anybody in almost any way – and
very soon
from me also, as I was living in the next room – some help in
connection
with the home-work set in their school. Subrahmanyam was frequently
one of our
small bathing party, which included also a Dutchman, an [133] old
friend of Mr.
Leadbeater’s. This Dutchman, too, was very genial and sociable, so
before long
he and Subrahmanyam were inviting the boys into the water and
offering to
teach them to swim. After a few days’ preliminary hesitation, our
party was
regularly increased by the inclusion of the boys.
Now, it
happened that I raised a question about the method of reincarnation of
Indians.
Almost every Indian I had met regarded the idea of a possible future
incarnation
as a European with the utmost alarm. Yet there was an idea current
among
Theosophists that the ego took birth in different races in succession, so
as to obtain
a variety of experiences. Mr. Leadbeater had in the past made
psychic
observations with regard to the past lives of several Europeans, and had
seen them
moving from America to China, India, Egypt, Greece and Rome, and later
Europe. There
was one intriguing life in which he and I and about half a dozen
others were
declared to have lived in far Eskimoland and apparently spent most
of our time
eating blubber! That was regarded as rather a lapse!
The question
now was, do the Hindus go through exactly the same course? Mr.
Leadbeater
said he would look into the past lives of some Indians, and see what
had happened
in their cases. “But,” said he, “it is better not to look into the
lives of the
members here. Theosophists are always abnormal anyhow! I must find
somebody
else, who will agree to be examined.”
Then came up
the suggestion; why not these boys? Mr. Leadbeater asked the
father’s
permission, which was instantly and delightedly given. Then he began to
write a
series of lives, which appeared first in the Theosophist and later in
book form
under the title The Lives of Alcyone – Alcyone being a pseudonym under
which to hide
the personality of Krishnamurti. The other boys figured in these
life-stories,
as well as some of the Adyar residents and a few people whom Mr.
Leadbeater
had met before.
Mr.
Leadbeater explained that he could run his vision of the past backwards at
any speed. He
thus first made a list of the last thirty appearances of
Krishnamurti,
without looking into the details at all. He told me that he fixed
the dates by
observation of the position of the stars and by counting the
precession of
the equinoxes. He had been an enthusiastic student of astronomy.
Then, every
evening, [134] after the roof meetings were over, we would retire to
his room. I
would sit at his roll-top desk, writing down the dramatic incidents
of a life, as
he clairvoyantly looked at them while he walked round and round
the room to
keep himself awake. Thus we would go on far into the night,
sometimes
until two or three o’clock in the morning, until the life under review
was finished.
At any moment I might interrupt him with questions or suggestions.
Mr.
Leadbeater would become much absorbed while thus walking round, and more
than once he
kicked his bare toe against the corner of the desk with a force
sufficient to
draw blood, but without at all noticing it. So far as I could see
he had no
time during the day to invent these stories; only occasionally he
would consult
a book or encyclopaedia with reference to some point that he
wanted to
verify.
The lives
were written mostly in reverse order, but they were numbered
successively,
as the list of thirty had been made in advance. The first to be
done was the
twenty-ninth life, in which Krishnamurti figured as a disciple of
the Buddha,
and his next younger brother as proprietor of a temple at a centre
of pilgrimage
in North India. In telling the story, allusion would be made to
but few other
persons by name, but afterwards Mr. Leadbeater would sit by
himself and
draw up a genealogical chart containing the names of some thirty
people, with
their relationships in the particular life. In writing these down
it was
considered advisable to avoid the actual names of persons who might,
after all, be
in a position to sue for libel, especially the villains of the
piece, who
attained to heights of melodramatic villainy worthy of the stage of
half a
century ago. So Mr. Leadbeater kept a list of pseudonyms, which came to
be called the
“star names” of the people concerned, because they were mostly
names of
stars. The identities were supposed to be kept secret, but they somehow
leaked out,
and members used to go about with little books exchanging
discoveries
with one another to complete their lists!
When the
series of thirty lives was complete the investigation ceased for a
while. Years
later the charts were enlarged to contain over three hundred
persons, and
the number of lives was increased to forty-eight. [135]
§3
I had much
confidence in Mr. Leadbeater. I grew to like him very much. His whole
life was that
of a man who took himself seriously and had no interest beyond the
“great cause”
for which he was working. It was, however, more than a “cause”
with him; it
was a mission. He was still of the disposition which had made him a
very serious
curate of the Church of England in his younger days – a position
which he had
left in order to plunge himself into the work of the Theosophical
Society,
which he had approached through the half-way house of table-turning. So
he was
interested much more in lifting people rapidly on the road of evolution
of the soul –
which persisted from life to life, or rather from body to body –
than in –
what some of us preferred – the mere search for truth, and the spread
of truth,
leaving others to uplift themselves by its aid. He believed in the
personal
element in soul-evolution – the domestic animals had awakenings of
superior
intelligence because of their contact with man, and the flowers and
fruits as
well as the animals were brought to greater perfection by being bred
under human
guidance.
These ideas I
accepted as rather obvious for a long time, until I later came to
have much
closer experience of many kinds of animals and men and to reflect upon
their
progress. Then I discovered that the monkey, having had no contact at all
with man, is
ahead of other animals, even the dog and the cat, in intelligence,
and is
unsurpassed for loyalty and reckless bravery in defence of the human or
other
creature whom it loves. It will cry for you in your absence, and when you
return it
will put its arms round your neck in a tight hug, and its cheek
against
yours, and “yum-yum” with great satisfaction, giving a little bite or
nip, which is
its kiss, and may probably be the origin of all kisses. If
impersonal
character is the test, I have noticed that when you say or do
something in
the presence of both a monkey and a dog, the dog will perk up and
come along to
be taken notice of, but the monkey will look at your eyes, follow
the direction
of your gaze, and take an interest in what you are referring to,
without
apparent thought of itself.
The cat?
Beautiful and pleasant companion as it is, it will come to you when it
is in the
mood to be stroked or tickled, and will even give you a soulful glance
while the
[136] process is going on, but it is much more likely to convert you
into a sort
of a cat than you are to change it into a sort of a man or woman. I
observed also
that the elephant, caught from the wild and trained only to
subjection
and obedience displays remarkable intelligence. But I digress too
much.
The point is
that the intellectual and emotional uplift of the animals does not
depend upon
man. Those who think it does are apt to imagine that the uplift of
the “lower
orders” among men depends upon the paternal administration of the
higher, and
is at its best when the lower remember their places and cultivate
themselves
with due respect and obedience to their superiors. Mr. Leadbeater was
adamant in
this point of view. Notwithstanding the progress of democracy in the
world, he
remained an entire disbeliever in it and a good old Tory of the early
Victorian
style. Though so much with him, I was never in the least converted to
his social
and political outlook, which always seemed to me reactionary and
uninformed in
the extreme.
Although I
was quite satisfied that Mr. Leadbeater was sincere I had no decisive
evidence of
the accuracy of any of his visions. Some people believed that those
visions were
constant, that he was aware of almost everything that was going on
in his
neighbourhood and a good deal far away.
That was a
belief based on exaggeration. I was a little disappointed that
neither he
nor Mrs. Besant ever took decisive steps to scotch that belief with
regard to
themselves. It may have been that they found it difficult to make
clear just
where the line of belief ought to be drawn.
I never knew
one occasion on which Mr. Leadbeater was in the least aware of any
thought that
was going on in my mind, and in ordinary matters he certainly used
no
clairvoyant power at all. Often, being busy at something, he would ask me if
I would go
and see “whether our President” – a word he always used with a
reverential
pause and deep old-fashioned impressments – “is in her room,” though
that room was
only fifty paces distant and her aura was described as blazing
like the sun
for a hundred yards all round. Often he would say, with regard to a
point of
interest: “Come along, let us consult the President about this,” and we
would rush
off together (we would run on these little excursions for the mere
joy of
living), sometimes to be brought [137] to a halt a few feet inside her
room and utter
the disappointed exclamation: “Why, she is not here!”
The incident
nearest to evidence that I ever saw occurred as follows. We were
working away
and all was pitch darkness outside, when a knock came at the door
and in
response to Mr. Leadbeater's “come in,” a young Englishman, newly
resident at
Adyar, appeared and said that three Indian gentlemen were sitting on
the bench
outside. They had come from Madras eagerly seeking his help with
reference to
a baby belonging to one of them. Mr. Leadbeater leaned back in his
chair, looked
at the messenger, and said without hesitation: “Which one is it?
Is it the one
with the fuzzy hair?” The messenger did not know, but when the men
were called
in it proved to be one of them who had hair of a frizzy kind, which
stood far out
from his head.
I should
mention here that callers were rare and generally discouraged, but a
large part of
Mr. Leadbeater’s correspondence referred to dead people. On
account of
his books describing his first-hand knowledge of the dead and how
they were
living and what they were doing, people used to write to him from all
parts of the
world, sending photographs of their departed relatives (or pieces
of paper on
which they had written, or scraps from the clothing which they had
worn), with
requests for information about them, for help to them, and for
messages from
them.
Mr.
Leadbeater would “look them up,” and reply. Generally the departed were seen
enjoying
themselves with friends they had met or made on the astral plane, they
needed no
help – but when necessary it would be given – and it was quite
forbidden to
bring messages from the dead to the living. It was, however,
permissible
to take messages from the living to the dead, but that was seldom
necessary,
since most educated and cultured people were quite capable of
mingling with
the departed during the hours of sleep, when their astral bodies
were released
from the physical integument, though it was rare for anyone to
remember
these experiences on waking, on account of the lack of responsiveness
of the
physical brain to impressions from higher planes.
Another
incident approaching the nature of evidence occurred somewhat later. An
old gentleman
and his wife arrived seeking consolation for the loss of their
little son, a
schoolboy. They had come from the Telugu-speaking [138] country to
the north of
Madras, from which Krishnamurti’s father had also come. They wanted
Mr. Leadbeater
to talk with their little boy. He remarked to me that he could
not do so on
account of the difference of language, but this might be an
opportunity
to see what Krishnamurti could do. Krishnamurti was sitting studying
at a table
against the far wall of the room. Mr. Leadbeater called across to
him: “Come
and see if you can help.” Krishnamurti then sat with the two old
people on a
couch just inside the door, while Mr. Leadbeater and I went on
working
together at the other side of the room. The three carried on an animated
conversation
in the Telugu language for, I think, about half an hour, presumably
in reference
to the dead boy, and then the old people bowed themselves out with
expressions
of profound gratitude and satisfaction.
On the other
hand, there were occasional incidents which shook my confidence in
the
reliability of Mr. Leadbeater’s clairvoyance. Though I admired him and loved
him, and was
convinced of his sincerity, it did sometimes cross my mind that as
he was
obviously much more interested in uplifting people than in the
investigations
themselves, that great interest might easily colour his psychic
vision. He
practically never took up any investigation on his own account, but
only when the
subjects were requested or suggested by others, and he was always
ready to
break them off in order to spend his time with promising boys – a
matter which
irritated me a little because I was bent upon gathering material
which might
turn out to be of real scientific value sooner or later.
I noticed
that as we proceeded with the writing of the lives of Alcyone, boring
further and
further into the past Krishnamurti seemed to grow greater and
greater; in
more recent lives he was a humble individual, though pure and good,
but in the
earlier lives he appeared as a personage of great eminence, playing a
leading part
in the political and social life of his time. If the book of lives
is now
consulted, it will appear curious to the critical reader that
Krishnamurti,
one of the right-hand men of the Manu, semi-divine king of the new
Aryan race
seventy-two thousand years ago, should gradually diminish in
importance to
become an ordinary man, though of fine character, in the last ten
or fifteen
lives. I commented to myself that Krishnamurti was obviously growing
upon Mr.
Leadbeater, [139] and that imagination was seriously affecting the
visions,
though that would be no reason to regard them as fundamentally unsound.
§4
There were
three attitudes of the residents of Adyar towards these lives, which
created quite
a sensation as they were read at the evening meetings on the roof.
Most of the
residents accepted them without question. They were “wonderful, and
surely Mrs.
Besant would not have upheld them unless she was satisfied that they
were
correct.” Some few rejected them altogether, used to laugh at them and were
not above
composing comic verses about them:
“In the
lives, in the lives,
We had plenty
of husbands and wives,” etc.
One of them,
a Parsi, said that in the Persian life Mr. Leadbeater had mixed the
names badly,
somehow confusing male and female names; that was one of the few
lives in
which he did give names of the period to the characters referred to,
and it was
one of the rare occasions on which he had consulted a book in
connection
with it.
The same
resident maintained that he had confutation of another item which had
some
appearance of evidence. One night Mr. Leadbeater had with much hesitation
given me a
few words in Sanskrit, to which he told me he was listening. There
was much
difficulty, he said, in getting words of foreign languages clearly. He
asked me if I
recognized the language. Yes, it was Sanskrit, quite recognizable.
It went down
into the first draft of the lives. On the next day the Parsi friend
happened to
be talking with Mr. Leadbeater in his room when this item came up in
conversation.
The friend said he felt convinced that he had come across the
sentence
somewhere else, before, and they both wondered where it might have
been. At that
moment the Parsi gentleman’s eye happened to fall upon a book
which was out
of alignment on the shelf. On the instant he remembered that the
passage that
they were talking about was quoted in that book.
“Why,” he
exclaimed, “now I remember. It was in this book, The Dream of Ravan,
which is out
of line, that I [140] read the sentence.” Mr. Leadbeater, he said,
looked
confused, remarked that the servant had been dusting the books, and
diverted the
conversation to some other subject.
Another
friend, a European doctor, quietly severed his connection with Mr.
Leadbeater
altogether. He was the only person, as far as I know, who ever tried
secretly to
put Mr. Leadbeater to the test. They were very friendly and had been
together to a
theatre. This gentleman deliberately pretended that he had a
vision of two
gigantic figures one on each side of the stage, standing up there
like the
guardian genii of Indian temples, or Japanese doorways. He described
them, and Mr.
Leadbeater, he said, told him that he was correct.
There was an
explanation for this, however. Mr. Leadbeater always gave great
credit to
imagination as verging on clairvoyance. When you imagine something, he
would say,
there is nearly always something present to cause that imagination.
He held that
the best way for most people to develop clairvoyance was to let the
imagination
play in the first place.
A striking
conversation took place in my presence on this point. One of our
prominent
members had been through an important ceremony on the astral plane
during the
sleep of his physical body, and had thereby become what was called
“an
Initiate.” It happened that he was to be called as a witness in a certain
case. He was
full of anxiety about it.
“Whatever
shall I say if they ask me about my being an Initiate? I do not
remember
anything at all of it.”
Mr.
Leadbeater’s reply was: “But why don’t you remember? You ought to be able to
remember.”
“Well, if I
let my imagination play on it, I can get a sort of impression about
it.”
“That is just
what you ought to do. There is a cause for such imaginings. How
can you
expect your clairvoyant power to develop if you destroy its delicate
beginnings?”
The member
followed this advice and became one of the prominent clairvoyants in
the
Theosophical Society, though years later he mentioned in conversation, that
he never
really saw anything; only he received an impression so vivid that he
felt it must
be so, and he was justified in saying with confidence that
such-and-such
a being was [141] present and was saying such-and-such a thing.
His position
was not without rationality, though I personally never considered
it sound
enough to warrant a claim to great leadership and the guidance of
others in
important matters.
It is
doubtful whether any clairvoyant operates through senses in any way
comparable
with those familiar to us as sight, hearing and the rest. It is more
than probable
that when impressions are clearly received in terms of these (as
when I heard
the sentence relating to the five of clubs) it is due to
“visualization”
superimposed upon the impression, and forming a species of
interpretation.
When I put this theory before Mr. Leadbeater he quite agreed to
it and wrote
a passage to that effect in one of his books.
My own
position with regard to Mr. Leadbeater, therefore, was midway between the
extremes of
acceptance and rejection. It was that of one who had otherwise had
convincing
proof of the existence of clairvoyant power (though not on anything
like the
lavish scale presented by Mr. Leadbeater, nor of the perfect accuracy
which he
always took for granted in his own case), who did not see any reason
why Mr.
Leadbeater should cheat, but many reasons why he should not do so, who,
knowing him
and liking him, was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt
where at all
reasonable, who at the same time knew that human nature was streaky
(like bacon,
as it has been said) and did not expect Mr. Leadbeater to be
perfect in
all respects, even though the devotees thought him to be so.
I found, on
the other hand, that most of my friends were rather in the position
expressed in
an article which I read recently, in which the writer said: “I
accept that
as true, being ignorant of the matter.” Some few were actually a
little afraid
of disbelief. They might miss something good, or even “something”
might happen
to them. I was reminded of the story of the old lady who bowed
whenever the
devil was mentioned, and when asked why she did so, replied: “Well,
minister,
it’s best to be ready for everything.”
There had
been charges against Mr. Leadbeater of very reprehensible actions with
boys, but
Mrs. Besant had been satisfied that they were unsound, and had
readmitted
him to her closest friendship. I am convinced to this day that he
loved young
people and would do nothing intentionally to harm them, and during
the whole of
my close contact [142] with him, intermittently covering thirteen
years, I
never saw in him any signs of sexual excitement or desire. Only once or
twice we
talked of the attacks made upon him. He said that evidence had been
manufactured
against him. He had given advice, in good faith, and with the best
intentions,
which Mrs. Besant had disapproved. In deference to her wishes, he
had promised
not to give that advice again, although his opinion still was that
it was the
best under the circumstances.
One “streak,”
however, that did trouble me was his liability to irritability,
which would
sometimes become quite explosive and verging on the cruel – a
quality
common enough, however, and accepted rather as a matter of course among
old English
gentlemen of the Victorian school. My first introduction to this
occurred when
one morning a German countess, who had undertaken to supervise the
house-keeping,
came fluttering at the doorway. Only ten feet away from her, he
bellowed out
at the top of his great lungs: “What does that woman want here?”
“Oh, Mr.
Leadbeater,” faltered the stricken lady, “I was only looking to see if
the servants
had done their work properly.”
This fault of
irritability was, however, recognized by Mr. Leadbeater himself,
and he used
to tell me that some day he would conquer it. I thought to myself:
“Great people
have great faults, but they disappear suddenly; little people have
little
faults, but they seem to go on for ever.”
Sometimes,
when ants and beetles invaded his desk – a common occurrence in South
India – he
would completely lose his temper, and then he would methodically
press them
individually to death with the flat of his paperknife, with such an
unpleasant
expression upon his face that it made me feel quite sick. When I
showed my
unhappiness, he would laugh at me, call me over-sensitive and finally
say that the
life in those creatures was infinitesimally small. I was perhaps
anthropomorphizing
their feelings to some extent. But could they not have been
swept off in
a gentler way, and without that sadistic delight?
Still, I knew
well that kindness was really the biggest thing in his life, and
so I was
quite ready to forget these lapses. When anyone, especially a child,
had been
admitted to the charmed circle of his immediate friendship – and he was
very
exclusive – he would sacrifice his comfort, his [143] money, everything,
for him. But
he was uncompromisingly short with anybody outside that circle who
showed the
least intrusiveness or made the least disturbance.
I was a very
favoured person, and could discuss these things with him. He had a
definite
theory on the point – that he existed only to do good, and it would be
folly to
spread himself out too thin. If he succeeded in doing great good to a
few, then in
their lives they would extend that good in ever-enlarging
concentric
circles. He admitted that “our President,” with her magnetic
personality
and her magnificent gift of oratory, could work on a larger scale,
but such
greatness was not for him; he knew his limitations.
I agreed that
his position was logical. I knew that though he would angrily
rebuff
outsiders, there was no venom behind his anger. It was a sort of smoke
screen in
self-defence, though generally quite unnecessarily effective. He
wished well
to all, and would injure none, but his company and services were
reserved for
those upon whom he had focused his affection. He would have a
garden of
beautiful and delicate flowers – weeds were all right in their place,
but they must
keep out of here.
§5
Before leaving
this subject, I must give another instance of Mr. Leadbeater’s
work that
impressed me very much at the time. One morning I found him lying on
his couch,
with the Dutch friend, whom I have already mentioned, sitting in a
chair at his
side. Mr. Leadbeater was saying that he had had a visit from a deva
(a non-human
angelic being) who had shown him some living pictures of scenes to
occur in a
community which was to come into existence in Lower (now Mexican)
California
about eight hundred years in the future. He said from the points of
contact given
to him by the deva he could now observe the entire life of that
community of
the future. Our friend, always eager to gather knowledge, suggested
the
compilation of as much information as possible about that community. He
always held
the view that we were at the stage of compilation of occult
information
and would be in a better position to correlate and criticize the
points later
on.
Mr.
Leadbeater agreed to the proposition, and after that [144] for about three
weeks he and
I spent three or four hours every day working on the subject. My
part was to
put to him every question I could think of, on every conceivable
topic
relating to such a community. His was to lie on the sofa and look up the
information
required. In this way we betook ourselves, so to speak, into the
streets, the
factories, the restaurants, the homes, the temples, everywhere, and
he described
the appearance of the people, their dress, language, habits, food
and a hundred
other things.
They were an
advanced community, living in a kind of garden city under the
leadership of
two Masters who would incarnate especially to establish this
community as
the nucleus of a new race, for it was intended that these people
should at
some stage of their development begin to migrate and multiply
themselves
all over North America. It was a highly technical civilization, with
machinery
carried to an advanced point, with new inventions, including tiny
individual
motor-cars, aeroplanes for distant service, talking pictures and
television,
the last including even the actual reproduction, from the ether, of
historical
scenes.
I wanted
information about some of the new scientific methods, but this was not
permitted. There
was also a new system of writing the language, which was
English, in
very brief form, with apparently an ideographic foundation, but the
main features
subject to inflectional marks. I was told with reference to this
that if I
succeeded in working it out for myself I would be informed if it was
correct! I
worked at it for a long time, but could not make a system of
shorthand on
that basis!
To obtain
knowledge of not very evident things, such as the economic system, it
was necessary
to put questions to the people then living, so I held
conversations
on these points with various people in the future, through the
agency of Mr.
Leadbeater! For example, I wanted to know about conditions in a
certain
factory.
“There is a
girl here working in the factory. Let us ask her.”
But the girl
was frightened when she heard a ghostly voice addressing her!
“Well, here
is a fellow coming along the street. Let us put it into his mind
that he would
like to see the factory and to know about the points you ask. We
will get him
to go inside and ask questions.” [145]
The man
proved responsive, went inside and asked the questions, while Mr.
Leadbeater
listened to the future conversation and told it to me. We discussed
the curious
phenomenon – would this man actually walk up the street and go in
and ask these
questions eight hundred years hence? Oh, yes. And would there be a
ghostly voice
from the past, frightening the girl in the factory, and wanting to
know back
into the past what was happening then? Yes, inexplicable, of course,
but there it
was.
In the end I
had hundreds of questions with their answers, each written on a
separate slip
of paper. The Dutch friend and I sat together, classified all
these, and
arranged them in order under suitable headings. Mr. Leadbeater then
went through
them, dictating afresh and smoothing out the language according to
the literary
form he desired. We were struck by the remarkable consistency of
the result.
There was no confusion or clash in the material. Still, as we knew
that Mr.
Leadbeater was very fond of H. G. Wells’s scientific romances and the
adventure
stories of Rider Haggard and Jules Verne, and had often told stories
on these
lines to boys, we did not consider it beyond the bounds of invention by
his
sub-conscious mind. Mr. Leadbeater used to tell us how stories sometimes
wrote
themselves before the eyes, so to say, of some novelists, the characters
in them
taking matters into their own hands and conducting the whole affair, and
how Conan
Doyle would take up his pen and write an imaginative story without
knowing at
all what he was going to write.
The series
appeared in the magazine under the heading of “The Beginnings of the
Sixth Root
Race” and was afterwards incorporated in a book containing other
investigations
entitled Man: Whence, How, and Whither?
In connection
with this investigation Mr. Leadbeater also talked to us of other
future
incidents which came within his vision, to occur within fifty years. The
force in the
atom would be tapped and would replace electricity, far within the
fifty years –
of which, by the way, twenty-six have already gone. There would be
a great war,
in which Germany and England would be opposed. Germany would be
defeated and
Holland would gain an accession of territory in Europe! It was
thought
advisable not to print such items as the last. Mr. Leadbeater always had
the coming
war much on his mind, and when early in 1914 I was thinking [146] of
accepting an
invitation to become National Lecturer of the British Section of
the Society,
he advised me strongly not to go: “It will be of no use; that war
will be
coming on soon.” I took his advice and remained in India. [147]
-------Cardiff Theosophical Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24-1DL
CHAPTER VI
KRISHNAMURTI
§1
AN incident
big with consequence occurred when one day Krishnamurti’s father
came to Mr.
Leadbeater in great distress. The boy had been treated most cruelly
at school. It
was true that he was a very dreamy boy, and therefore not good at
his lessons,
but this cruelty was really unbearable. Mr. Leadbeater’s advice was
simple:
“Take him
away from the school.”
It was not
practical, the father replied, since the schools were registered by
the
Government, and if a boy did not pass through this Government system he
could not
afterwards take up any of the traditional occupations of the literary
classes –
government service, the law, medicine, engineering, teaching, etc.
Mr.
Leadbeater said: “But anyhow you cannot allow that cruelty to go on. And it
is all the
worse in the case of such a sensitive boy.”
Regarding
Krishnamurti as one who was destined to become a great spiritual
teacher, Mr.
Leadbeater then said that if the father liked he would write to
Mrs. Besant
and ask her interest in the boy’s career. Knowing the importance of
his future,
she would probably arrange for him to be educated in England – the
desire of the
heart of many Indian fathers, for English education brought in its
train
considerable economic advantages. In the meantime he and his friends would
see that
Krishnamurti did not lack private tuition, pending Mrs. Besant’s return
from America,
where she then was.
The father
accepted this solution of his difficulty, and the result was that
Krishnamurti
and his next younger brother, Nityananda, became constant members
of our party.
[148] Several people volunteered to give them private tuition, two
subjects
falling to my lot, including Sanskrit after the departure from Adyar of
Mr.
Subrahmanyam Aiyar, who was their first teacher of Sanskrit. I had thus the
best of
opportunities of knowing Krishnamurti, who was to become a celebrity
later on.
Indeed, a strong affection grew up between us.
Krishnamurti
was a very delicate boy, Mr. Leadbeater’s first concern was for his
health. Caste
difficulties stood in the way of some dietetic changes which Mr.
Leadbeater
would have liked, but there was no objection to a frequent drink of
milk during
the day, and an occasional resort to a large glass jar full of
prunes.
Though Krishnamurti did not like these, he took them, in obedience to
the desire of
his friends. At the same time the young Englishman mentioned in
connection
with the episode of the baby supervised a course of athletics,
outings on
bicycles in the early mornings, and tennis in the evenings.
Mr.
Leadbeater was very motherly in all these things. While they were out
cycling, he
would go to the bathroom and himself prepare the proper mixture of
hot water at
the moment when we saw the cyclists returning in the distance over
the
Elphinstone Bridge, and I would go there with him, so that we should not
lose time in
the discussion of our literary material, for Mr. Leadbeater was a
prodigious
worker. As a result of all this attention Krishnamurti picked up
considerably
in health.
Krishnamurti
was extraordinarily unselfish and affectionate for a boy of his
age. When
asked as to what they should do or where go at any time, his
invariable
answer would be: “What you like.”
This
sometimes irritated Mr. Leadbeater, who could not draw him out further, and
he would
exclaim: “Oh, confound these bairagis.” (A vairagi or bairagi is a
Hindu holy
man who takes no interest in anything in the world.) Krishnamurti was
not fond of
studies. He would often say with reference to arithmetic: “Why do
you trouble
me with these things? I shall never need them.”
I had better
luck with the Sanskrit, but not much. We would retire to the empty
drawing-room,
next to Mrs. Besant’s rooms. There was a big couch there.
Krishnamurti
would sit on the left, Nityananda on the right, I in the middle,
one arm round
each of them, Krishnamurti’s [149] arm round my neck. Thus huddled
together,
with the book precariously balanced on my knee, and frequently falling
upon the
floor, we would attempt our study. Nityananda was a playful boy, so
that
sometimes our studies would degenerate into a tussle, myself the referee
trying to
separate the two pseudo-pugilists. Sometimes Mrs. Besant would pass
through the
room, after she had returned and undertaken the legal wardship of
the two boys,
and would be much amused and pleased at our appearance. But
Krishnamurti could
concentrate when he liked. One day when I reproached him for
inattentiveness
to the lesson, he said: “Well, give me the book.” He went off by
himself for a
little while and came back knowing the lesson very well.
In the early
mornings Krishnamurti was encouraged to write down his dreams,
partly for
practice in English composition, and partly for the sake of psychic
training. He
had a little black book and also some exercise books in which he
used to
write. I never looked into those, but it was said that the dreams were
very coherent
and of great interest. Sometimes also Mr. Leadbeater would
experiment
with thought-transference, putting his hands on Krishnamurti’s
temples and
asking him what he saw, with, I understood, very interesting
results.
To Mrs.
Besant the wardship of the boys was a very sacred duty. She shared in
the belief
that Krishnamurti’s body would probably be used for a new appearance
on earth of
the great Master of Masters, whom both she and Mr. Leadbeater
declared they
knew as having entered into the body of Jesus for the brief
ministry in
Palestine of which accounts appear in the Gospels. She herself spent
about two
hours each day teaching them, and used to take them with her for
private
meditation in the shrine-room. In the roof meetings Krishnamurti was put
to sit
between her and Mr. Leadbeater. The arrangements for tuition and physical
culture
continued as before. To the latter the young Englishman added with great
devotion the
duties of personal attendant and valet.
Although
Krishnamurti became the centre of much attention, and presented a
conspicuous
figure, with his unusual arrangement of hair, cut to the shoulders
and parted
down the middle, forming a glossy black aureole to his face, his
personality
did not become affected with any signs of a sense of superiority to
others. How
far he grasped [150] the idea of the great honour that was to be his
in becoming
the vehicle for the Christ or World-Teacher I do not know; he never
made any
allusion to it, and there was no conceit at all in his composition. His
younger
brother might have traded a little upon the situation, being not
insensitive
to its material advantages, but Krishnamurti seemed entirely
unspoiled, even
when a number of people who were impressed with the greatest
devotion to
him in view of his impending greatness began to assume central
partings in
their hair and to vow themselves to do everything possible to help
him to
prepare for his mission!
For this
purpose, indeed, they were formed into a special body or Order, with
coloured
robes and symbols of the rising sun. I was not attracted to this. Let
the Christ
come, and I would follow him into the last ditch, but in the meantime
I would not
part my hair down the centre (although more than one friend assured
me that I
would look very Christ-like) and I would make no vows. Vows were quite
unnecessary,
and I detested the spectacular. I would spontaneously help
Krishnamurti,
and I think I did so more than most, even to the extent of copying
out in my
large print-like writing of Sanskrit characters a whole volume of
ancient
Sanskrit stories to be used as a lesson-book by him, to save his eyes
from the
dangers of the execrable type and impress of the cheap school-books
printed in
India.
I do not
pretend that I presented any less peculiar spectacle than my friends;
but if my
hair and beard were long it was because of a mixture of neglect and
shrinking
from modern artificiality – as I then regarded it, for my childhood
and youth had
induced in me very little respect for Western civilization. It was
certainly not
as a pose, even to myself. In my own way I was as lacking in
extra-spection
as Krishnamurti himself. A visiting friend once tried to convert
me to
modernity. He pointed out that I was trying my friends very hard, but I
regret to say
his words could not produce any living picture on the screen of my
mind,
occupied as it was with what to me were infinitely more important things.
Some months
later Mrs. Besant went to pay visits at several places in the north
of India,
ending up with a long stay in Benares, where she had a bungalow of her
own near to
the Central Hindu College, in the management of which [151] she was
the most
prominent figure. She took the two boys with her, to give them
experience.
Mr. Leadbeater missed them very much. I often thought what a devoted
mother he
would have made but for the accident of sex. He would occasionally
sigh for
them, and he told me that, although he was fully aware that there was
really no
separation, the physical brain could not help feeling it. We busied
ourselves
more than ever with literary work. At least fifty per cent of the
whole
literary output of Mr. Leadbeater’s life was done during the ten thousand
hours I
worked with him at Adyar, discussing, suggesting, arranging, sometimes
contributing
an idea and even a vision or two, and always preparing material for
the press.
§2
While Mrs.
Besant was away I had a week’s vacation under curious circumstances.
One night, as
I was sleeping in my room, I was suddenly awakened by something
unknown. I
sat up and looked before me, and it seemed as if the wall of my room
had
disappeared, for I could see far across the field outside, at the back of
the
quadrangle. In the distance a group of Hindu gentlemen was to be seen
approaching,
and as they drew towards me a figure in the centre became very
clear. He was
an elderly man, with long and shaggy grey hair and beard, very
distinctive
features and a peculiar manner of bending his shoulders and knees as
he walked. As
they came across the field they seemed to exude a soft light,
which
illuminated the familiar trees as they passed them.
When they had
come near to me, the central figure drew my attention so that the
others seemed
only very vaguely present. He told me that he was the father of
one of the
boys who had come to Adyar with Krishnamurti. I knew the boy quite
well, and
liked him. The father was very anxious about his son’s education. He
asked me, in
the easy way in which such things are done in India, whether I
would be so
kind as to do what I could to improve the boy’s opportunities; at
present the
educational arrangements were far from satisfactory. I replied that
I would look
into the matter and do my best to help him. With an expression of
satisfaction
the elderly gentleman faded away, and only [152] then did I
experience
surprise, and realize that something unusual had happened.
This boy was
one of those who had already been to me frequently for help in
their
homework. I did not like the school that he was attending, on account of
Krishnamurti’s
experience there. I considered whether my modest means would
permit me to
send him to England for further education, after some preliminary
work in India
– perhaps study for the Cambridge Local Examination with subjects
that would
exempt him from the university entrance examination in England. He
was a bright
boy, and might even succeed in entering the Indian Civil Service. I
spoke to
Krishnamurti’s father about it, and he was quite pleased. I took
opportunities
to see more and more of the student and to talk with him about his
home. He came
from a village about two hundred miles from Madras. His father and
his uncle,
though not rich, were the joint owners of most of the land in five
villages. His
uncle managed all the business affairs of the family, as his
father,
having found some old yoga books among the effects left by his wife’s
father when
he died, had taken to meditation on the river bank, and was looked
upon as lost
to the family for all practical purposes.
There was to
be a vacation at the school shortly. The boy asked would I come and
pay a visit
to the village and his house? That was the sort of thing an Indian
boy could
arrange without consulting his parents. Children are not treated as
inferiors in
India to the extent that they were in England in my time. In the
conduct of
family affairs they often throw out opinions which are treated with
the same
respectful attention as those put forward by grown-up members of the
family, even
though the final decision is reserved for the father or the
grandfather.
I accepted the invitation with thanks.
The vacation
arrived, and some days after most of the students had departed to
their
villages I put on Indian clothes and started off for the village. In the
train I had
the experience of being mistaken for an Indian, and told to “get
out” of the
compartment by an Englishman who had already established himself
there, who,
however, subsided sheepishly when I looked him straight in the eye.
Probably he
thought that I was a criminal intelligence man disguised as an
Indian sannyasi.
About twenty hours brought [153] me, after two changes, at
country
junctions, one from midnight to three o’clock, the other from about six
o’clock to
eight o’clock, to the nearest station to the village.
Outside the
station I began to enquire my way. The people there were delighted
to see an
Englishman who had taken to Hindu ways. They insisted on my going to a
house and
taking food; wanted me to stay a few days and proceed on my way
afterwards.
But I was firm in my desire to make the sixteen-mile walk through
the forest by
night, as I would find it trying in the heat of the day. A local
policeman
volunteered to accompany me, and bring his lantern.
We had an
interesting walk along the jungle pathways, listening to the forest
noises, and
fording two or three streams running swiftly down their rocky beds,
and by no
means easy to negotiate, as the water reached our waists. After
midnight we
slept two or three hours in a little ruined temple almost overgrown
by the jungle
plants. There were snakes, of course, but we took our chances with
them. We were
very near to nature, and nothing seemed repulsive, scarcely
anything
dangerous. We heard the cries of cheetahs in the forest. It was all
very
beautiful, romantic, free; one did not fear death under such conditions.
Resuming our
journey we reached the house at dawn. Without a moment’s delay my
friend the
policeman took his leave and started back. There was no question of
offering him
money. That would have been an insult. He was sufficiently
recompensed
by having done a kindness. As to the distance, he would enjoy a
little jaunt
of thirty-two miles. Nothing under a thousand miles seems to be
regarded as a
long distance in the Indian mind. And a walk of many hours is
nothing, for
there is no hurry; it is not the destination that is the important
thing. Both
the walk and the occasional rest by the roadside constitute the
height of
luxury.
Mounting the
plinth, I knocked at the door of the family house – the only pukka
(that is,
solidly built) house in a village of perhaps fifty thatched houses and
huts nestling
among the trees, amid cultivated fields, and orchards of plantain,
mango, lime
and pomelo. The pomelo, by the way, is the ancestor of the
grape-fruit;
larger than the largest orange, with a very thick rind and, when
you get at
them, pulp and juice having a strongly quinine-like flavour, which,
however,
grows upon one and soon becomes an attractive acquired taste. [154]
Indian doors,
with their heavy brass-studded cross-beams and elaborate carvings,
stand open
all day, but are shut at night. In response to my knock I presently
heard heavy
bars being removed. The door opened inwards, and there was standing
the man whom
I had seen in my vision, the father of the student in whom I was by
now taking
almost as much interest as if he had been my own son.
Very soon the
student himself appeared from within the house, introduced me to
his father,
and acted as interpreter. Saying nothing of my vision, I expressed
recognition.
“Surely we have met somewhere before?” No, was the reply, it could
not be so,
for this gentleman had never been far away from the group of
villages. But
somehow I was very familiar to him. He felt as if he had known me
for a long
time. Again and again, during the week that followed, in which I
stayed with
the family, he remarked upon his puzzlement that he knew me so well
and yet we
could not have met before. I never told him nor the boy about my
vision of his
appearing to me at Adyar. The uncle was a hard-headed man of
business, and
I did not think such confidence would increase his confidence in
me. But the
father spoke to me about his son’s education. He did want him to
have better
opportunities, and he wished that I might help.
After about a
week, I took my leave, walked back to another railway station, and
so returned
to Madras. At the country station I nearly missed my train. As I
arrived on
the platform it was steaming out, with only the tail-end visible. But
a sannyasi
had come! More than that, a European sannyasi! The station-master
blew
frantically on his whistle. Great alarms! The train slowed down, stopped,
paused, and
backed into the station, all heads sticking out of the windows.
A moment for
a few mutual expressions of esteem between the station-master and
myself, and
off went the train again, with me inside, the only fussing thing in
that
countryside, notwithstanding its achievement of a mere ten miles per hour.
Nothing would
satisfy the guard but that at the next station I should change
over into his
little compartment and spend the rest of the day exchanging
experiences
and opinions with him, until it was time for me to return to my
compartment
and sleep. He could not understand how I, being an Englishman, was
not able to
share with him his meat sandwiches. Vegetarianism had never come
within [155]
his ken, though he lived in a country where the vast majority of
the
population were vegetarians. Such is the separative effect of race and caste
in India. He
was an Anglo-Indian, and carried about with him a portrait of his
father, which
he showed in proud proof thereof.
Later, when I
told some friends at Adyar of my having had that vision in the
night, and
having afterwards in the village seen and recognized my visitor in
the person of
the boy’s father, they doubted the accuracy of my memory in the
matter.
Notwithstanding their belief in such matters, when it came down to brass
tacks they
were doubtful that anyone (except their chosen leaders) could have
had such
satisfactory physical proof. But I knew that I had not deceived myself.
For one
thing, in the third train on my way to the village I had fallen into
conversation
with several Indian villagers of the zamindar (landlord) class, and
it was of the
intimate character common to such occasions. A casual acquaintance
will ask your
name and address, occupation, income, whether married or
unmarried,
children and their education, health of the family, immediate
business.
These questions are quite essential to politeness, and in discussing
them you may
be sure of rejoicings with you in your good fortune and sympathy in
your sorrow.
So; where was I going? to Kotala. Whom to see? One Ramappa. Had I
known him
before? Oh, yes. No doubt he had been to Madras. No, so far as I knew.
How then? Out
it came; he had appeared to me in some sort of astral body.
Sensation!
And further talk about yoga, et hoc genus omne.
§3
A year or two
later when I was making a lecture tour in another part of India, I
had a further
curious piece of experience relating to the nocturnal activities
of the same
gentleman. I had at that time a certain Muhammadan friend, Mr. Wazir
Ahmed, who
was a Sufi, that is, one of the more mystical or theosophical type of
the followers
of Islam, such a man as must have been the Hindustani poet who
wrote:
Raze the
Mosque to the ground,
Bring the
Kaaba to the dust,
But do not
break a heart,
For it is the
dwelling-place of God Himself. [156]
My friend
used to come and see me a great deal whenever I visited that city, as
I did
occasionally. He was a disciple of a great Sufi teacher and yogi who, he
told me, had
no fewer than sixteen thousand disciples scattered over that part
of India,
living in their villages, pursuing all sorts of ordinary occupations,
and visiting
the home and mosque of the teacher occasionally, or else being
visited by
one or other of his senior disciples. This friend was one of his most
successful
pupils. Several times he showed me his psychic powers.
One morning,
as we were sitting in the garden, Mr. Wazir Ahmed was telling me
about some of
his experiences while travelling in his subtle body during sleep,
which he said
he regularly remembered. He used to tell me that I was much more
active in
that way than he was himself, and to reproach me a little for not
confiding
more in him on that subject. He could hardly believe me when I told
him that I
very rarely had any memory of any such thing, and even then I did not
regard it as
particularly reliable.
On this
occasion he suggested an experiment. He wanted me to will before going
to sleep that
night that at a certain time he and I should meet in our astral
bodies on the
veranda of the bungalow. We were then to try to remember when we
awoke in the
morning what we had done together, and afterwards compare notes. It
happened,
however, that I forgot all about the matter, on account of some social
activities which
kept me very busy that evening, and next morning I had nothing
to tell. I
thought I should have had nothing in any case. When my friend arrived
he was
brimful of experience:
“It was a
curious trick you played on me last night,” he said.
“Oh,” I replied,
“I do not recollect it. I am sorry if anything unfortunate
occurred.
What happened?”
He told me
that after he had left his body he came to the appointed place on the
veranda, but
found there, instead of me, another man, a stranger, who repulsed
him
vigorously and said:
“You shall
not come here. My son is sleeping here, and I am protecting him.”
I did not
realize whom he had seen until he went on to describe the man. Then he
gave me a
point for point [157] description of the gentleman who had appeared to
me in Madras,
whom I had afterwards found in his village – who now had evidently
appeared
again in this distant city. And his son was staying in that bungalow,
for I had
taken him on a visit to some friends so as to broaden his experience
of the world.
It was on
another trip to the same town that this Muhammadan friend took me to
see and to
stay with his teacher. We had a long and complicated journey, but at
last we
arrived. I cannot give the name nor the place of residence of the
teacher, nor
any description of the strange things which he showed me, for I
gave my
solemn promise to keep all these things private. I may say that he was a
man of
magnificent physique, much more than six feet in height and broad in
proportion,
looking about eighty years old and having a long white beard.
Hearing of
me, he had requested a visit, and now he invited me to stay as long
as I could.
There were some twenty or thirty disciples with him at the time. We
all assembled
in one of the rooms opening upon a central courtyard of his large
house. Then
he put to me the typical question of an Indian teacher: “What is it
that you
want?”
I told him. I
wanted to know the atman, the one life.
Again and
again he put the same question, trying to force me to a kind of
introspective
realization of what I was aiming at. I kept to my point. That was
the essential
thing in my eyes. We discussed it the whole day in all its
bearings. But
then, was there not something else I wanted in the meantime, in a
more
practical ordinary way? Yes, I could say that there was. I wanted to be
able to look
into the minds of men, to understand them, and to be able to help
them.
This
gentleman was very pleased with me. He took me to participate in the
worship,
along with the disciples, in their private mosque. He showed me his
psychic
powers before putting a proposition before me. The proposition was that
I should
become one of his disciples. He said he could see that I was ready for
the opening
of considerable psychic powers. With three months’ training they
would be in
full working order. But I must give up my excessive pride, and must
moderate my
excessive asceticism, which was too hard on the body. And he would
expect me to
become a [158] Muhammadan and to help the Sufi movement. I told him
that I could
never consent to become a member of a particular religion; so he
waived that
point.
On the second
day we discussed again. I thanked him for his offer, told him it
was extremely
attractive, for I had long had great regard for the Sufi movement
and
considered that its promotion would be of great value in the world. But I
wanted time
to think the matter over, and I would like to consult Mrs. Besant,
to whom I
felt that I owed a certain loyalty.
Mrs. Besant
he said he knew. He admired her in many ways, but her powers were of
an inferior
order. Why should I not make my decision at once instead of losing
time? I
almost said “Yes.” It was at that moment that I saw standing behind him
the Master
whom I had seen in meditation in England, who had questioned me about
honesty and
other things. There was a warning expression on his face. (Was it a
subconscious
way of talking to myself?) No, I could not decide now. I would
write as soon
as I had seen Mrs. Besant. He must give me permission to tell her
what I had
seen, though I would tell nobody else. The permission was given.
I resumed my
tour, completed it, went to Mrs. Besant, told her. She said she
would ask the
Master about it. After a few days she told me that she had put the
matter before
him, that he had said that he knew the teacher to whom I had been,
that he was
“All right, but not quite on our line,” and the decision must rest
with me.
These words were sufficient to determine my purpose. I wrote to the
Sufi teacher
regretting that I did not feel that I could put down the work that
I had already
taken up, in order to change over to his.
It was while
on the same tour that I had some further experiences with
thought-transference.
One man told me that if I would think of somebody or
something, he
would not only read the thought in my mind, but would transfer it
to the mind
of a third person, and make him tell me what I was thinking of. He
performed the
feat several times with the greatest ease. I thought in one
instance of
the head and face of a gentleman whom I had known – the late Colonel
Olcott. The
experimenter looked at me intently for a few seconds, then turned
his gaze on a
young [159] man sitting at the corner of the group of people who
were there,
and the young man gave an accurate description of the Colonel’s head
and face.
§4
I must return
to what happened at Adyar after I had been to the village to see
the father of
the student in whom I had become interested. It proved to be a
critical
moment. Great changes were impending among the members of the
Theosophical
Society.
Arrived at
Adyar, in the early evening, I went over to Mr. Leadbeater’s room – a
new
apartment, upstairs, to which he had comparatively recently moved. He was
typing away
on his little Blickensderfer. He looked up with a greeting,
continued
typing for a few minutes, and then finished with a flourish and an air
of great
satisfaction. He gathered his papers together while rising from his
roll-top
desk, and came over to the square table in the centre of the room where
we usually
sat to work. He put a manuscript into my hand and told me it was
Krishnamurti’s
first book.
Krishnamurti had
made a great impression upon some members of the staff and some
senior
students of the Central Hindu College, particularly the then principal
Mr. G. S.
Arundale. Some of them had been at meetings in the evenings in Mrs.
Besant’s
bungalow, and at these he had been answering questions for them, and
giving them
some teachings from the notes which he had made of his morning
memories. The
notes had now been put together, and here was the result, a little
book. Would I
take it home with me and tell him – Mr. Leadbeater –I n the
morning what
I thought of it?
The
Introduction began: “These are not my words; they are the words of the
Master who
taught me.” I read the manuscript through with great pleasure. I
thought it
very pleasing and of flower-like simplicity. It dealt with the
qualifications
of character requisite for spiritual unfoldment. There were two
kinds of
people in the world, it said, those who know and those who do not know
God’s plan
for men, and those who know cannot help working for it, because it is
so glorious.
The book was divided into four parts, following the course of the
four
qualifications [160] expounded centuries ago by the famous Indian
philosopher
Shankaracharya, but with the terms newly translated as
“Discrimination,”
“Desirelessness,” “Good Conduct,” and “Love.” It was something
far simpler
than the works on the same subject commonly in use among
Theosophists
– The Path of Discipleship, by Mrs. Besant, The Voice of the
Silence, by
Mme Blavatsky and Light on the Path, by Miss Collins.
I delivered
my opinion – a delightful little book, but extremely simple. Would
the
instructions contained in it be sufficient to bring one to the “Path
proper,” to
the First Initiation, which Mrs. Besant had described in her book?
Yes, said Mr.
Leadbeater, more than that, if completely carried out these
instructions
would lead one to Adeptship itself.
I remarked
that there were one or two curious things about the manuscript. It
was very much
in Mr. Leadbeater’s own style, and there were some sentences which
were exactly
the same as in a book of his which we had already prepared for the
press. He
told me that he wished indeed that he might have been able to write
such a book
himself. As to the sentences I mentioned, he had usually been
present when
Krishnamurti was being taught in his astral body by the Master; he
remembered
these points, and had made use of them in meetings of Theosophists; I
had noted
them down and had incorporated them into the material of his book. As
to style, it
was but natural that he himself should have adopted something of
his own
Master’s style after himself being taught by him for so many years.
Mrs. Besant
very soon returned from Benares, with her retinue. She selected a
title for the
book from a large number submitted to her for consideration. She
had a decided
flair for the selection of fetching book-titles.
The little
book was published under the title: At the Feet of the Master. It
created a sensation
and practically a new cult, in view of its containing the
actual
instructions of one of the Masters, and being the output of a child who
was to become
in effect the very incarnation of the Master of Masters himself.
Not long
afterwards the band devoted to Krishnamurti made themselves into a
public body
under the name of “The Order of the Star in the East.” Its
declaration
of [161] principles began, “We believe that a great Teacher will
soon appear
in the world, and we wish to live now that we may be worthy to know
Him when He
comes.” Then followed a series of clauses saying that they would try
to keep the
Teacher in their minds always, to do their work, in His name, to do
something to
prepare for His coming, to make devotion, steadfastness and
gentleness
prominent characteristics of their daily lives, to devote a little
time morning
and evening to asking His blessing upon the work to try to
recognize and
reverence greatness wheresoever shown, and to co-operate with
those felt to
be spiritual superiors. The “Protector” of the Order was Mrs.
Besant, the
“Head” Mr. Krishnamurti, the Private Secretary to the Head, Mr. G.
S. Arundale.
There was no fee for membership, but one could buy a silver star to
be worn to
draw attention to the new movement. Golden stars were permissible
only to the
Purple Order, an inner group, and the National Representatives in
each country.
Thousands of
the members of the Theosophical Society flung themselves into the
new movement.
Some held aloof, among them myself. Some few criticized it on
various
grounds. One or two pronounced the opinion that Krishnamurti did not
know enough
English to write the sentences in the book. I quite agreed with
them, but I
explained the difficulty away to myself by saying that the preface
announced
that Krishnamurti had not written it himself – they were the words of
the Master.
Still the difficulty remained that Krishnamurti could not have
linked the
sentences together and punctuated them so well. Nor could he have
written the
preface, in my opinion. These problems I left in suspense. We could
very well
wait to see if the Teacher came. In the meantime, the ethical teaching
in the book
was of rare value and beauty.
Later, when
Krishnamurti and his brother were in England, with Mr. Arundale as
private
tutor, and there had been a quarrel in Central Hindu College circles in
Benares in
connection with this matter, and Krishnamurti’s father had grown
dissatisfied
and instituted a case at law for the recovery of the custody of his
sons – Mrs.
Besant indeed could not give them up, as they themselves flatly
refused to go
back to their father – a case which was finally lost to him when
carried up to
the Privy Council, the question [162] of the authorship of the
book was
brought up in court, but the judge himself pointed out that there was
no cause for
complaint as the preface began with the statement that these words
were not
Krishnamurti’s own words but those of “the Master who taught me,” and
there was no
statement as to who that master was.
This subject
was to be the undoing of my friend Subrahmanyam. He said that when
questioned by
his father in his presence Krishnamurti had said in Telugu: “The
book is not
mine; they fathered it on me.” Mrs. Besant was indignant about this.
She called
Subrahmanyam to her presence, told him that Krishnamurti could not
have said
anything so false, and presented him with the alternative of
recantation or
banishment from Adyar. Right or wrong, Subrahmanyam believed that
he had heard
that declaration. He regretted that he could not deny it.
I went to
Mrs. Besant and pleaded for Subrahmanyam. Believing that those words
had been
said, he had repeated them in good faith; could she not put them down
to some
misunderstanding or confusion of language, and leave it at that? No, she
was adamant.
I talked with Mr. Leadbeater about the matter. He gave to
Subrahmanyam
the highest praise that he knew by saying that he had always been a
gentleman. He
believed him to be telling the truth; but there must have been
some mistake.
Subrahmanyam returned to his native town, and died there shortly
afterwards,
while still himself little more than a boy.
The same
circumstances proved also the undoing of the student whom I was trying
to help.
Krishnamurti’s father, now turned against Mrs. Besant and Mr.
Leadbeater,
communicated his sorrows to the boy’s uncle and he, as head of the
family, put
his foot down firmly on my project of education in England, which he
thought might
turn the boy against his own father, as Krishnamurti and
Nityananda
had evidently been turned against theirs. I went again to see the
uncle in
another village where he had gone, Subrahmanyam with me to act as
interpreter,
but could not move him to a change of decision.
It was on
that visit that I had the interesting experience of sleeping one night
in a barn. I
must have been tired out indeed, for in the morning I awoke to find
myself
leaning against the body of a huge cow, which must have settled [163]
down beside
me with surprising gentleness – I was thankful that it had kept its
horns still;
while cuddling against me on the other side for warmth – it was
rather high
country and the nights were cold – was one of the homeless,
half-wild
dogs which abound in India. [164]
-------Cardiff Theosophical Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24-1DL
CHAPTER VII
AN INDIAN
YOGI
§1
In my
earliest days in India I had developed a particular friendship for a
certain Mr.
K. Narayanaswami Aiyar, who had been a High Court Advocate, but for
some years
had given his time entirely to the activities of a travelling
lecturer, an
avocation in which he had shown great ability and had acquired a
reputation
all over the country. He looked the part of a wandering religious
teacher,
having a very enthusiastic and impulsive manner, a humorous and happy
disposition,
long shaggy grey hair and beard, and a nose which had originally
been aquiline
but had been flattened by an accident in his younger days.
We once spent
a considerable time together in Benares. It was winter, and too
cold in the
north of India for the bare feet usual in the south. To meet this
contingency
Narayanaswami had bought a pair of yellow boots, with no idea as to
fit. They
were altogether wrongly shaped for his unspoiled feet, and too small
for him
anyhow. But he persevered in forcing his feet into them, much to the
entertainment
of Babu Bhagavan Das and myself, who were his particular friends.
He made a
curious spectacle, with his yellow boots and his otherwise yogi-like
dress and
countenance, but inside he could bear pain as only yogis can.
Many times we
walked together the whole length of the steps and terraces of the
Benares
water-front, poking our noses into everything and learning much about
the
miscellaneous Hindu life that finds its way to Benares. His favourite spot
on these
walks was the burning-ghat. We would stand for a long time watching the
bodies being
placed on the pyres, covered with wood and finally enveloped in
flames. [165]
He used
facetiously to remark that he wanted to get used to this process before
his own turn
came. Perhaps there was something of sincerity in that remark,
however, for
it is consistent with a certain type of Indian mind to inure
themselves to
trouble before it comes, like those perverted yogis who hold their
arms up until
they wither, or sit on beds of spikes, or surround themselves with
fires in the
heat of summer under the blazing sun, and thus, in the brief but
expressive
words of Sir Edwin Arnold, seek to “baulk hell by self-kindled
hells.”
Narayanaswami
was a man of great learning, and considerable ability in the
handling of
the Sanskrit language, his subject of especial interest being Yoga,
and the study
of the Minor Upanishads in which there is much yogic lore.
One day he
came to me at Adyar and told me that he and some other friends had
met a great
yogi, who was actually one of the Masters, who lived in a little
cottage
within a mile of the railway station of Tiruvallam, about eighty miles
from Madras,
on the line to Mysore and the west coast. He proposed that we
should go and
talk with him. He was sure that this was the great Master alluded
to among the
“star names” as Jupiter, the Master of the Master who had taught
Mme Blavatsky
and Colonel Olcott.
Mr.
Leadbeater had often spoken to me and to others of a great Master
corresponding
to this description. T. Subba Row, an occultist of the preceding
generation,
now dead, had taken Mr. Leadbeater one day to see that Master, and
he had
explained some points and given him a diagram which he had used in one of
his books.
Mr. Leadbeater did not feel at liberty to say much about that Master.
He did not
think that anyone could find him unless it was his desire. At the
time of his
visit the Master occupied a little cottage within a mile of the
railway
station, living as a small landowner, his greatness unsuspected by the
people, among
whom he moved freely. He was elderly, a little short of stature,
had a white
beard and had lived there for a long time.
I was
decidedly open to conviction as regards both these accounts, but I was
always ready
for experience, so one morning Narayanaswami and I set off by
train. We
arrived at the Tiruvallam railway station in the middle of the day,
walked across
the fields along the little ridges of earth which form the borders
between the
cultivated plots, and came to the cottage, which stood on a little
rising ground
beside the [166] main road leading from Madras to Calicut. We
found there
only a very old woman, said to be over ninety, who told us that the
swami had
gone some days before to a certain village. We went there. He had
moved on. In
this search we travelled in several ways – on the railway, in
bullock carts
and on foot by both day and night.
At last we
came upon him early one morning, sleeping in the front room of a
little house
in the main street of Muttuku, a large village. We sat quietly near
his feet on
the platform on which he lay, and waited. Soon the old man awoke and
sat up.
Narayanaswami said a few words to him in Tamil. Then he spoke to us by
name, told us
that he had specially waited in the village that night because he
knew we were
on our way to see him, said he had seen us at the railway station
and in
certain of the villages to which we had been – gave us in fact quite a
sketch of our
wanderings in search of him.
He was a
blind man. When a little later on I stayed with him for a week at his
cottage,
alone except for the old woman, I used to see him groping his way round
the walls to
find the doorway when he came in from the fields. Often the old
woman or I
would lead him. Yet he had a little bullock cart, in which he used to
make long
journeys from one village to another.
I can form no
theory as to how he drove – perhaps the little bull knew where he
wanted to go
and also knew the way – or how he avoided the traffic on the roads,
little as it
was. In all these accounts I am only recording what I have seen,
and rarely
attempting explanations. I have not tried to explain, for example,
how it was
that Mr. Leadbeater could not converse with the dead boy because of
the language
barrier, and yet could understand what people were saying in the
past lives,
or how the student’s father conversed with me on his nocturnal visit
though we had
no language in common, and spoke also to my Muhammadan friend
under the
same conditions.
The old
gentleman spoke very freely of occult matters, talked about the various
Masters
familiar to Theosophists, and of the coming of a great teacher whom he
called
Nanjunda, said that I would not leave India soon, as I expected to, but
only after
Nanjunda came. He remarked: “Your pupil will be your teacher,”
referring I
supposed to Krishnamurti, from whom in fact I did afterwards learn a
good deal of
common sense, and whom I also came to regard as [167] much more
deep-sighted than
either Mrs. Besant or Mr. Leadbeater – though he would not
pronounce
himself to be or not to be the great Teacher whose coming had been
predicted,
even when in 1928 to 1930 Mrs. Besant was publicly proclaiming him as
such, and
saying that there had been a blending of the consciousness of
Krishnamurti
and that of the Teacher.
Narayanaswami
and I enjoyed conversation with the old gentleman for an hour or
two. He
expressed great liking for me, presented me with a string of beads
(rudraksha
berries) taken directly from his own neck, and also his rather worn
deer skin,
and sent us both off thinking that life was good, and was going to be
marvellous
indeed in the future.
§2
A month or
two afterwards, in the same year, 1910, I visited the old gentleman
at his
cottage and stayed there about a week. The cottage – built of irregular
pieces of
stone – consisted of one oblong room with a small portion partitioned
off by a low
wall at one end. There were only two doors, front and back,
opposite each
other in the middle of the long sides. Between the doors, exactly
in the centre
of the room, was a seat hung from the central beam by chains.
Hanging from
one of the chains were a drum and a horn. The old gentleman, whose
name was
Nagaratnaswami, though he was usually known as the Kurruttu Paradeshi
(meaning a
blind wanderer) or the Mottu Paradeshi (a wanderer living on a
mound), used
generally to sit on that swing-like seat. For food, the old woman
would spread
his leaf on the floor, as she did mine also. For bathing, he would
sit outside
and pour water over himself with one hand while he rubbed himself
with the
other. The water-pots used while I was there were very small, as there
was quite a
drought at the time.
When I
arrived, some villagers were digging a deep well for him – really a large
hole in the
ground, a pit, perhaps twenty-five feet in diameter, slightly
narrowing as
one descended the circular pathway cut in the side. Several men
dug, while
women carried up baskets of earth. In the afternoon we went out to
this well. My
arrival had been very auspicious; water had just been struck in
one corner of
the excavation! So nothing would satisfy the Paradeshi [168] but
that I should
be the first to bathe there, while he and the workpeople and a few
young men who
had come up from the village to satisfy their curiosity, sat on
the pathways
on the shady side of the pit, which was opposite to the little hole
of extra
depth, perhaps six feet in diameter, where the water had been found.
Wearing a
single loin cloth, I got down into the yellow clayey water, splashed
about in it
and then sat on the side of the hole. It was while I was sitting
there that
frogs began to appear – any number of them and of various sizes.
Their
inevitable appearance on such occasions is almost as much a mystery as
many of the
occult happenings in India. Although blind, the old gentleman
laughed
heartily when the frogs began to jump on me, and called out with
increased
amusement when one of them got itself entangled in my cloth.
I did not
mind the contact at all. I had always liked frogs. They had been
frequent
visitors, almost residents, in my room in the quadrangle. There, in the
nights,
various kinds of flying things would come in, seeking the light; then
lizards would
come out of their corners and frogs would hop in from outside,
seeking the
flying creatures which would fall from the lamp or cluster on the
shining parts
of the white-washed walls. Most people used to chase the frogs
away from
their rooms, for they feared that snakes would follow the frogs, as
they
sometimes did, though in several years only about half a dozen ever came
into my room.
Once I killed a snake which was on the windowsill, by slamming the
shutter so as
to trap it and then beating it with a stick. Never again! I
thought the
sight of that unhappy snake would follow me to my dying day. Two or
three times a
snake glided past my foot while I was sitting, once actually
touching it;
but under such circumstances I think they are quite harmless, as
they are not
aggressive. The numerous cases of snake-bite in India are due to
accidents. A
villager, working in a field or walking along a path or a lane,
happens to
tread on one of them.
Only once I
was in such danger. I had gone to my bathroom in the night. There
was bright
moonlight outside – such as I have seen only in India; one could read
by its light,
and could see the colours of the leaves and flowers. Moonlight can
give colour
when there is enough of it. But in the bathroom there was only a
glimmer of
light coming [169] through the slats of a venetian window not
perfectly
closed. I put my hand out to open the venetians a little further, and
rested it
quite firmly, though gently, as it fortunately happened, on a snake
which was
lying along the cross-piece in the middle of the shutter. I felt it,
of course –
very nice to touch, smooth, cool and not damp. It moved very
slightly. I
withdrew my hand gently, went back to my room, returned with a lamp,
and threw
water from a tin dipper at the snake until it took the hint to depart
and slipped
away between the partially open slats. The student in whom I was
interested
also once had a very narrow escape. He was going to take dinner with
the English
Sub-Collector and his wife and had dressed himself in European
clothes for
the occasion, and was wearing boots. That was lucky for him as going
along the
drive he happened to tread on a snake. But I was talking about frogs
in the new
well at Tiruvallam.
While we were
sitting in the pit the Paradeshi kept up a running commentary of
remarks, of
which I have kept some notes. “Wood has come here because he is my
brother. I
understand him when he speaks English. He was a king at Hastinapura
about eight
hundred years ago, and I was his son. He was then named Dharmaraja.
His subtle
body looks like glass, without any dust; yours are full of dust. He
is all gold.
I am having this well dug for him. I knew him even before his
birth. The
northern people worship a white Krishna. Colour of skin depends upon
climate.
There are only four real spiritual gurus (teachers or guides) in the
world. Etc.”
These remarks
were spoken in Tamil and translated to me by a young man from the
village who
happened to know English.
I stayed in
that cottage simply waiting to see what would happen. Sometimes the
young man
knowing English would come up and then there would be conversation.
One day I
happened to say some words of sympathy which drew forth an explanation
of the old
gentleman’s cheerfulness, which was constant, notwithstanding the
inconvenience
of his poverty and blindness. He laughed at me and said that my
sympathy was
wasted, for he was a very happy man. He said that he knew the
reason for
his blindness and poverty. In the past life which he had mentioned,
although I
had been a good man he, succeeding to my power and wealth, had been
extremely
selfish and had used his position [170] to do injury to people whom he
disliked. His
present difficulties were the outcome of those injuries done to
others. But
it had all turned to good. The villagers round about had been very
kind to him
and that was a happiness beyond anything that material wealth could
give. He had
come to learn to love others. If he had gone on as a rich man he
did not think
that he would have changed his nature voluntarily, but the law of
karma had
taught him.
§3
One
afternoon, when I was alone with him, except for the old woman hovering in
the
background over some household task, the Paradeshi motioned to me to sit on
the threshold
of the front door. I sat sideways, half inside and half outside
the door. He
then established himself more carefully than usual, cross-legged on
his swinging
seat, facing the door. For perhaps half an hour he chanted verses,
softly at
first and then in an increasingly loud voice, while I sat wondering at
this unusual
procedure. Suddenly the verses came to a halt. He unhooked the drum
and beat upon
it with increasing force for a few minutes. Then he put the drum
aside, took
up the horn and blew upon it a long loud blast. At that moment rain
began to
fall, at first large heavy drops, like pennies – as the children used
to say in
England – then faster and faster until there was a steady shower,
which must
have lasted from five to ten minutes. Abruptly it ceased and the sun
was shining
as brazenly as before. The shower appeared to have covered a large
field at
least. I went out. Women had come from various cottages some way off,
and were
filling little pots with water from the various holes in the stony
ground.
Another
afternoon as I was lying on my mat spread on the earthen floor of the
cottage,
waiting for the heat of the day to pass, I had a striking vision. Up
above me, at
some little distance in a sloping direction, I saw the form of a
young man of
most serene and yet most positive aspect, looking towards me. He
stood in an
aura of what I can call only blue lightning. I cannot describe the
impression of
power that it gave to me. I thought this might have been the
teacher
Nanjunda, he whom Mrs. Besant and Mr. Leadbeater called variously the
World Teacher
– a translation of the term Jagatguru used in Hindu scriptures –
the [171]
Lord Maitreya – the teacher to be successor to the Lord Buddha in
Buddhist
tradition – and the Christ. When I got back to Adyar and told this to
Mr.
Leadbeater, however, he did not agree with that idea, but referred me to a
description
of another Master whom he called the Lord of the World.
Towards the
end of the week the Paradeshi told me that he wanted me to stay
there and
take up the work that he had been doing for many years, so that he
could retire
from his old body. I asked him if that was the Master’s wish. A bit
huffily he
told me that it was his own wish. There were, he said, certain
Bhairavas
there – exactly what he meant I do not know – and he had to look after
them. He was
responsible in some way for quite a large territory. Would I stay
and take over
the job and release him? I did not understand the situation very
clearly. I
was not satisfied that the interpreter was correctly explaining what
he said. I
told the old gentleman that I would go back to Adyar and come again
with a
friend.
I persuaded
Subrahmanyam to accompany me on my third visit to the Paradeshi,
though he
could spare only a single day. Then I elicited the information that he
had not told
Narayanaswami and others that he was the Master of the Master known
to Theosophists
as the Master of Mme Blavatsky and Colonel Olcott. They had
misunderstood
him; what he had said was that that Master was his own Master. The
same Master,
he said, was my Master. In that way we were brothers. According to
him the name
of our Master was Sitaram Bhavaji. That teacher had come to the
south many
years before. He had visited a temple standing in the river bed not
far away. The
Paradeshi had met him then, had become his disciple, and had
afterwards
seen him and been instructed by him clairvoyantly. That Master used
to travel
occasionally. He had been to England about the year 1850. Working with
him there was
a Kashmiri Master, a younger man, who had been educated at Oxford.
There was
also a greater Master living in the mountains north of Tiruvallam, who
was very
rarely seen. Mme Blavatsky and Colonel Olcott had both visited the
Paradeshi.
They had “dragged him out of his obscurity,” and it was Colonel
Olcott who
had taught him to smoke cigars. I explained to him that nothing but
the Master’s
direct wish could induce me to give up my present work; that I was
sorry to
leave him but it simply had to be. [172]
When I told
Narayanaswami and the other friends who had been with him on his
first visit
to Tiruvallam that the Paradeshi had explained to me that he was not
the Master of
Sitaram Bhavaji, but that Sitaram Bhavaji was his Master, they
insisted that
the mistake must be mine, and continued in their conviction that
they had met
the great Master himself.
More then
twenty years afterwards, in both 1933 and 1934, I happened to pass
that way by
motor-car. I found that the Paradeshi had died in the interval, and
that some
devotees had built a shrine beside the old cottage, now tumbled down,
and were
worshipping there the sandals, staff, drinking-pot and other small
articles
which had been used by him when alive. Sic transit gloria mundi. (Much
the same was
to be done to Mrs. Besant later on.) But I saw no trace of any
successor who
might be directing the “Bhairavas” in that somewhat desolate spot.
[173]
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CHAPTER VIII
TEACHING
§1
It seemed as
if I had settled down permanently into my new life in India, which
was divided
between two occupations – literary work and occasional lecture
tours. Within
two years I had helped Mr. Leadbeater to produce seven books and
very many
articles. I had produced four books of my own, and I had travelled
fifteen
thousand miles in India, visited about seventy towns, delivered three
hundred
public lectures and given two hundred talks to Theosophists. I had
ranged from
Colombo to Calcutta, from Calcutta to Delhi, from Madras to Bombay
and Kathiawar
and back again. I had seen India in many aspects. I had lived in
palaces and
in hovels. I had slept also on verandas, under trees, in caves and
temples, and
once on a flagstone over an open drain.
I did not
suspect that all this was to change and that I was to go to school
again.
Going to
school had been one of my worst nightmares during my youth. I had
visited many
schools and lectured in them during my travels, and thought that
the Indian
high-schools were far superior to anything of the kind I had seen in
England,
except my Municipal School of Technology, which was really of
Collegiate
grade, preparing students for degrees. But I had never thought of
going to
school again. Yet I did, in an old-established high-school, in the
capacity of
Headmaster.
It was Mrs.
Besant’s doing. She had visited the birthplace of Krishnamurti,
Madanapalle,
a little town of some ten thousand people, situated in an out of
the way part
of the Telugu country, but on high land, about 2500 feet above sea
level, cool,
healthy, old-fashioned, and beautified by its [174] situation
within a
circle of mountains, some of which stood up as large monoliths in a
sky-line of
rugged shapes – in some parts like the battlements of a castle, with
which the
sunset could play artist with great effect, while cool evening
air-currents
soothed the skin with softest touch.
Mrs. Besant
had received a tremendous ovation at Madanapalle and in the
neighbouring
railway stations on the way. The local Theosophists had most
efficiently spread
the news of her coming. Never before had thousands of women
thus crowded
to greet a visitor, women of all classes – the delicate rose-leaf
women
semi-secluded in the homes of the well-to-do, the work-worn women of the
labouring
classes-some but children, others withered to an unbelievable degree –
most of them
full of humble wonder, yet a few of the female sergeant-majors who
govern with a
rod of iron the big joint families of moderate means, all of them
expectant of
blessings and better fortune from the mere sight of the holy woman
from the
West, who had made her home in India from love of India, from
admiration of
India’s ancient heroes and India’s religious thought.
While in
Madanapalle, Mrs. Besant learned that there was an old high-school
managed by
gentlemen of the town with funds subscribed by themselves and
collected
from their friends. The school was on the verge of collapse. It could
not afford
modern buildings and the latest equipment. The missionaries were
bringing
money from America for a new high-school of their own. Government would
give their
Recognition to that school and close the Indian school because the
missionaries
could win in the race for better buildings and equipment, and two
high-schools
could not be permitted to exist in such a small town, on account of
the danger to
discipline and economic stability involved in their competition.
Mrs. Besant,
come to our aid! Mother, save our school! You, the foundress of the
great Central
Hindu College of Benares, extend your help to the old school in
the
birthplace of Krishnamurti, the school which surrounds the boys, the future
townsmen,
with thoughts of their own ancient cultures, of their own religious
ideals, the
school which can save them from the necessity of singing Christian
hymns and
perhaps even learning portions of the Bible – for though that might
not be
compulsory did not everybody think, be it right or wrong, that the
student who
gave [175] pleasure to his teachers in their prime object of
spreading
their form of religion would be favoured in marks and in promotions,
even if only
unconsciously?
The Mother
went back to Madras. She thought it over. She decided to save. She
promised the
school a good monthly donation and she asked me if I would go there
as
Headmaster. Of course I would go; anything in her service. That is, if the
Government
would allow it, for they required Headmasters to have university
degrees and
also a degree in teaching and I had not troubled to take my degree,
not thinking
of such an eventuality, though I had done the necessary studies.
Mr.
Leadbeater added his enthusiastic support. Madanapalle was to be a centre of
enormous
pilgrimage in the future, as the birthplace of the great Teacher, to be
looked back
upon with reverence after he had come and gone. It would be well
that we
should keep a hand on the public institutions, especially in education,
which the
Teacher would probably reform.
§2
I became busy
immediately, collected about ten thousand rupees (£700) in a few
days by
canvassing the matter among Mrs. Besant’s and Krishnamurti’s friends,
took myself
off to Madanapalle, and started to build and to teach. I had already
done a bit of
designing of buildings in England, before my father and I had
pitched upon
the final plan of the house and office which we built there. As to
teaching I
had seen it at its best in my beloved Technical School. I had studied
the little
tricks of the mind thoroughly. I had done a certain amount of private
tuition, and
I was accustomed to speaking and lecturing and never at a loss for
a word.
I first
designed and built what was called the Krishnamurti Institute of
Science, a
school laboratory 69 feet by 18 feet, adapted to both chemistry and
physics, with
a tank, water-pipes and drainage system, benches built of
reinforced
concrete, and a demonstration table and gallery system for lectures
constructed
in the same material. I also invented a mechanical black-board – or
green-board
rather, for it was dark green in colour – which could change
position and
turn on a vertical axis, so that the teacher might at his
convenience
swing it away from the wall to which it was [176] attached, nearer
to himself
and the students, and also make use of both sides. This board was not
a success,
because no one would treat it gently enough, and the supporting rods
and joints
would bend. But the laboratory was pronounced the newest thing of its
kind in sight
for teaching science in high-schools, and the Government Inspector
had full drawings
and specifications made from it for circulation as models to
all schools
within his circle.
The Inspector
came within two months of my starting work. He was a man who took
his work
seriously and pressed hard for the last point of efficiency. I
sympathized
very much with the teachers, for he drove them nearly frantic with
his
criticisms. I had to teach four classes before him, and had the satisfaction
of hearing
afterwards that he had spoken of me as the best teacher he had ever
seen. On his
report the Department of Public Instruction issued a notice that I
was approved
as Headmaster, and so I was regularly installed in my new
profession,
from which, however, I received no money, for I felt that I could
not draw what
was nominally mine, on account of the condition of the school and
also because
I had notions of still being a sannyasi.
I do not say
that the Inspector’s criticisms were unjustified. The teaching was
often
peculiar. But what would you in a profession that was ill-paid, and was
often the
last resort of men who had failed to become advocates or the first
resort of
those who intended to become advocates.
In the
teacher’s training colleges they had by then learned the question method
of keeping
the attention of the class on the subject-matter. Sometimes it turned
out like
this:
Teacher: “Now
– er – hrrmm – (andante) Queen Elizabeth was very fond of the Earl
of Leicester
– (crescendo) who was Queen Elizabeth fond of? – WHO? – YOU
(pointing to
some luckless sleepyhead in the fourth row) – urrh (staccato)
Queen–
Elizabeth– was-fond-of-the-Earl-of-Leicester-now, Queen Elizabeth was
fond of WHOM
– (catching sight of another sleepyhead in the third row and
pointing an
accusing finger) YOU, Duraiswami, what was I saying? – No, no –
Queen –
Elizabeth – was – fond – of – the – Earl – of Leicester – of whom was
Queen
Elizabeth fond? – (no reply) – Come, come! Queen Elizabeth was fond of –
(waits as
though for a voice from the ether).” At last a thin voice [177] rises
– “The Earl
of Leicester, sir.” (Beaming smiles) “Right.” (The teacher turns to
the
black-board, writes the word Leicester, points to the letters, and
pronounces)
“Yell-yee-yi-see-yee-ess-tee-yee-arrrr – Leicester. Now (turning to
the class) –
Who was it who was fond of the Earl of Leicester?” – and so on. I
have heard
the questioning degenerate into: “Now, who said WHAT?”
All this
shouting was bad for the students’ manners. He often shouted afterwards
in private
conversation. Some of the boys quite excusably thought that these
were our
English manners. Once a gentleman was telling me something in which I
was not much
interested. Suddenly his finger shot out at me, followed by the
loud
interjection “What was I saying?” He must have seen a wandering expression
in my eyes
and involuntarily taken the regular steps to remove it.
§3
Following the
laboratory I built a hall and then a large dormitory, and then
bought some
adjacent bungalows and fields. The school began to flourish. It
could not now
be closed. The missionaries were allowed to have their high-school
as well, but
it did not prosper, and after a few years they reduced it to lower
status.
Attracted by the new management, boarders began to come from other parts
of the
country.
In the
beginning we arranged to board and lodge the boys for about ten shillings
a month each.
I had one keen disappointment in connection with this. I had
arranged with
several farmers to give us bags of rice free. But the boys refused
to eat their
own country rice. They were not working people, to eat village
rice! They
must have the large-grained polished rice from Nellore, about two
hundred miles
away. In vain I explained that the unpolished rice was far better
food then the
polished. That did not matter. It was a question of dignity.
No dignity
would have been involved in receiving the rice for nothing. According
to Hindu
tradition the student quite properly expects householders to give food
and even
lodging when necessary. Poor students were wandering everywhere, asking
for their
school fees – which amounted to about six shillings a month in the
high-school
classes [178] during the working months. We were allowed to admit
only a small
proportion of free boys into the school; if we accepted any beyond
that number
we should have had about half the school fees that were prescribed
deducted from
our teaching grant, which might easily have been reduced to zero
by this
method. This was only one of the ways in which something of a clash
occurred
between the modern and the ancient methods. In the old elementary
schools of
the country it would have been a great insult to offer money to the
schoolmaster.
The situation
troubled me, as I considered the modern school fees economically
unsound.
There was a gentleman I knew – to give one example – who was a clerk in
Government
service with a salary of sixty rupees a month. He was considered to
have done
well in attaining this position, which had become possible for him
only because
in his youth he had passed the matriculation examination of the
Madras
University, which was also the passport to Government clerkship at thirty
rupees a
month, from which one could rise by diligence to sixty rupees in middle
age. He lived
in a small town where there was no high-school. He had three sons,
and wished
that they should all rise to his own level in the world. This meant
that they had
to go to a high-school for at least three years before school
leaving or
matriculation, because there was no admission to the examinations by
private study
but only through recognized high-schools. The cost per month of
sending one
son to high-school was somewhat as follows: Fees, Rs. 4; books, Rs.
2; hostel
charges, Rs. 12; railway fares, etc., Rs. 2. The cost of educating
three sons at
this rate would consume the whole of his salary, leaving him
nothing on
which to maintain himself and his wife and two daughters. But he
would send
his sons to school and borrow money at ruinous interest for himself
and the rest
of the family for the time being, and the sons would help to face
the debt
later on, until the appearance of their own sons brought new problems
for them.
The old idea
was that all boys could come to the school, and each should bring
on festival
occasions whatever presents the father thought fit to send to the
teacher,
which were regarded as tokens of esteem and not as payment. I knew one
school that
was going on in this way until the village elders decided that they
would like to
make it more [179] modern, with the help of Government grant. The
Government
officers maintained that the teacher would act unfairly under the old
system,
giving his best attention to the boys who brought the best presents. I
do not know
whether this was the case, but I do know that two years after the
change there
was no school at all, for it had not been possible to find cash for
the teachers’
salary regularly, little as it had been.
Besides
science, I emphasized Sanskrit among the optional subjects for study. I
held it to be
one of the best things in life that the students should grow up
able to read
the Bhagavad Gita in its original language. I induced no less than
sixty
students to adopt it as their third language – English being the first,
Telugu, their
mother-tongue, the second.
This
enthusiasm of mine was to meet with an unexpected reward. One morning when
we were in
assembly at the opening of school, some strange gentlemen entered the
hall and
mounted the platform. Before I knew what was to happen, one of them had
thrown a red
shawl over my shoulders and was addressing the assembly in their
own language.
He was the Head of one of the great monasteries of South India –
Shri Jagat
Guru Shankara Charya Swami of Shri Shringeri Shivaganga Samasthanam,
Mysore
Province – an Archbishop, so to say, of Hinduism. He was praising me and
bestowing
upon me the title of Sattwikagraganya, and stating that if I would
come to the
monastery he would admit me to worship at their shrine – an honour
never before
extended to a European. The title itself, I blush to relate, being
an
Englishman, means: “Foremost among those who are pure.” It was intended to be
a tribute to
my well-known simplicity of life.
Strange that
the simplicity which won golden opinions from the Hindus should be
a matter of
contemptuous amusement to many Europeans. I remember an occasion
when I was
introduced to two charming young ladies of fashion (the somewhat
unnatural
fashions of those days, by the way) who were quite unable to surpress
their giggles
at my beard and my country clothes. I am bound to say, however,
that the high
Government officers whom I met – Collectors, District Judges and
others –
never showed a trace of risibility, and were always ready to appreciate
and encourage
the work that was being done. [180]
I had the
honour, too, of being the man to start the first Boy Scout Troop for
Indian boys.
Scouting was already in motion among European and Anglo-Indians. I
thought it
would be good for Indians also. I obtained a copy of Baden-Powell’s
Scouting for
Boys, gave it to one of the teachers and induced him to carry on as
well as he
could. This work was very inexpert at first, but later we obtained a
trained
Scoutmaster, Mr. Aryaratna, from Ceylon, and he in turn taught others,
including Mr.
Ratnasabhapati, who now plays a big part in South Indian Scouting.
I was never
good at Scouting, but I had been a father to it, and years
afterwards
when the Indian Boy Scout movement was fully organized they made me
Scout
Commissioner for the Province of Sind, and offered me a position on the
Scout Council
of the Governor of Bombay.
§4
When vacation
came I had to go collecting. Much money was needed for both the
maintenance
and the improvement of the school. One of the first things I
collected was
a living tiger – one of the largest and finest I have ever seen.
Really it was
a present to myself, but I dedicated it, as it were, to the cause.
What would
that magnificent animal have thought if it could have known that it
was dedicated
to the education of a lot of moth-eaten human beings, miserable
spavined
objects at the best! I was paying a visit to a Raja who lived about
seventeen
miles away from the school, in the midst of tiger country. He had at
that time in
his permanent cages two splendid tigers caught by himself. I
admired them.
Beware how you admire anything that belongs to an old-fashioned
Indian
gentleman! In a moment one of them was presented to me. I accepted the
beautiful
beast with many thanks and requested him to keep it for me until I
could have a
travelling cage made for it. When next in Bombay some months later
I went to see
the Superintendent of the Victoria Gardens, and got an offer of
one thousand
rupees for my tiger, provided it should come up to the standard of
my
description of it on its being delivered.
But I lost my
tiger as easily as I had obtained it. It appeared that another
Raja visited
my Raja, and he admired my tiger very much. My Raja was sure that I
[181] would
have given my tiger to the other Raja if I had been there to see how
much he
admired it, and so he gave it to him by deputy. And the new recipient
was wise
enough to remove it to his own gardens without delay.
I never owned
another tiger, though I have been near enough to them. On one
occasion when
I was staying with the Maharaja of Alwar (I cannot always mention
names, but it
is permissible in this case) he took me for a walk one afternoon
in his
gardens. As we were strolling across a large lawn or grassy field, I
became aware
of two tigers a little way off. I was a trifle nervous about them,
but I thought
I had better preserve a calm exterior. As we drew near it became
evident that
there was a wide, deep, circular trench around the plot occupied by
the tigers.
It was the first time I had seen that mode of keeping animals in
captivity.
I think the
animals, if such they can be called, which I really feared, were the
white ants,
not that they could harm me, but they could destroy my good works.
They made my
building operations very costly. Practically the only wood which
they did not
eat was Burma teak. For most of our woodwork we had to use this
imported
timber. I tried various woods from Malabar, especially the irul or
ironwood,
which was so hard to work that it injured the workmen’s tools, and
only the
stoutest nails could be driven into it. Still, the white ants would get
even into
that wherever a little crack or split appeared, though they could not
eat it all
away as they did most kinds of wood.
One of my
students learned to have quite a fear of the common black ants which I
used to
welcome to my room with small offerings of sugar, because they kept the
white ants
away. The student had ear-ache, so I poured into his ear a little
olive oil and
told him to lie down and rest. After some time I was startled by a
loud yell
from the student. He had awakened with a procession of ants going into
his ear!
Sometimes
there would be battles between the black and the white forces, when
the white
trenches had become broken open by some chance. It was, so to speak, a
hand-to-hand
conflict. A black ant would grab hold of a white one and they would
wrestle,
rolling over on the ground until at last the white one was paralysed or
killed and
carried away. In these encounters no white ant ever won or escaped.
[182]
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CHAPTER IX
THE WOMAN WHO
DID NOT EAT
§1
My collection
and lecture tours brought me many interesting experiences. On one
occasion I
stepped out of my way to take a bath with at least one hundred
thousand
other people. It was the occasion of the great twelfth-year festival
called
Pushkaram, at Bezwada, near the East coast. It was estimated that two
million
persons were there, but I doubt if more than a hundred thousand were
able to get
into the water of the river Krishna at anyone time. It was a strange
experience to
be one of such an enormous mass of people all intent upon one
object. There
was a Brahmin priest there who threw to the winds his caste
restrictions,
and recited for me all the necessary verses and did the other
performances
proper to the occasion.
It was at
that time that I slept one dark night in one of the Kondapalle caves,
beside an
ancient reclining figure of the Buddha cut in the rock. Unfortunately,
I and the
friend who accompanied me had both forgotten to provide ourselves with
any means of
procuring a light, so we had to lie ourselves down at the approach
of darkness
and stay where we were until dawn.
At Buddha
Gaya, in the north, I slept under the bo tree which stands now on the
spot where
grew the tree under which Buddha attained illumination two thousand
five hundred
years ago. The present tree is said to have grown from a slip taken
from the old
one. The occasion was a little marred for me by the kindness of the
Head of the
neighbouring monastery, the Mahant who had charge of the temple and
the grounds
containing the tree, which stands up against the temple in its rear.
He sent out
for my use a nice mattress, thereby taking away some of the [183]
romance of my
experience and introducing “magnetism” foreign to that which I was
seeking at
the time.
I gathered
many fallen leaves from the tree – it is not permitted to take leaves
from the
branches – and afterwards presented them to friends.
I spent some
time in the monastery. The Mahant showed me some yantras or
diagrams used
in yoga practices, and we discussed them, though I do not think
either of us
could enlighten the other very much. I admired his collection of
camels and
elephants – I have always had a special attraction for those two
animals – but
after my experience with the tiger I took care to keep my
admiration of
them to myself.
As time went
on I took more and more opportunities to go out on collection work.
I would
wander for days in the main streets of the large cities, calling on all
the lawyers
and big merchants, and sometimes for weeks together in the most
remote
villages, travelling chiefly by bullock cart at the rate of perhaps two
miles an
hour, huddled under the round top of the cart, with a cloth tied in the
opening at
the back to keep out the heat of the sun, which struck up from the
hot sand of
the rutty lanes. Often during those hot hours the driver would be
dozing at the
front of the cart, while the bulls quietly found their own way.
Sometimes we
would cross large rivers, the cart immersed to the axle or even to
the
floor-boards just above it – on a few occasions the cart slightly floating,
myself partly
walking, partly swimming behind.
I have never
met such reckless people as the Indians in the face of common
dangers, yet
most of them shudder at the sight of blood. I have seen boatloads
of them
crossing a flood which had swept away a modern railway bridge. The
passengers
sat quietly while two men paddled like mad in the turbulent waters,
which at last
they crossed safely, after being carried about two miles down
stream. In
many of the towns there were pony carts which the drivers urged along
with the most
hair-raising speed over rough and sloping roads, sometimes on one
wheel,
sometimes on the other, sometimes racing one another on narrow
embankments
with steep slopes and a possible fall into water on either side.
I have been
in several nasty accidents with these carts. Once in Madras I was
bowling along
in one of these light vehicles. An electric tramcar was coming in
the opposite
direction and there was not room to pass on account of [184] heaps
of road metal
blocking the way. Neither my pony driver nor the driver of the
tramcar was
willing to yield place. As they approached head – on my man at the
last moment
tried to run over a heap of road metal. Pony and cart were thrown
over headlong
in front of the tram, the ironwork of which burst through the
covering of
the cart, while I was thrown about inside like a pea in a drum –
relatively
rather a large pea, or rather a small drum. However, I suffered no
more than
some bruises and a few knocks on the head, and after a heated
discussion
between the two drivers we all went our respective ways, I walking
the rest of
my journey. I was then nearer to real injury than I had been on a
former
occasion in an electric tramcar in England when it leapt the rails,
performed a
perfect quadrant, crossed the footpath and finally landed against a
garden wall,
fortunately without capsizing. I had another similar accident in
Calicut when
one of the wheels of a rickshaw in which I was riding suddenly made
a little
excursion on its own account.
§2
But it was in
the north of India that I really nearly lost my life, and in quite
a different
way. In a certain large state of Rajputana (which must be nameless)
I undertook
at the request of the Maharaja to investigate the case of an old
woman who was
reputed to have lived entirely without food for over thirty years.
The old lady
was quite willing that the investigation should take place. There
had been a
previous investigation at the instance of the then Maharaja’s father,
but its lack
of strictness had left possible loopholes for eating in secret.
I first met
the old lady in the palace garden. She sat on a white cloth under a
tree near the
road. Her hair was black, with a little grey, and shaved for some
space at the
front. On her forehead were drawn three vertical lines – two white
lines, with a
red one between them – bent at the bottom to meet at the root of
the nose.
Such shaving and signs are usually confined to men, but she wore them
on account of
her peculiar holiness. For clothing she wore a pale yellow
flowered
lower cloth and a thin white shirt. She carried a little red cloth bag,
a red fancy
cloth, a white sheet and a little round fan. [185]
I told her
that the Maharaja had sent me for me to investigate and report upon
her case. She
assented, and then in answer to questions said:
“It is about
thirty years since I took food. I became a widow at the age of six.
My
mother-in-law and other family members told me that I must not sit and read
The Thousand
Names of Vishnu, as I was fond of doing, but I must go out into the
forest and
bring back fuel, being a woman of a poor house.
“One day in
the forest there appeared before me a boy who looked about five
years old. He
had a light complexion, a mukat of hair, four arms and a cloth of
bright yellow
colour, and on his forehead a tilak mark. He wore no ornaments. It
was Shri
Krishna. He spoke to me:
“ ‘Why do you
come here? You had better spend your time worshipping me.’
“ ‘But how
can I spend my time in worship, if I have no food?’ I replied.
“The boy
simply gave me a rosary and told me to worship, and said: ‘From this
day on you
need not eat. Take this rosary and think of me.’
“The boy did
not walk away. He simply vanished. All this happened in a thick
forest about
two miles away from my late husband’s house and eighty miles from
here. After
that I went and sat under a peepul tree, about thirty yards from the
house, and I
remained there for three years without food.
“My relatives
and everyone in the village came and asked me to take food, but I
did not. They
said I would die, but I did not. After three weeks they told the
inspector of
police, and he informed the Raja. The Raja ordered an observation
for forty
days under the inspector’s supervision. If I did not eat, he said, he
himself would
see me. So the inspector made a fence round me with bamboo and
other
materials, so that no one could enter, and he kept me there for forty days
without food.
Then the Raja came to see me. He built a house for me and provided
for all my
needs. That was a house with arches in front, about twenty-four miles
from here.
The tree is still where it was, but the house has fallen down. Now I
live in an
old temple which was restored by the Maharaja and given for my use.”
Sitting near
the old lady, whom we will call Mataji, was a boy who looked about
fourteen
years old. I took him [186] aside and questioned him. He told me that
they had come
by railway that morning at the instance of the Maharaja. He had
never seen
Mataji eat, though he had been with her since he was five years old.
Nor had she
even drunk water, though she bathed at the well and cleaned her
teeth. She
spent most of her time outside the house, turning her beads or
talking with
the many people who came to see her. He himself was her sister’s
son. For a
long time his mother had had no child, so she had appealed to Mataji
and said: “If
a child is born, I will give you the first.” But Mataji had
replied:
“Three children will be born to you; keep two and give me the third.”
He was the
third son.
The next day
I met Mataji again. She sat under the same tree, but had now a
woollen
carpet. She told me that she had seen other visions of Shri Krishna
occasionally.
In one of them which had occurred only a month and a half
previously,
she had seen him sitting with his playmate Radha on a swinging seat,
a Brahmin
pulling the rope of the swing, and other people standing by, including
his
foster-brother, Baladeva.
“What became
of the rosary given to you by Shri Krishna?” I asked.
“It contained
one hundred and eight beads. I gave them to the wives of state
officials and
others, and have still about twenty or thirty of them at home.”
“Why did Shri
Krishna appear to you and not to others?”
“It was his
will, and my karma.”
“Why did you
come away to your present abode?”
“His late
Highness arranged it, because where I was there were many wild beasts
and people
were afraid to come and see me. He repaired the old temple and dug a
well for me.”
I was curious
to know what she carried in her bag. She smiled tolerantly, amused
at my
possible idea that some food might be secreted there, and turned it out
for my
inspection. It proved to be quite a modern vanity bag! There were a small
looking-glass,
a small wooden comb, a round tin of red powder, some money tied
in a white
bag, a little brass spoon, a piece of gopichandran (a substance
looking like
chalk), a small piece of dried mud from the Ganges, some thread in
a bit of red
cloth, a very small red cloth containing incense, and a small thick
brass disc.
[187]
In the
afternoon I went with the Maharaja’s private secretary to see an old
palace
situated on a peninsula jutting into a lake. It was a beautiful old
building,
surrounded on three sides by water, behind which stood a ring of
mountains. It
was approachable by only one road and a small path along the edge
of the lake.
The next day
we prepared this building for our experiment.
We started at
the top, on the roof, and examined the whole building. I padlocked
the doors
which closed off each story separately from the stairs. I set a
carpenter to
screw up one outer door and a mason to build up another. This left
only one
entrance. I padlocked this with a lock of my own and kept the key
myself. The
top floor had been originally the women’s quarters. This I assigned
to Mataji and
her nephew. The floor next beneath I locked up empty. Underneath
that was the
ground floor with a courtyard and the main entrance gate. I
established
myself there with an interpreter. Beneath us were servants’
quarters,
approachable only from the outside. We had several servants, including
a cook.
Outside the gate, barring the approach to the palace, we encamped a
company of
infantry, with instructions to allow nobody to pass without orders.
Mataji was
admitted to the top floor after she and her belongings had been
searched by a
lady doctor from the hospital. The boy was allowed up and down. He
took his
meals with the interpreter, but every time he came the door was
unlocked and
locked by me and he was searched.
My method was
to keep guard and to weigh the old lady every day. I wished also
to make a
test – by means of lime water – of the output of carbon dioxide in the
breath, and
to keep a record of her temperature and pulse; but these scientific
preparations
alarmed her, so I had to be content with a record of daily
weighings. I
noticed, however, that she was perspiring freely – a loss of
material
which would have to be made up somehow. To see that the weighing
machine
remained uniform I weighed on the first day a block of marble (13 1/2
pounds),
which I kept in my room and carried up and down the stairs for testing
the machine
on each occasion.
On the first
day Mataji lost 2 lb. weight; on the second day, 1 lb. In my eyes
fraud was
already proved. She breathed and perspired as other people did and so
must be
losing weight. One could advance a theory of [188] precipitation of
matter in the
body by yoga siddhis or supernormal powers, but that idea was
invalidated
by proved loss of weight. Was it likely that the supernormal agency
of Shri
Krishna which had sustained her for so many years would be withdrawn at
the moment of
this test? No. Day after day Mataji’s weight declined, giving the
following
record: July 18th, 1911, 76 17” lb.; 19th, 74 1/2 lb.; 20th, 73 1/2
lb.; 21st, 73
1/2 lb.; 22nd, 73 lb.; 23rd, 72 1/2 lb.; 24th, 71 1/2 lb.; 25th,
71 lb.; 26th,
70 1/2 lb.; 27th, 69 3/4 lb., 28th, 68 1/4 lb.; 29th, 68 lb. Thus
the total
loss of weight in eleven days was 8 1/2 lb., an average of over 1 lb.
a day.
By the ninth
day the old lady was showing decided signs of weakness. She also
expressed
great anxiety for the welfare of her cows at home and declared her
wish to
depart. In the evening the Maharaja came and decided to have her taken
home on the
following day. So, on the 27th, after we had weighed the old lady,
she was taken
to the principal palace garden in a phaeton, in the care of the
lady doctor,
and left there with soldiers on guard. After assembling there we
all went by
train to the place of her home.
Five minutes’
walk from the railway station brought us to her garden, which
contained a
square building – open in the centre, in which at one side there was
a large
image. The rest of the garden was occupied by our encampment – a
multitude of
tents. On arrival we took every medical care of the old lady. Her
pulse was 82,
her temperature under the arm 96. The doctor stated that she was
in good
condition except for weakness due to starvation. Her intestines gave a
sound
symptomatic of starvation.
When the old
lady found that the experiment was to continue in her own grounds,
and that
everywhere we had posted three guards, to watch out and to watch one
another, she
became very angry and cried out: “I eat! I eat! I eat!”
We knew that
she would afterwards tell the wives of the officials and others
whom she was
deceiving that she had said that only to get rid of us, so I
informed her
that we were ready to pack up and go as soon as we had actually
seen her eat.
In the
afternoon of the 29th July, the Aide-de-camp to the Maharaja arrived and
we together
interviewed the old lady. She informed us that she had been eating
various kinds
of food, to the extent of two to four chataks daily, [189] and she
would now eat
in our presence. All being arranged, at nine o’clock we went to
her on the
roof of her temple. Her dog was with her. Before her was placed a
metal tray
containing some flat cakes, some round balls made of rice-flour and
sugar, and a
small basin of milk and rice. She broke up some of the cakes with
her fingers,
and threw the pieces to the dog. She ate some of the milk and rice,
and a little
of the rice-flour balls, which were soft and crumbly, but the rest
she rejected,
saying that her stomach felt very weak after the long fast. During
this meal
Mataji looked cheerful, and in the end there was a grin of humour upon
her face as
of one who would say: “Well, you have found me out, but I don’t
care.”
For my part,
I was glad that the incident was over. But was it?
The next
morning we began to strike tents. I had been walking in the garden and
happened to
go into my dining-tent, where the cook’s assistants had put some of
the food upon
the table. Inside I found the nephew of the old lady prowling
about and
looking into the dishes. I rebuked him, told him he had no right to be
there, and
sent him away. Shortly afterwards I ate my early lunch. Within a few
minutes I
felt dreadfully sick. I went to the door of the tent and vomited a
chalky mass.
Then came a raging fever. As I lay on my cot outside the tent, I
saw the old
woman dancing on the roof and flinging her arms about in
manifestations
of joy. She was calling out something which I did not understand.
Somehow they
got me back to the guest-house. I was delirious. Another guest (an
American who
had come there to give a course of physical culture to the
Maharaja)
found me lying in a bath of cold water in which I had apparently
permanently
settled myself for some relief from the fever. He sent at once for
help. The
doctor said that someone had given me arsenic, but, fortunately, I
understood,
far too much. They nursed me for several days until I was fit to
travel. The
Maharaja pressed me to go and stay in Simla at his expense, but I
declined, as
I wanted to get back to Madanapalle. He thought it best not to make
the incident
public, and I agreed to his wishes, for which reason I now conceal
the name of
the State.
At last I
went off, with expenses paid and an extra five hundred rupees in my
pocket to be
spent upon the school. [190]
§3
The incident
put an end to my headmastership after a little time, for the fever
kept coming
again and again. I moved about for several months collecting money
for the
school. At last I went to get relief in the cool climate of Mussoorie in
the
Himalayas, but the fever grew worse in the mountains instead of better,
until one day
I was carried unconscious to the cottage hospital, where I had to
stay, a large
part of the time unconscious or delirious, for three and a half
months,
having had my own weight brought down – a karma perhaps – to less than
that to which
the old lady had been reduced. When I could rise it was a long
business
learning to walk again. A month after leaving the hospital I managed to
make my way
to Benares and then to Adyar, where I hobbled about for a time with
the help of
two sticks, until gradually my strength returned.
In the
hospital I had had my physical troubles, but they were nothing to the
mental
miseries. Delirium can be a very unpleasant experience when it is
somewhat
consistent and prolonged. I had some vague liking for the European
surgeon when
he called, but I was quite convinced that the assistant surgeon was
deliberately
inoculating me with some foul substance to keep me weak. The point
was that I
was rightfully a Raja, but I was being kept in secret confinement to
prevent me
from claiming my own. I used to contrive by bribery – so I thought –
to obtain a
sword and secrete it under the bed-clothes, and I would wait my
opportunity
to spring out of bed and lay low everybody who might try to bar my
path to
escape. I was always losing my sword and getting a new one by further
scheming.
Day and night
nurses were watching in turn, and they, being in the pay of the
villainous
pseudo-doctor, were always ready to push me on my back whenever I
attempted to
rise. They were powerful young women. Indeed they seemed to have
positively
superhuman strength. One night I actually sprang, but got my feet
entangled in
the bed clothes. I was fortunately caught in the arms of the nurse
before I hit
the floor. But the nurses – such nice girls – could not be really
bad! They had
been misled by the villain. Sometimes I tried to bribe them with
promises of
large sums of money and high position, and they agreed to help me,
[191] but
when the time for action came they always failed me in one way or
another,
greatly to my disappointment. They bore my reproaches, made their
excuses, and
were forgiven on promising to do better next time.
On one
occasion it seemed to me that my father and mother visited the hospital,
but the
devilish doctor had drugged me and thus driven me to desperate wildness,
so that,
although they stood and looked at me, they failed to recognize me and
passed on,
while I shouted to them in vain. This was the most distressing thing
of all.
I had a great
hunger. I was being systematically starved! Several times I
thought I got
out in my astral body and went to a large neighbouring room, a
dining-room
full of little tables laden with food, prepared for a large number
of people –
the very people who had captured me – who were about to be called to
their meal.
Quickly I went from one table to another and ate everything, and
laughed with
unholy glee at the consternation of the people when they came in
and found
nothing to eat!
There were
not many such items of enjoyment! There were mostly troubles and
anxieties.
There were, for example, my children. Somehow I had given birth to
about twenty
young living things, more or less in the nature of lizards. When I
heard anyone
coming I would tie them up like bundles of firewood and push them
down under
the clothes near to my feet, full of anxiety lest some of them be
suffocated,
as was the case!
Once, I
remember, I gave up the struggle. I wandered away into a rocky region
above the
sea. I settled myself to die (I wonder if animals die deliberately and
happily, like
that?) in a depression in the rock; I was comfortably swooning
away,
dreaming of something indefinite but quite pleasant, when the two nurses
appeared on
the scene, caught hold of me and called me by name, saying they
wanted me
back. I resisted them. I complained: “Why do you trouble me, why do
you trouble
me? Can’t you see that I am dead?” But they continued to trouble me,
and they
lifted me and brought me back, and I liked the warmth of their hands,
for I felt
cold. I learned afterwards that that had been a critical time, and
that I had
actually shouted out those words.
It was after
about two months (I see by my diary) that one day I opened my eyes
and my head
was quite clear. [192]
One of the
nurses was bending over me. “Be still,” she said, “You have been very
ill.”
I looked at
her in astonishment. “Well,” I said reproachfully, “Why did not you
tell me so
before, instead of all those lies?”
“We did,” she
said, “but you did not understand.” After this moment of
brightness my
senses seemed to leave me completely, and it was only very
gradually
that I recovered the ability to see, to hear, and to speak. For some
time the nurses
had to write anything they wanted to say because I could not
hear, though
I could faintly see. The return of the senses was accompanied with
much pain,
the slightest sound and the light from the windows being very trying.
As I was
getting better I was very much troubled, and I think set back, by a
person called
“the Deaconess,” who used to call two or three times a week and
would insist
on trying to convert me to her orthodoxy, which she wanted to do
not by
theological arguments, but by abusing my friends, particularly Mme
Blavatsky and
Mrs. Besant.
I will record
here two visions of the type that I had seen several times before,
which
occurred while I was still in hospital. In one of them I found myself on a
gently
sloping hill-side, looking upwards. I saw before me a figure like one of
the Masters,
but with reddish hair and beard. Near him were standing the Master
whom I had
frequently seen and another, called by the old gentleman of
Tiruvallam
“the Kashmiri.” I saw the central figure, whom I then took to be the
coming
Teacher, raise his hand, and from him there came a wave of love, not seen
but felt,
which caused even the grass and little bushes to rise and expand for a
moment visibly.
The effect upon me was that I stepped back a pace with one foot
and exclaimed
to myself: “I have never before known what love is.” The other
vision of
this kind occurred shortly afterwards. The Master asked me to go with
him somewhere
and as I stood before him along with another person he enveloped
us both in
his aura in some way, and it gave a sensation of great freedom and
rippling joy
of life which one felt must be his normal condition.
I am not
assuming that these visions had a true foundation, but am merely
recording
that they occurred as of a quality different from ordinary dreams, on
account of a
greater vividness of consciousness and experience which [193] they
seemed to
contain. Do all people have such experiences, and take no notice of
them,
classifying them as imagination? I remember one philosopher said that the
only
difference between people who talk of their visions and those who do not is
that those
who do do not realize that those who do not also have the same.
§4
On my way
from Mussorie to Madras (in the train, by the way, a big suitcase fell
on to me from
the upper berth and nearly sent me back to hospital) I stayed a
few days in
Benares with Babu Bhagavan Das. Mrs. Besant was also in Benares. My
beard had
come off while I was in the hospital. Now, when I met Mrs. Besant, for
the first
moment she did not recognize me, and then she exclaimed: “I like you
much better
without your beard.”
Thenceforth,
of course, I had to encumber myself with a razor, shaving brush,
shaving soap
and a strop, and the beard became only a memory of the past! It was
my first
compromise with civilization. We discussed the school at Madanapalle.
Fortunately,
a German lady with high qualifications and ability – Dr. Louise
Appell –
turned up about this time and was able to relieve me of the work of
Headmaster.
When I
arrived at Adyar I was received very cordially by Mr. Leadbeater, and
fell into the
work of helping him again. At that time he had taken up once more
his researches
into the lives of Krishnamurti, under the star name of Alcyone.
He was
writing more of them – further back, as far as 70,000 B.C. – and was
introducing
new characters and so enlarging all the genealogical charts.
It seemed
strange to me that the people whom Mr. Leadbeater now knew well and
liked were
all linked together in families throughout those past lives.
Generally in
a life story there were only one or two main families, and nearly
all the
persons recognized were born within those families. In the present
incarnation
the reverse was the case; the very same people, though nearly all in
the
Theosophical Society, had now been born in different families all over the
world. Mr.
Leadbeater explained this sudden change by pointing out that the
lives before
the present were of a preparatory nature, but in the present life
[194] these
characters were scattered all over the world so that their services
would be
available in many different countries for the great work of the World
Teacher who
was about to appear.
It was the
enlargement of the charts by the addition of more characters which
completely
undermined my confidence in these psychic perceptions of Mr.
Leadbeater’s.
It happened that three boys a few years younger than Krishnamurti
and
Nityananda had now come under Mr. Leadbeater’s notice as being of great
promise.
Their names were Maung Maung Ji, a Burmese, and Yajneshwara Shastri and
Rajagopalachari,
South Indian Brahmans. They were expected to play important
parts in the
forthcoming great events, and they were found in the “Lives.”
While looking
up these boys Mr. Leadbeater thought it would be interesting to
enter into
the charts other people who might probably be identified by close
inspection.
He added a number, and a little later decided upon a still further
extension.
“You know a
good many people,” he said to me, “who are prominent workers in the
Society and
are likely to be in the ‘Lives.’ Could you suggest some names?”
I wrote down
thirty or forty names and Mr. Leadbeater himself added another
thirty or
forty likely people. With the exception of three or four he found all
these, and
they were found to appear regularly throughout the charts.
As the charts
were being thus enlarged, it struck me as incongruous, and indeed
improbable to
the point of impossibility, that the persons found in the previous
investigations
should have intermarried almost fully among themselves, and now
the later lot
of people were mostly intermarried with one another. Out of about
three hundred
people for example, in a typical chart, divided roughly into two
groups, which
we may call earlier and later (the term later meaning the people
selected as I
have just mentioned) the approximately 150 marriages would be
about 95 per
cent between an earlier and an earlier, or a later and a later, and
only 5 per
cent between an earlier and a later, so that the lots picked at
random kept
very much to themselves!
A further
difficulty was that most of the laters were in a later generation. And
it was a great
defect that there were practically no barren marriages – only two
or three
[195] cases out of over six thousand marriages – different from what
occurs in any
known community in the world. Still a third improbability was that
the
characters always married in their own generation, sometimes the oldest
child of an
oldest child of an oldest child with a younger child of a younger
child of a
younger child. Thus in the cases of large families, according to my
most
conservative calculations a frequent difference in age between husband and
wife, would
be fifteen years or more, as often as not the lady being the elder.
Not to trust
too much to memory, I later analysed and confirmed these figures
from the
published book (The Lives of Alcyone), and while doing so was struck by
a further
peculiar feature. The above-mentioned percentages apply to standard
charts of the
lives of Alcyone, which were completed before the later people
were added.
But in other additional lives written at the last moment I found
that the
intermarriages between earlier and later are usually increased about
fivefold!
When the
number of persons in the “Lives” had grown to over three hundred, the
list was
closed, as the investigation was becoming unwieldy. I used to keep a
ledger
showing each “star” name and where the character was in relation to
others in all
the lives. With this ledger I assisted Mr. Leadbeater to complete
his charts,
by informing him of the periods during which a given character might
so far be
missing, so that he might be looked up and accounted for throughout
the whole
period covered by the investigation. We regarded the use of such a
ledger as
quite legitimate for the saving of psychic energy, though it deprived
the “Lives”
of any evidential value for those of us who knew the process. This
theory did
not disturb me, as I knew the fatigue involved in the work; but with
regard to the
conjunctions of the characters in the “Lives” – especially as many
of the new
names had been suggested by me – I could not deny to myself the
mathematical
impossibilities. Further, what would have happened, I thought, if
someone other
than myself had been helping Mr. Leadbeater at that time? Would
other
characters have appeared in the places occupied by some of those suggested
by me?
Another
question in connection with this arose in my mind, when Mr. Leadbeater
left Adyar
and settled in Australia. Then a new set of people swam into his ken
and [196]
became prominent people in the Society, and in the preparation for the
coming
Teacher. Most of these new people had no place at all in the “Lives.” Why
should the
previous three hundred have been born closely together in the
families of
the previous lives, and not this newly found group of people, who,
even if the investigation
had now continued, could not have been accommodated in
immediate
relation-ships?
And suppose
that Mr. Leadbeater had had occasion to add the prominent members
whom he met
still later on in his work, there could scarcely have been room for
them to
intermarry at all with either the earlier or the laters of our lists,
they being
all paired off, with very rare exceptions. Further, three-quarters of
the people
found in the “Lives” and thus closely intermarried belonged to or
were residing
in three countries familiar to Mr. Leadbeater (the British Isles,
the United
States and India) and almost all the remaining quarter were in three
other regions
well known to him (Australia, Holland and Java, and France); in
connection with
this I asked myself whether the thousands of Theosophists in
other
countries (Latin America, Spain and Portugal, Scandinavia, Africa, Central
and Eastern
and Southern Europe) belonged to a different “crowd,” or a later
generation –
a matter of great improbability. No, I was bound to conclude that
the lives as
recorded simply could not be.
There were
several small incidents also which drove me towards the same
conclusion.
In relating the experiments in thought-transference made in England,
I have already
mentioned a lady who was a hundred percent correct in reading our
thoughts.
That lady also saw, or thought she saw, past lives. She told me that I
had had a
life in Mexico long ago in which I had not married at all. I told all
this to Mr.
Leadbeater. One of the series of Alcyone’s Lives was in Mexico, and
when the
chart was made up I found myself in it as unmarried. It remained like
that for a
long time. At the time of making up the chart Mr. Leadbeater had
laughingly
remarked: “I hope that will satisfy you!” It was one of the very rare
cases of
anyone remaining unmarried in those past lives. However, at the very
last minute,
when the “later” people were added I found that Mr. Leadbeater had
provided me
with a wife!
Ten years
later, when I was travelling in Brazil, I learned [197] that Lord
Cochrane,
Tenth Earl of Dundonald, was a great hero in the eyes of South
American
boys, on account of his wonderful exploits on behalf of Brazil, Chile
and Peru in
their struggle to free themselves from the Portuguese and Spanish
yokes. Now,
it had happened that prior to the appearance of Krishnamurti on the
scenes, Mr.
Leadbeater had been greatly interested in an American boy, and had
written some
of his past lives. In those lives two striking public characters
had figured
prominently – Theodore Roosevelt (then President of the United
States, and a
great figure with American boys) and Lord Cochrane. Mr. Leadbeater
had as a boy
lived in Brazil, where his father was then a railway contractor,
and he had no
doubt shared in the common enthusiastic admiration for the Earl.
At any rate,
he used constantly to tell of Lord Cochrane’s exploits in South
America to
the American boy I have mentioned and to other boys who then
surrounded him
in a group which was broken up in 1906 when some people in
America
attacked Mr. Leadbeater’s moral character, as I have already mentioned.
I may take
this opportunity to mention that at Adyar Mr. Leadbeater often spoke
to me with
sorrow of the way in which that attack upon him had destroyed his
most
cherished dream. By careful training of character in an atmosphere of
refinement of
mind and body he had hoped to produce a band of people very near
and sensitive
to the things of the inner world, a band which would have the
special
function of linking together with a perfection never known before that
world and
ours and thus leading to a great betterment of humanity. He did not
know when
speaking to me that he would shortly have a better opportunity then
ever of
establishing such a band in Australia. [198]
-------Cardiff Theosophical Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24-1DL
CHAPTER X
HOW TO BE
HAPPY THOUGH –
§1
In the summer
of 1913, when I was staying along with Mr. Leadbeater in the lofty
and cool
health resort of Kodaikanal, in the Palni Hills, in the south of the
Madras
Presidency, for the purposes of a summer school, I received a letter from
Mrs. Besant
suggesting that I should help her as Honorary Secretary in a new
educational
venture which she called the Theosophical Educational Trust. She
said that she
would take up in connection with that the further development of
the
Madanapalle school. Would I go over to Madanapalle, study the conditions
there and report
to her?
I went, and
found that the Madanapalle High-School could probably be developed
into a
college affiliated to the University of Madras, but that would mean more
buildings,
equipment, staff and endowment. After full discussion we came to a
personal
arrangement in the matter. She would undertake to satisfy the
University in
the matter of the endowment (no small matter, for they demanded a
fund of about
£7000 in the background) if I would find everything else. It was a
long struggle.
More collection work and apparently endless negotiations – but
success
crowned our efforts and within two years Lord Pentland of Leith, then
Governor of
Madras, had come to Madanapalle and formally opened the new College.
One by one
other schools were started or came under the banner of the
Theosophical
Educational Trust, until we had thirty-seven in all. Some of them I
organized,
others already existed. Most of them I had to visit, as I combined
the duties of
inspecting officer and collector of funds with those of Secretary
of the Trust,
but Mrs. Besant as President [199] was the chief executive officer
of the Trust
and to her all plans and ideas were submitted for approval before
being put
into effect. The idea of the Trust was not to teach Theosophy, but to
provide a
more balanced education, which should awaken the emotions of the
students
along social and spiritual lines, and not confine itself to the
intellect as
was the prevailing mode.
Early in 1914
Mr. Leadbeater settled in Sydney, where already existed the
biggest Lodge
of the Theosophical Society in the world, of which I afterwards
became
President for a year. I did not go with him, as my devotion was primarily
with Mrs.
Besant and I was now helping her with the educational work.
§2
In 1913 Mrs.
Besant began to take an active interest in Indian politics. Early
in 1914 she
founded the Home Rule League – daring words “home rule” in those
days. She
urged with all her eloquence the immediate establishment in India of
home rule within
the Empire, by which she meant Dominion Status somewhat similar
to that
enjoyed by Australia or Canada. She had instructions from her occult
sources for
this work. She was told that the end would be a great triumph, but
she must take
care that the process was not stained with violence. Often she
used to say
that she would see home rule before she died.
Apart from
sentiment, Mrs. Besant’s view of the political situation was simply
this. Ninety-nine
out of every hundred thinking Indians were glad that India
should be a
part of the British Empire. That arrangement was conducive to
stability and
peace. There was no reason why they should have sentimental
affection
towards the British, but they had a feeling of esteem, and they had
common sense.
There was then no appreciable desire for separation from the
Empire. But
Indians wanted self-government, so that they themselves could
determine
such important matters as the development and protection of Indian
trade and the
expenditure on education.
Mrs. Besant
believed that delay in the grant of Dominion Status would gradually
arouse among
the intelligentsia a national feeling, as in Ireland, containing a
powerful
element of mistrust and dislike for the British. Twenty years [200]
afterwards
those of us who had lived in close touch with educated Indians could
see that her
judgment was sound. Hers was a middle policy; many others were
driving to
the extremes of repression and rebellion, which could excite each
other to the
destruction of all reasonableness.
Opponents to
her point of view kept retorting: “But what would happen if the
British army
withdrew?” They ignored the fact that it was the British who had
converted
India into a disarmed people and had denied to her intellectuals the
military
profession, that a moral obligation was involved in the matter, and
that in fact
under Dominion Status no sudden departure of the British army and
British
military officers would have been contemplated. The opponents also
emphasized
the absence of unity of opinion on many subjects in India as a
barrier to
political independence, forgetting that in no nation in the world is
there such
unity.
Mrs. Besant’s
judgment was extremely moderate, and free from any trace of
fanaticism,
and was later justified by time and events. There is now a large and
growing body
of national feeling surging round the idea of complete independence
for India,
which has resulted in a situation which may become embarrassing to
Britain and
highly dangerous in India if Britain again finds herself immersed in
serious
warfare in other parts of the world.
When the
Great War broke out Mrs. Besant used all her influence with Indians to
induce them
to help Britain to win. In the political field she vigorously
combated the
policy of civil disobedience, and broke with Mr. Gandhi on that
ground. One
might resist a particular law, she once told me, in discussing this
point, if one
felt that it was unjust, and take the consequences personally, but
she could not
see that it was right to break a law as a demonstration of
discontent.
That would also leave bad after-effects. But on the other hand India
was not to be
patronized. India is the elephant of the Empire:
Give thy dog
the merest mouthful, and he crouches at thy feet,
Wags his
tail, and fawns, and grovels, in his eagerness to eat;
Bid the
elephant be feeding, and the best of fodder bring;
Gravely –
after much entreaty – condescends that mighty king.
HITOPADESHA.
A few weeks
after Britain had entered the war I was [201] travelling with Mrs.
Besant in the
train from Madras to Madanapalle. I had been dreaming about
battles and
felt that I ought to do my bit, though detested the idea of doing
bodily injury
even to a venomous enemy. I told her in effect: “I don’t want to
leave you,
but I think I ought to go.” Her reaction was not flattering: “Huh, a
nice soldier
you’d make.”
Of course,
she knew about my illness and my frequent fevers, from which,
however, I
was free at the moment, and it is highly probable that I should have
broken down
in health in a few days under trench conditions. But I must have
looked rather
rueful, for she soon broke into a laugh which took the cutting
edge off her
remark, and said: “But seriously, there must be a few who do not
go, and with
this complicated educational work on hand, which is very important,
I do not see
how you can be spared.”
Later,
conscription was introduced, the examining doctors put me in the A class,
and after a
few months of training in the Madras Guards, with a lot of civilians
who seemed to
be keeping their chests where their tummies ought to be, I became
a sapper in
the Electrical Company of the Second Garrison Artillery in Madras.
My chief duty
was to instruct the company in electrical science, pure and
applied, for
which I was selected on account of my knowledge of physics (in
which I had
specialized in electricity) and my then position as principal of a
University
College. My other duty resolved itself into reclining in a deck chair
at night,
looking after the searchlights used in the harbour defence, waiting
for a second
Emden, which never came. A commission was offered on condition of
my going to
Mesopotamia, but I refused it. Anyhow, I fell ill.
When training
in the Madras Guards we used to wear a bayonet at the hip. In my
case it
rubbed the sweating body, even through the khaki stuff, so as to cause a
sore, due, I
understood afterwards, to a remnant of the poison still lingering
in my body.
This developed into a carbuncle and I had a very unpleasant sequence
of two dozen
of those inflictions, accompanied by fever. Once the fever ran so
high that I
felt the necessity of making my will, and so I sent out and called
in two ladies
who were passing by to act as witnesses thereto. Fortunately for
me I was well
nursed by my wife and her mother – I had married the little girl I
had known in
England – not a child marriage, of [202] course, though something
near to it,
according to modern standards!
I must
explain that at the outbreak of the war my future wife was in Paris,
being
“finished.” The French Government instantly called nearly all the men to
military
service, transport was disorganized, and it was several days before the
Government
allowed a train for civilians to proceed to the coast. In the immense
crowd and
confusion all luggage had to be left on the railway platform, though
it turned up
in India three years afterwards. At the gangway of the steamer the
captain stood
with a pistol threatening to shoot if any more of the people tried
to get on the
boat. In England my future wife’s mother had been told to go to
Egypt for the
sake of health, but she had decided on India instead. After an
exciting
voyage on the S.S. City of Marseilles, on which they missed the Emden
by a
hair-breadth – on account of fortunate delays in Port Said and Aden and
some trouble
with the searchlight in the Suez Canal – they arrived at Colombo,
took train
and settled in Madras while I was up country in India.
§3
When I
returned to Adyar I was full of delight at meeting old friends; but was
this weedy
object the knobbly little girl who had played marbles with my heart
in England?
Anyhow, I had no need to think of any possible danger to my bachelor
liberty, for
she had become engaged to a young man in Ceylon who wrote poetry to
her, and –
the damnation of it was – very good poetry, too.
Time went on,
and it happened that the mother and daughter were staying in a
bungalow at
Ootacamund – the fashionable summer resort of the Madras Presidency,
in the
Nilgiri mountains, where even the Government of Madras betakes itself for
six months of
the hot season – and I was staying in a little cottage near by.
The daughter
was ill in bed. It seems that an elderly friend, belonging to a
mountainous
country in Europe (I do not want to disclose his name, as it is
fairly well
known) had induced her to try a tiny amount of arsenic – a habit of
his – and
this had disturbed a colony of worms – politely called “little
brothers” –
and occasioned the sickness, which lasted for several days. [203]
Hearing of
this sickness I was sufficiently concerned to determine that I would
try
thought-power as a help towards a cure. So every day I sat in my room, and
in my
imagination pumped along the ether enough imaginary vitality to
resuscitate a
regiment of gassed elephants! Thanks to a local chemist, the
illness was
soon over. The ladies betook themselves to Madras, not along with
me, but with
a wretched yellow cat over which we had some words, because I
thought that
it was an imbecile cat, and could not be persuaded to say
otherwise.
Later, when I
returned to Madras I heard that the engagement had been broken
off. The young
man had wanted to kiss his fiancee too much, and she had not
liked being
kissed so much, at least by him. According to the inevitability of
things we
were duly engaged, and what is not so inevitable, married. What fun,
even though
the spectre of “duty” and “the cause” hovered over us. My wife had
allayed her
conscience by going to Mrs. Besant and telling her that she would
not marry me
if that would be at all harmful to “the work.”
“Of course,
it would not” – Mrs. Besant melted into radiant kindness at the
touch of
romance.
“I have been
suspecting it,” she told me.
We had a
grand wedding in the hall at Adyar, Mrs. Besant in the place of priest.
She made a
speech and handed to me the ring to be put on my bride’s finger, and
by her
presence and words and actions gave sacramental character to the
occasion.
In the
morning before that we had been to the registrar of civil marriages. What
a hectic
procedure that had been, for such civil marriages were rare. I first
went to the
Government offices in Madras to learn the name and address of the
official in
my district, Mr. Daddy, I was informed. I searched for Mr. Daddy,
but Mr. Daddy
had been dead some time. I felt I could compose a sarcastic little
song entitled
“Daddy is dead.” I made further enquiries. In another village,
five miles
away, there was a Mr. Hart. He functioned properly.
Prophetic
names and events. As a daddy I was a deader, as I have already
related, but
there was nothing the matter with Mr. Hart, nor with my heart. I
knocked Mr.
Hart up at dead of night, even as my heart had been awakened from
its slumber.
He came to the shuttered door and spoke [204] fearfully, thinking
thieves were
about, even as my heart had done. But he opened the door. Yes, he
had been
appointed registrar of civil marriages, and the late Mr. Daddy’s box of
records was
over in the corner, and he would go through it and find the
necessary
papers. After appropriate legal delays, he pronounced the commonplace
words which
produced the uncommon effort of making us man and wife, and as I
have said,
Mrs. Besant lent her glory to the occasion afterwards.
As I have
been talking about curious coincidences in names, I may mention that I
once entered
a doctors’ chambers in the city of Hamilton in Canada, and found
there, among
others, the following name-plates: Dr. Payne, Dr. Kill, Dr. Death
and Dr.
Cottyn. Believe it or not, this is absolutely true. The reader may if he
likes verify
it in the local telephone directory for 1921-22.
After the
wedding we went off to the railway station in Mrs. Besant’s motor-car,
en route for
Madanapalle and Proddutur – another place where I was building a
large
high-school, which is now the municipal school.
At
Madanapalle I had undertaken to put nine thirty-six-feet iron trusses on the
twenty-four-foot
high walls of the main hall, with a minimum of scaffolding
material,
which was very scarce in those parts. I fixed two short strong
projecting
beams on one end wall, well above the height of the side walls,
hoisted the
truss by these – a little diagonally so that it would not strike the
side walls –
and then twisted it and lowered it so that the ends rested on the
walls.
The next
process was even more ticklish. I posted a strong man on each wall with
a crowbar. It
was their business to edge the truss along the wall inch by inch –
a distance of
ninety feet for the first truss, eighty feet for the second, and
so on – while
two gangs of workmen held on to two ropes attached to the apex of
the truss,
and moved inch by inch as the men on the wall moved, so as to keep
the truss
vertical all the time. There was no talking. The movements were all
made in
co-ordination, in response to my signals with a bell, which I held in my
hand while I
stood directly under the truss so as to give confidence to all
concerned.
A man’s work
this, I felt. But fortunately there is room in the male body for
common sense
as well as for such romantic things, about which it can be so proud
and foolish.
[205] My wife could soften this grim builder. “As others did not
hear us” this
process would go something like this:
“Look -” (she
wanted to tell me something and this was the equivalent of the
American
“Say!” or the military “’Shun!”).
“I am always
looking.”
“Don’t be
silly. Go away.”
“Don’t ask
the impossible.”
And the
conversation would continue without words, its original subject
forgotten.
I soon
withdrew my unspoken thought about weeds. One morning there was no towel
in the
bathroom. I heard a voice:
“Darling,
bring me a towel.”
I handed it
through the slightly opened door, without intending to look, but I
caught a
glimpse of the whitest, straightest and most compact little body that
the sun had
never shone on. I had never dreamed that such things lurked under
the fluttery
garments of that day.
§4
After a week
or so at Madanapalle we entrained for Proddutur – most of a night’s
journey. At
three o’clock in the morning we got out at Yerraguntla station. In
the darkness a
large bullock-cart, big enough to sleep in, awaited us, and two
big bulls lay
near by. To the tune of “Giddap!” (in the vernacular, of course)
our bulls
arose and allowed themselves to be yoked and started on their way,
while we lay
on straw heaped on the floor of the cart.
About six
o’clock there was a river to cross – generally a sandy bed perhaps two
miles wide,
with a small stream to ford in one part of it, but in the rainy
season a huge
torrent, which sometimes came along at great speed and filled the
sandy bed
with a swirling mass of waters, which had again and again took carts
and people by
surprise and carried them away. The surrounding country was
treeless and
flat for miles. One lone tree constituted the half-way house
between the
railway station and the river bank. The rest was rich black cotton
soil, which
was a veritable goldmine for the indigo planters before synthetic
indigo came
in.
It was on
this journey that I had once remarked with surprise on the immense
size and
strength of the bulls – [206] they were of what is known as the Nellore
breed – in
view of the fact that the straw on which I lay was the chief part of
their
prospective food. The driver wanted to know if I had ever tried eating
straw myself.
No. Would I take a little and chew it for a long time? After ten
minutes or so
I found a small piece – I would not venture on a large one – quite
succulent. I
speculated by analogy that perhaps the long mental and emotional
chewing of
the cud of past experience common among old people brings out of that
apparently
unpromising material some succulence unknown to others, just as in
the reverse a
child’s emotions can draw wonders of delight from a doll which is
little more
than a “rag and a bone and a hank of hair.”
Arrived on
the further bank of the river-bed, we had an hour’s journey to our
destination.
At the entrance to the town we were received with great rejoicings
and special
honours – many people, garlands, a horse and dog-cart, borrowed
probably from
some Englishman in the neighbourhood, and a brass band. Greetings
and
felicitous enquiries over, we climbed to the back seat of the dog-cart,
which was not
intended for swift transit to our destination, but as a chariot of
honour and a
moving pedestal on which we could be seen.
We started at
a walking pace, a man leading the horse. Soon the brass band
started also,
in its own inimitable way. On the instant, the horse bolted,
knocking down
the man leading it, and we sped at breakneck speed through the
narrow
streets, between the stone houses set at many and various angles on
either side.
It would be impossible to keep our seats, I thought, even if the
horse avoided
the jutting corners, for every time that we struck a stone or
irregularity
in our path the light cart sprang into the air. It behaved more
like a tin
can tied to the tail of a frenzied dog than a cart behind a horse. I
began to
climb over the back of the seat. I thought I would try to crawl along
the shafts to
the neck of the horse and there gather up the reins, which were
trailing on
the ground. While I was still climbing, my wife was thrown out
headlong at
one side, and a few seconds later we crashed against the corner of a
house.
I got to my
feet, staggered back to where my wife was lying still in a drain,
picked her up
in my arms, commandeered an empty country cart, similar to that
which had
brought us from the railway station, lifted her inside, [207] climbed
in beside
her, and collapsed in a mess of blood – my own, for my wife, though
badly
bruised, was unbroken, but I was cut about the head. The next I knew, we
were in a
cotton jinning factory, and a doctor was binding up my head. We
continued our
honeymoon for four days, lying in twin cots in the factory, until
we were fit
to be removed back to Madras.
It was in
connection with the school building at Proddutur that I had a passage
at arms with
the then Director of Public Instruction, Mr. Stone, whom I
otherwise
liked and respected. By the way, our European names gave much
amusement to
Indian friends. At Madanapalle they had had a series of British
officials in
various departments named Partridge, Rice, Cotton and Stone, and
now there was
a Wood. The Hindus always bear the names of God – of which there
are more than
a thousand – such as Krishnamurti, literally “The Dark Form,”
which refers
to the blue-black rain-cloud, bringer of life-giving water to the
parched
lands, or again, Nityananda, literally “Constant Joy.” Women, however,
have names of
goddesses or flowers.
I had planned
the new high-school building at Proddutur with five equal arms,
containing
three class-rooms in each, standing at equal angles with one another
and meeting
at the centre in a pentagonal hall, which had its roof higher than
the rooms, in
order to provide for lighting from above. Mr. Stone said to me
that it would
look like a jail. I was not then familiar with jails; my school
building had
been planned with no other considerations than those of internal
convenience,
scientific lighting and ventilation, and external beauty. “Why do
you not get
an expert to provide you with designs?” he rather acidly enquired.
“Well, you
see, we think we are the experts,” was my innocent reply.
This to an official
in India years ago was almost sacrilege. Yet I knew that the
next expert
that came along would play havoc with the theories of his
predecessor
in office. Had I not seen my green black-board praised to the skies
and then
lowered beneath the earth? Black was so bad for the children’s eyes.
Black was the
most restful thing for the eyes to stare at.
In the
excitement of the moment I could not invite Mr. Stone’s particular
attention to
my new invention to be [208] installed in every class-room – my
“automatic
sun-suction cooling apparatus.” Whether my invention was ever put
into the
building I do not know, for I have not seen the finished work, though I
have heard
that it helps to swell the municipal pride. Like many great
inventions
its best point was its simplicity! It consisted in nothing more than
a length of
iron tube piercing the roof and standing some four feet above it,
like a
chimney, painted black, and suitably cowled against the rain, and it
would work by
getting hot in the sun and so setting up a current of air which
would pump
all the hot air from underneath the ceiling of the room. And it was
hot at
Proddutur, some say the hottest place in the Madras Presidency; one could
not touch a
piece of iron that had been lying in the sun.
§5
Peace was not
to be the order of the day in our educational work any more than
in the
outside world. Our Educational Trust, with its thirty-seven institutions,
was too good
to last. Many of the teachers were eager followers of Mrs. Besant
and members
of the Home Rule League, which, though strictly constitutional in
its policy,
was, after all, political. Some of our teachers were, perhaps,
sometimes
zealous out of season, but Government went to the opposite extreme and
was for ever
causing irritation by issuing orders.
This produced
a certain amount of defiance, as extremes will always provoke one
another.
Unfortunately one of our teachers decidedly overstepped the bounds of
our own
policy – which was that whilst students should be given opportunity to
hear views
about methods of government from every angle, political activity
should not be
theirs until they reached maturity. He himself took students to
political meetings,
and encouraged them when they jeered at a reactionary old
gentleman who
had, as it happened, some influence with government. We were
threatened
with disaffiliation of our college at Madanapalle unless the teacher
was
dismissed.
Mrs. Besant
was of opinion that this policy of the Government with regard to
education
would breed only two kinds of citizens – the servile and the
rebellious,
the latter more secret than open. It would be ruinous to the
character of
[209] the country’s youth. Under the circumstances she declined to
parley with
reference to the teacher, but herself threw off the affiliation, and
joined with a
large number of reformers to produce a new educational body named
The Society
for the Promotion of National Education (briefly the S.P.N.E.). The
governing
body was composed of a hundred people active and well known in the
country. The
idea was to form a new independent national University, issuing
private
diplomas and degrees, without the authority of Government (which, it was
argued, was
using educational organization for political purposes), and having
colleges and
schools affiliated to it all over India.
The
Madanapalle College was pitched upon as the first college of the new
University,
and to recognize my services Mrs. Besant proposed that its name be
altered to
Wood College, and so it remained as long as the University lasted.
The various
schools of the Educational Trust were given the option of joining
the new body,
setting up an independent existence, or going under other
management.
The Proddutur High-School, for example, went to the Proddutur
Municipality.
Our new
policy was not really different from the old; students should not take
active part
in politics, but should learn as much as they liked about politics.
The elder
students were to be instructed in the theory of government as it
existed in
various countries; the younger were to be given a course of Civics,
for which I
was commissioned to write a text-book, which duly appeared under the
title: A Text
Book of Indian Citizenship.
For what
precise reasons I do not know, in the summer of 19I7, shortly after the
formation of
this new educational society, the Government served internment
orders on
Mrs. Besant and two of her colleagues who had been particularly active
in connection
with her daily newspaper. They were given a choice of several cool
and healthy
places of residence, and decided to occupy the bungalow of the
Theosophical
Society at Ootacamund. There Mrs. Besant insisted on flying and
saluting the
Home Rule flag, despite the objections of the authorities.
This
internment suspended for a few months Mrs. Besant’s own personal
educational
activity in its third transformation. First she had had the Central
Hindu
College, which was ultimately absorbed by the Hindu University, [210]
which
bestowed upon her an honorary Doctorate in recognition of her services.
Thenceforward
she was known as Dr. Besant, which I always thought much less
effective and
pleasing than the simple Mrs. Annie Besant which we always heard
before.
Secondly, she had the Theosophical Educational Trust. Now came The
Society for
the Promotion of National Education, of which she, as Chairman of
the Executive
Committee, was the life and soul, though that body contained many
distinguished
people, including Sir Rash Behari Ghose and Sir Rabindranath
Tagore, in
its high positions of President and Chancellor. [211]
-------Cardiff Theosophical Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24-1DL
CHAPTER XI
SOME PUBLIC
MEN
§1
Mrs. Besant
being interned, I threw myself heartily into the new movement, to do
what I could
in her absence. I wrote an article almost every day on some topic
related to
national education, and these appeared in nearly all the Indian
dailies –
except those owned by European interests – sometimes under my own
name,
sometimes as leaders.
A young man
in Sind offered a start of Rs. 20,000 if I would go up there and try
to found a
college similar to that at Madanapalle. I accepted this prospect. It
was an
interesting journey to the north. I made three principal stops on the way
– in the
first I stayed with Mr. B. G. Tilak at Poona, in the second at Baroda,
and in the
third I spent a day with Mr. Gandhi at his home near Ahmedabad.
Mr. Tilak,
very fiery as a patriot, was the gentlest and softest of men in
private life.
My wife and I slept on cots set up for us in his old and
closely-packed
library. There was only just room between the shelves set in
parallel rows
across the floor. I felt happy with thousands upon thousands of
books for
bedroom companions. Books are restful things – perhaps that is their
chief or only
fault.
Mr. Tilak
spoke sadly of the slice which had been cut out of his life by his
deportation,
for no fault that he could see, and most of all sorrowed that the
death of his
wife should have occurred during his absence from home. He took the
chair for me
at a lecture which I gave in a theatre in Poona, which for all I
know may have
been the same theatre as that in which Mr. Gokhale had presided
for me years
before, when the followers of Mr. Tilak, then an unwilling guest of
the
Government, had made a disturbance. [212]
At Baroda I
lectured in the college hall, with H.H. the Gaekwar in the audience.
A square had
been cleared at the centre of the first few rows of chairs and a
rich carpet
laid there, with two chairs in the middle of it, one for himself,
one for my
wife. His Highness made it the occasion to speak, after my lecture
was over, of
his own rule and his own State, and to explain how much internal
distinctions
of caste and the like were standing in the way of his hopes and
efforts for
social and constitutional advancement. On the following day he
called us to
the palace and questioned me closely on many points of educational
reform. He
was obviously seeking for clear-cut workable ideas and the fruits of
experience,
and was not the man to occupy himself with hopes, fancies and
dreams.
Certainly his State reflected much of his high purpose and business-like
methods.
Baroda was
educating nearly eighty per cent of its boys and close upon fifty per
cent of its
girls, while in the territory of the British Raj only about eight
per cent of
the population was literate. There were also 45 town and 655 village
libraries,
serving sixty per cent of the population of the State. I was
particularly
struck with the travelling library system. A box of books was sent
to each
village, kept there in the charge of the local schoolmaster or some
other
official for some time, and then exchanged for a different one. That
system served
the whole State, and would be a blessing in other parts of India
as well, for
India is a land of villages. Ninety per cent of the population is
scattered in
some three-quarters of a million hamlets, and it is not
economically
possible to have a permanent collection of books in each of these.
Not least
among the improvements in Baroda was the children’s library,
up-to-date
and resembling those of America.
At Ahmedabad
we spent a day with Mr. Gandhi. He was one of the very few
prominent
Indian leaders who had not lent their names to the Society for the
Promotion of
National Education. We spent most of the morning talking about
education and
political matters. He would not join our new scheme. He did not
like our
system. To him it was highly distasteful on account of its
glorification
of the fruits of modern science and its appeal to young Indians to
develop modern
industrial and commercial organizations, as the Japanese had
done. To him,
that was all wrong. It could not make for human happiness, which
was to be
found in [213] the midst of such simple work and such simple society
as may be
required to maintain humanity in the natural state and in contact with
nature. Of
factory systems with their soul-destroying labour and competition he
would have
none; hectic work followed by hectic pleasure, both loaded with
opportunities
for many forms of human conflict, were all that they could bring
to mankind.
Mr. Gandhi
was a disciple of Tolstoy. In the afternoon we rested in his library
upstairs; a
large room lined with books and portraits – dozens of them it seemed
– of Leo
Tolstoy. How attractive was that personality, which did not seek human
applause and
company, but nevertheless received it, which worked against the
growing
tendency to convert humanity into a hive of ants or bees, which
reverenced
the completeness of the human individual as something to be
cherished, to
be preserved if possible against the inroads of social and
economic
specialization, the new efficiency. Tolstoy lived as he thought, an
example of
his own theory of distributed activities of the day – manual labour,
creative
activity, reading, personal intercourse. His vegetarian ideals have
recently
gained much ground. We were told later, when travelling in Bulgaria,
that more
than half the population of that country had been converted to that
form of diet
by his life and writings.
Understand
Tolstoy, and I think you have understood Gandhi. We took meals with
him in his
simple dining-room which might have been any dining-room in any
village
cottage, but his food, in contrast to that of his contemporaries, which
stung and
burnt and almost blistered the mouth and tongue, was devoid of all
condiments.
“Simplicity is best,” it seemed to say. “Do not seek artificial
enhancement
of natural appetites, and happiness will take care of itself.” I was
reminded of a
verse of Blake’s :
He who takes
to himself a joy
Doth the
winged life destroy,
But he who
kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in
eternity’s sunrise.
My own theory
of industrialism for India was somewhere midway between that of
Mr. Gandhi
and that of Dr. Besant, who was all for the whirling wheels of modern
mass-production,
though she frequently deplored the passing of handwork in arts
and crafts –
some feminine inconsistency [214] in this, a wanting of things both
ways at once,
which worked well on the platform of the orator, but not so well
in the
courtyards of ordinary life.
I looked
forward to the days when industrialization, minus competition, plus
social
organization, would provide for all common needs in a maximum of a few
hours’ work a
day, as it should do if there is truth in the estimate that
machinery
provides an average of fifteen slaves for every man. But I thought it
would be well
that India should delay the development of her factory system
until the
more modern world had solved its worst economic problems, had fought
its most
dreadful economic battles and found a place of peace. Let peaceful
India remain
simple; afterwards the fruits of Western conflict could be hers
without the
conflict.
However, I
had always been encouraged to believe that “Mother knows best.” I set
aside any
thought of my own and discounted any others, such as those of Mr.
Gandhi, which
conflicted with Mrs. Besant, and went on my educational way with
energy and
enthusiasm, though not without misgiving.
§2
We pursued
our journey into Rajputana and across the desert. At length we saw
before us in
the hazy atmosphere a vast army of the sheeted dead, stretching
ghostly arms
gesturing eternal despair by aimless flight. Strangest of
travellers’
visions in all the world this, when first seen, I think, but a
vision soon
to fade in actuality into a mass of wind-catchers erected on the
roofs of the
town of Hyderabad, which my wife and I were to learn to know as one
of the
hottest cities of India’s torrid land.
Hyderabad,
Sind, I count one of the most picturesque towns in India. At close
quarters it
fulfils all the romantic promise of its strange appearance when
viewed across
the desert. Running along a hillside there is a mile-long street
which serves
as main bazaar, scarcely wide enough for two of the rich merchants’
carriages to
pass – rich carriages and glossy horses, the pride of Sind, and
merchants in
simple white clothes and white hats costing perhaps only a day’s
keep of the
horses.
A guttural
warning, and all foot-passengers must squeeze [215] themselves into
the shop
fronts or the narrow lanes, to let a camel train pass by. It will pass
anyhow, so
they had better get out of the way. Four or five, ten or twenty of
the lordly
creatures pass, stepping with long and even paces, slow in motion but
swift in
effect, supercilious eyes looking from on high along lifted noses at
the scurrying
human rodents whom their passage has disturbed. Big feet, shaggy
knotted
knees, huge bundles on yellow matted sides, long necks, horizontal heads
and noses –
we must shift our gaze several times to take in these spacious
particulars,
and put these views together to form a synthetic picture of this
lordly
visitant rather than denizen of our earth. Only the hanging lip and the
tiny tail
seem out of concord, lacking both beauty and power.
We were to
know camels well before we were finished with Hyderabad, and my wife
proved to be
a first-class camel rider and driver, as she was of all things
rideable and
driveable – horses, mules, motor-cars, bicycles and all the ilk,
except swings
and roundabouts, for which she always had a veritable camel’s
scorn. Many a
jaunt did we take on camel back, she handling the reins, I sitting
behind, over
the desert, with its beauty of light and colour as lovely as any
garden. The
desert has a constancy which captures the heart and makes parting
sadder then
any leaving of the flowers, with all their teasing and breath-taking
reddened
lips, plucked brows and inviting eyes. But to be perfect the desert
needs a
river, and that we had in the Indus, most majestic of flowing waters.
The lanes of
the city where the merchants dwelt, on either side of the bazaar,
were narrow
enough for only two persons to pass and uninviting with a trickle of
waste water
down the centre and mud or dust on either side of this. You step up
a lane and
turn off through a doorway in the walls that rise high on either
side, and you
are in the courtyard of a palace, for only so can be described the
homes of the
wealthy merchants of this trading centre – the Bhaibund community
who, with
singular courage and ability, have established themselves in every
port of the
world where East meets West and, in the words of Kipling:
... There is
neither East nor West
Border, nor
Breed, nor Birth,
When two
strong men stand face to face,
Tho’ they
come from the ends of the earth! [216]
Bhaibunds and
Amals – the Hindu Sikhs of Sind – and Mussulmans all rejoiced at
the prospect
of a National College in their midst – no, not exactly in their
midst, for
there was no room in that crowded hive – hive for its busyness, not
for its
regimentation – but on its outskirts in an old farm, standing on the
banks of an
ancient canal that skirted the town. All came forward to help, some
with their
thousands of rupees, some with their tens, some with their annas and
pies.
In a week we
had five thousand pounds in hand. In a fortnight building
alterations
were under way. In three weeks furniture, desks and seats newly
designed –
standing on only two legs the pais, planted in the floor – began to
arrive, along
with science apparatus, books, typewriters, cooking vessels and
many other
things. In a month the staff was engaged. In five weeks from our
arrival on
24th of August, 1917, the machine was ready for the road –
adventurous
as it was to prove – professors and teachers at their posts,
students at
their tasks, their gossip or their games. On October 1st, 1917, by
general
desire I opened the new College in the presence of all the distinguished
people of the
town, and many of the undistinguished, who almost filled our large
main
quadrangle.
The College
has survived all the vicissitudes of the interim and remains to-day
one of the
First Grade Colleges of the Bombay University, a position it assumed
even before
the dissolution of the Society for the Promotion of National
Education and
the National University. In my day it had the unusual degrees of
B.Sc. in
Industrial Science (we prided ourselves on our wood-distillation and
other
apparatus, presided over by Professor Muirson Blake, from Canada); of
B.Ag. (with
many acres of experimental plots and produce-yielding fields around
the College,
watered by our own pumping engine on the banks of the canal – we
even supplied
the army with fodder for a time – managed and taught by Professor
Menghraj
Jagtiani); of B.A. in Political Science, taught by Professor Bhagat Ram
Kumar from
the Punjab and Oxford (now in 1935 Principal of the College, and one
of the best);
and of B.Com. (with its pomp of charts and gleaming typewriters
under
Professor Appudurai Aiyar, from Madras). In that romantic moment these
towered above
the more commonplace degrees of Arts in history and languages,
pure science
and mathematics. [217]
§3
After about
three months’ internment Mrs. Besant was released. Everywhere she
went India
went wild with enthusiasm, and drowned her in flowers and garlands.
Mr. Gandhi’s
civil disobedience, and her opposition to it, were in the womb of
the future,
so there was no conflict to mark the joy and the unity of that
moment, when
it seemed that India would ride swiftly to the victorious goal of
Dominion
Status, Home Rule within the Empire.
Mrs. Besant
was named President of the National Congress for that year. We
joined her in
Calcutta in December, where the Congress was to be held, which my
wife and I
also attended as delegates from Madanapalle. Fifteen thousand people
in one huge
tent; speeches that could not have been heard but for the stillness
and tenseness
that prevailed; men from all over India, leaders in their own
towns and
villages, listening mostly with trained keen brains to the close
reasonings,
irrefutable arguments, carefully marshalled facts, and occasional
indignant
outbursts of the speakers, the proposers, the seconders and the
supporters of
resolution after resolution.
Looking and
listening impartially one could not but see that here were men
sincere,
sober, capable, practical, such as no country in the world could
surpass, and
few equal. Only they lacked the power, the weapons, the opportunity
– these being
withheld, the disturbances of India have never represented India;
they have
originated and operated only as riots of the ignorant and distressed.
One of the
features of that Calcutta Congress was the appearance of hundreds of
women of all
communities, purdahless, and seemingly as brave and free as the
national
songs which poured from their throats – the national songs of India
which speak
little of fighting, or heroism, or triumphs, but much of the beauty
of sky and
earth, of villages and trees and rivers and cultivated fields – the
poetry of
Wordsworth, the music of Swinburne.
Congress
over, we went with Mrs. Besant in the train back to Madras, talking
national
education most of the way.
In carrying
out her bold campaign Mrs. Besant was very concentrated. Once a plan
was decided
upon and the work set in motion she had no time for any side issue
or amusement
and no use for any person who did not fit into [218] that plan. Yet
it seemed to
me that it was not her nature, as many have thought, to take joy in
battle, and
that her greatest happiness took the very quiet form of enjoyment of
the company
of a small circle of harmonious friends.
Thousands
know of the appeal and charm of her personality on the public
platform, of
her unremitting activity in a great variety of social and political
efforts and
also of her great intellectual powers expressed in the literary
field. But
perhaps only her friends know of the extraordinary affection which it
was her
nature to lavish upon them and how closely her sympathies would go with
them, even
sometimes in what she knew to be their foolish desires.
In her latter
days some of her immediate adherents persisted in calling her
“Chief” and
even “General.” I do not know whether she liked it, but I would
never do a
thing like that, and I found her always simple and unpatronizing. It
was always my
view that, though great, she was not without weaknesses. Her very
modesty was a
weakness which sometimes put her at the mercy of others whom she
credited with
knowing more than herself in certain directions. It appeared to me
that she was
most praised as a “Ruler” by those who really ruled her, and could
inherit the
substance of the power engendered by her greatness.
During the
ensuing year my wife and I must have travelled in the train with Mrs.
Besant for at
least four thousand miles, and invariably, although by far the
oldest member
of the party, she would be the first to rise in the morning,
herself
prepare coffee on her little oil stove in the bathroom (quite against
the railway
regulations!) and hand it round smilingly to all. It was a habit of
hers to take
coffee in the mornings and tea in the afternoons, both of the
strongest. In
the train her extraordinary calm and poise showed to the full. She
would sit
quietly and peacefully for hours and days, while other members of the
party chafed
and fretted, and often she would write an article on her knee
-almost the
acme of bodily and mental training, to think and write legibly in
that noisy,
dusty, hot and shaking environment. [219]
-------Cardiff Theosophical Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24-1DL
CHAPTER XII
AN INDIAN
COLLEGE
§1
In the autumn
of 1918 the Sind National College, which I had started the year
before,
almost came to an untimely end. Mrs. Besant’s policy of forming bands of
people
devoting themselves with vows and pledges of service was always effective
for getting
things done, but it seemed to me to have a bad effect on the
character of
the people concerned, who would often assume, at least inwardly, a
superiority
to others which made it quite impossible for them to work with those
others on the
level. If anyone had different opinions he must necessarily be
wrong, for
“ours” had come from a lofty source, and one need not waste time
thinking or
arguing about it! Argument and discussion were characteristic only
of
“difficult” people. The proper thing was obedience – not blind obedience, of
course, but
intelligent intuitive response to spiritual superiors! This method
of Mrs.
Besant’s when making her plans was an old one. Mme Blavatsky had rebuked
her for it in
London when she had issued orders in the working girls’ club that
only those
who joined trade unions would be eligible for the privileges of
membership.
Although
those who obtained the power in this way subscribed to the doctrine of
tolerance,
and the dissentient voice was generally allowed to speak, in the
magazine or
on the platform, it would be once only and then it must lapse into
silence in
the presence of an unthinking majority whose leaders would go on
waving their
flags and singing their songs of praise of each other. The least
breath of
criticism of this policy was “in bad taste,” and marked its
perpetrator out
for oblivion, as guilty of breach of brotherhood by his
criticism of
another. Differences were natural and [220] permissible, but you
must differ
in silence. It created a vicious circle, leaders making followers
and followers
making leaders who had to believe in themselves because so many
others
depended upon them.
When this
policy affected the schools it expressed itself in favouritism and
arbitrariness.
The Sindhis, people of originality, capability and independence,
would not
stand for that kind of thing. A large part of the staff and students
of the Sind
National College were soon in revolt. One day Mrs. Besant sent for
me, told me
about this – I had not known of it, for I was no longer Secretary in
the
educational work, after the new organization took charge, but Mr. G. S
Arundale, who
had lately returned from England, was in that position – and asked
me to go to
Sind as Principal of the College, failing which, she said, there
would be no
alternative but to close down, for she knew no one else who could
pull it
through the crisis. “And,” she added, “you had better stay there until
you can find
someone capable of taking your place.”
So I became
Principal of the College, and took up the work of Professor of
English and
Physics – the latter only temporarily, to fill a vacancy, as my
knowledge of
that exacting subject was even then drifting behind the times.
Suffice it to
say that when the old Principal left and I came in all went well.
Every morning
we all assembled in the main hall for fifteen minutes, for roll
call,
patriotic songs and a five minutes’ talk on some ethical or civic subject
or the news
of the day, after which the students proceeded according to subject
and grade to
one or other of the twenty-four lecture rooms and laboratories. We
did good work
for a year, well appreciated by the students and the public, until
external
events shook the institution to its very foundations.
§2
It was on the
30th of March, 1920, that Mr. Gandhi set up in connection with his
civil disobedience
movement a hartal which was to have far-reaching effects. A
hartal is a
general temporary strike or suspension of business of all kinds,
usually for
one day. This was announced to take place on the Sunday after the
passing of
the Rowlatt Act, which conferred power on the Executive uncontrolled
by [221] the
Judiciary, and was regarded by Indians as a very poor reward for
their help
during the war. Owing to some confusion, this hartal was arranged to
be held on
the following Sunday, April 6th, in some places, including Amritsar.
Four days
later, in that city of the Punjab, Government arrested two political
leaders, Drs.
Kitchelew and Satyapal. A crowd of people went outside the city to
the railway
crossing leading to the Civil Lines, escorting a deputation which
wanted to
interview the Deputy-Commissioner on the matter. There they were
stopped by
the police and the military, some stones were thrown and shots fired,
resulting in
the death of ten people, while the crowd grew to the dimensions of
about thirty
thousand. In the meantime, inside the city a riot began, nobody
knows exactly
how. Three European bank officials were killed, a lady cyclist was
assaulted and
left for dead in the road, but afterwards succoured by some
Indians, two subordinate
officials were killed at the railway goods-yard, and
much damage
was done to public buildings and communications.
Military
reinforcements began to arrive from various places, and the city was
quieted, but
there was a tense situation. On the 12th April, Brigadier-General
Dyer, who had
arrived from Jullundur and taken charge, signed a proclamation
forbidding
all processions and meetings of more than four men, and that
proclamation
was read in several public places on the morning of the 14th,
though there
was difference of opinion as to whether the proclamation had been
given
reasonably sufficient publicity. An announcement appeared that there would
be a public
meeting in the Jallianwalla Bagh, a large oblong of waste land
between the
back walls of houses, entirely enclosed except for a small entrance.
Someone went
through the streets and told the people that there was nothing to
fear and that
they could come to the meeting. The meeting gathered. They had
assembled to
a number variously estimated from six to twenty thousand people
when, at
about half-past four in the afternoon, General Dyer marched into the
Bagh with
fifty men with rifles, and posted them in line near the entrance,
where the
ground was higher than at the other end of the enclosure, where the
meeting was
being held. Order was given to fire. For ten minutes firing
continued,
independent, but controlled for direction, until nearly all the
ammunition
was gone. [222] The crowd was not allowed to disperse. On the
contrary, the
firing was directed especially to a spot where the people were
trying to
escape over a wall which had been partially broken down and was low
enough to be
climbed over. I saw for myself, visiting the place shortly
afterwards, that
the bullet marks were numerous in that low piece of wall, but
comparatively
sparse elsewhere. There was no warning and no permission to
disperse!*
(*An excellent account of the incident may be read in Imperial
Policing,
written by Major-General Sir C. W. Gwynn.)
News of this
disaster spread like wildfire throughout India. It reached us early
in the
Province of Sind, adjacent to the Punjab, and caused an intensity of
feeling of
which nobody could estimate the outcome. In a morning class in our
high-school
department, which my wife was taking, a small boy got up and cried
out
passionately: “It will be your turn next.” She laughed at him, but we went
to bed that
night with misgivings, nevertheless. However, the danger passed
over. But it
left our College in a powerless state, because its Principal and
its
management were not supporters of Mr. Gandhi’s civil disobedience, even
subsequent to
this dreadful event, which converted millions to its standard.
In ten
minutes General Dyer had destroyed the predisposition of Indians to
appreciate
the British. Before that, the Briton visiting an Indian country-place
was welcomed
with smiles, even though the inhabitants would whisper among
themselves:
“What has he come for?” But after that event a sullen look would
replace the
former smiles. Harm was done that day which can never be repaired,
and it was
made the worse when it was known that a strong group in England
acclaimed
General Dyer a saviour of the prestige and power of British rule in
India.
Called to
account for his conduct, General Dyer explained that he wanted to
inflict a
lesson which would affect the whole of the Punjab and perhaps all
India. But if
every subordinate officer, even a Brigadier-General, were to
assume the
authority to punish, what would become of the power of the central
Government?
Firm measures may sometimes be required, but the authority to punish
and to “teach
a lesson” cannot rightly be assumed by an individual. Such action
was
flagrantly out of keeping with the principles [223] which have become
traditional
among the officers of the British Army.
The days of
immediate excitement passed off, but a division was created in the
ranks of the
home rulers. The extreme left followed Mr. Gandhi in his policy of
civil disobedience.
Much as I have liked and admired Mr. Gandhi, and friends as
we have been,
if I may say so, in the few opportunities afforded by such a busy
life as his,
I personally have always felt that his policy was unpractical.
Truly, as he
said, if the people had followed him fully he would have won home
rule within
six months, but it seemed to me easy to predict that the people
would not
follow to the extent needed for that. It was not in human nature, not
even in
Indian human nature, with its marvellous capacity for suffering in
silence, to
preserve perfect non-violence when exasperated by the sight of the
suffering of
women and children. When I remarked upon this to one professor of
history he
replied:
“Do I not
know it? I am a professor of history, and I tell you that never in the
history of
mankind has a subject nation gained its independence without
violence.”
But he was
willing to be a pillar in the non-violent movement at least for the
time being. I
thought it was only a question of time before the movement which
Mr. Gandhi
started would swell to a torrent, sweep over him and leave him far
behind.
The new left
wing in our locality then turned their attention to our College.
“You call
yourselves a National College,” they said, “but you will not urge your
students into
the activities of the national movement.”
Mr. Patel
visited our College, and we gave to him, as to all others, the
opportunity
to address the students. He said: “These are abnormal times. They
are not the
times for learning arithmetic and other such subjects. If
self-government
is to be won within a year, you students should go out and do
propaganda in
the villages.” Two or three students went away.
The local
Nationalists now demanded that the College should be given over to
them. And
when we would not do this they advised the people to withhold
donations,
and with considerable effect. The situation was exacerbated because
Mrs. Besant
had written with reference to the Amritsar shooting that it was only
to be
expected that brickbats would be followed by bullets. Her stock went down
to a [224]
very low figure. She did not care what happened to her popularity.
But as she
was the chairman of the managing committee of the body that owned our
College, this
reacted upon us. Students’ societies were formed outside our
gates, and in
those they were urged to active political work.
We held our
position. Students should hear all political points of view, but if
they followed
our advice they would abstain from actions and even from making
important
decisions. I thought that if sufficient elders could not come forward
to practise
civil disobedience with great self-sacrifice it was wrong to urge
children into
the firing line.
The principle
of non-co-operation invaded the details of our work. Again and
again there
were strikes about small matters – ordinary strikes, lightning
strikes and
sympathy strikes. What our students did not know about strikes was
simply not
known. But we weathered the storm, though I personally fell ill again
afterwards,
of both fever and carbuncle.
§3
With regard
to my malarial fever, I had an interesting experience with an
American mission
doctor. He told me that he had a sure cure for malaria, but
practically
nobody would submit to it. I told him I would if it did not involve
me in
anything to which I objected on principle. He smiled. Quite the reverse:
it involved a
certain amount of fasting.
His point was
roughly as follows. Germs are being born in the blood when you get
a bout of
high temperature. Those germs can be killed by means of quinine when
they are five
days old; before that, quinine merely holds them for any length of
time in a
state of arrested development. Quinine acts best when there is little
or no food in
the stomach. So, take frequent doses of quinine for two days and
nights,
fasting entirely, and thus kill off the old germs. Then, for five days
take no food
but clear soup, without any quinine, while the youngsters are
growing up.
After that, for two more days and nights, fast, and take quinine
periodically,
to kill the new crop of elders. Then none will be left to breed
again. I
followed his advice, and was freed completely and permanently from
malarial
fever.
But the
carbuncles started again in my back. I had been [225] playing football
with the
students and one of them came at me with full force with the sharp
point of his
elbow in the middle of my back. A carbuncle developed there, which
surpassed all
its predecessors. It would not come out, so at last I lay on one
of my physics
tables and had it cut out by two Indian surgeons. They told me
afterwards
that it was within a hair-breadth of the lung and they had operated
only just in
time.
As I lay
getting better from this operation I had a strange occult experience,
which – as I
have said before with regard to such matters – need not be taken
seriously. I
simply record. A voice seemed to say to me: “That is over, you will
have no more
carbuncles. But there is another thing: you will have some trouble
in the
respiratory tract. Will you take that all at once now, or little by
little?” My
wife had been dreadfully pained by my suffering with carbuncles, and
by the
operation, so I chose little by little.
Sure enough
it came; now and then I have been troubled with asthma, and recently
when I had my
lungs X-rayed in hospital they told me that I had at some time had
some tuberculosis
of the lungs and had got over it – though I had known nothing
about it.
Talking about
X-rays, I once had an amusing experience in Cyprus, where a doctor
friend had a
fine outfit of apparatus which he was showing to a party of several
people,
including myself. Each of us stood in turn on a little platform while he
and the
others looked at the visible radiograph on the screen.
“How
strange,” said the doctor, “you have a drunkard’s liver.”
He knew I was
a life-long teetotaller, and of generally abstemious disposition.
He could not
at all understand how I had acquired a drunkard’s liver. Some time
afterwards I
realized what had happened. In the fob pocket of my American
trousers I
was wearing a rather large hunting watch, given to me by my father
before I left
for India. This it must have been which had masqueraded as a
drunkard’s
liver. In confirmation of my theory, there was no trace of such a
liver in my
X-ray photograph taken later in hospital.
To confirm my
health we went for the summer vacation to Kashmir. A month on
house-boat
and ponies, and in camps beside the glaciers and among the mountains
of the [226]
Zoji-la Pass leading into Tibet did all that was required. Crossing
some of the
glaciers was dangerous; we dismounted from our ponies and trusted to
our hands and
knees. In the pass we were mistaken for thieves. Our Indian friend
thought of
buying some jewels from a merchant on his way to India from the
Tibetan
sources of his wealth. We looked at the stock and had some preliminary
talk, but
when we arose from sleep we found that the merchant had struck camp
and stolen
silently away. Twice before I had been similarly suspected. Once, in
Madras,
Subrahmanyam and I had taken a long walk in the moonlight (thirty-two
miles – what
youth will do I). As we sat resting in a field beside the road, a
small party
of villagers came along. As soon as they saw us they tucked up their
dhoties and
fled at top speed! The third occasion had been when I disturbed the
registrar of
marriages in the middle of the night.
After another
year’s work in the College I thought the time was ripe for it to
try its luck
with an Indian Principal. I say luck, for the success of an
institution
depends much more on the character and personality of the Principal
than on his
knowledge or learning. It was also more than high time for me to pay
a visit to my
father and mother in England. I took a year’s leave, having
arranged for
one of the senior professors to act as Principal, and arranged with
Mrs. Besant
to take a year’s lecturing tour round the world. Our first objective
was Japan.
[227]
BOOK III
-------Cardiff Theosophical Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24-1DL
CHAPTER I
WHERE BEAUTY
RULES
§1
For a sea
voyage let me commend a cargo boat of five or six thousand tons. It
sits nicely
in the water, makes its nine or ten knots without quivering (in
Bombay
harbour we could not feel the difference when the tug boats cast off and
we were
moving under our own steam), rolls steadily when it rolls and pitches
steadily when
it pitches, and it does not fill you with the restless sensation
that it is
racing to its destination – the subtle suggestion which the big
liners give
that the open sea is something to be done with, to be away from and
forgotten as
soon as possible. And when you arrive in the small ports on the way
it generally
goes right inside and lingers and becomes your hotel – instead of
standing far
out and aloof – so that at any moment you can take a walk on land
and take a
look at local life, often in unfamiliar ports.
Our ocean
wave was calm from Bombay to Colombo, from Colombo to Singapore, from
Singapore to
Shanghai, but in the China Sea, in the Inland Sea of Japan and off
the coast of
Japan we had a lot of weather. The Calcutta Maru treated the storms
as it treated
the calms; it was hilly road instead of flat road, but bumpy road
scarcely
ever. It toddled up one side of the big waves and down the other with
the same
cheerful restful disregard of time with which it had moved round the
south of
Ceylon and the north of Sumatra, skirting the land closely to shorten
the journey,
to economize the coal.
All on board
were Japanese except our two selves, who were the only passengers.
Japanese
ceremonial politeness replaced for us the matter-of-factness of India.
The
serving-boy would enter our cabin with cat-like quietness and [231]
suppleness,
put down his tray, lift his cap and bow, with a smile comfortable,
warm, but
self-sufficient and seeming to require no response, resume the tray,
arrange the
articles on the cabin table, and depart by inverse process. In the
dining-room
one table was for us, one for the officers, who knew English only in
the Japanese
way, that is, enough for business, but not enough for conversation,
except the
most meagre. On the decks we had full freedom – sitting, talking with
the captain,
popping into the chart-room to see what was coming next, watching
the sailors
at work or at play, or bathing and sunning themselves, stark naked
and rightly
unashamed, on the forecastle head.
Japan is the
land of literal beauty. Insert the mind, begin to interpret, and
the beauty is
lost. In India it is quite the reverse. No one will say that the
figures of
the images which constitute Indian sculpture are literally beautiful.
I believe
that the statues in temples produced with so much devotional care and
worshipful
attention in ancient times were done with no thought of beauty. It
was power
that the sculptors worshipped. Power in the deity represented by
numerous arms
and symbols. Power sacrificed by the artist on the altar of the
divinity’s
power, in the production of these glorifying images. So though one
says “How
beautiful” in the presence of these things, it is the beauty of
something
held in the imagination, in a thought revived and stimulated by the
form. An
Indian will give you a monster bouquet, because he thinks of power. The
Japanese will
give you one flower, because he thinks of beauty.
Beauty and
simplicity go together in Japan. It is the function of the artist to
lay bare, not
to ornament; he discloses something simple which is at the root of
things. The
mountain Fujiyama – a constant theme of the Japanese artist, who
does not want
“a hundred miles of eternal snow” – we were able to see on rare
occasions
from our window in Yokohama, seventy miles away. It was just an
exquisite
line poised in the air, the base of the mountain being unseen through
the denser
atmosphere, a line of pure beauty, not rooted in mass. For beauty on
paper and
canvas, few lines suffice in Japan. But I had better be silent, for
beauty speaks
for itself, and our mental analysis can do nothing better than
remove a few
scales from our eyes and then remove itself and leave beauty
unalloyed.
[232]
One of the
first delights of my wife and myself in Japan was to see the working
men on the
wharves and in the streets, in their loose black and white coats –
black ground,
white figuring. An adaptation of these coats, flowering in
brightest
colours and masses of pattern, we found later in the European and
American
market, under the designation of “happy coats.” We were struck by the
simple
designs of the original, though could we have read them no doubt some of
our pleasure
would have gone away, for we were told afterwards that they were
only the
names or symbols of the firms to which they belonged, who evidently
definitely
believed in either marking their property or advertising themselves.
In somewhat
the same manner my wife has among her trinkets a charming little
pendant in
the form of a bell. She had had it for a long time before she met
someone who
could read the inscription on it, which was in Russian, and
contained the
sage advice to drink somebody’s beer – after paying for it, of
course!
Another
simple pleasure, with no illusions, was the long narrow envelope,
decorated
with a few scrolls or a simple flower, in which you would receive even
the most
commonplace missive, be it only an advertisement from a stores. There,
too, the
wrapping paper was a thing of beauty, though most of the Japanese
customers
dispensed with it, for they brought their own wrapper – a
dark-coloured
silk or woollen square, one corner decorated with a strong design,
sometimes
geometrical, sometimes picturing a natural object of special
affection,
such as a pair of flying swans or a golden carp.
King of shops
is the toy shop-dolls for girls, kites for boys, trick boxes and I
do not know
what bewildering variety of other things for all.
It is part of
the Japanese taste for beauty and simplicity to love children
above all
other things, so that that country is a veritable children’s paradise
– the rod
unknown, the child unprovoked into conflict with massive and
dictatorial
elders. One of our greatest delights was to walk in the theatre
street of one
large town after another in the evenings and see the families
strolling up
and down – up one side of the street and down the other – all
wheeled
traffic being forbidden in that street in the evening hour, for their
convenience.
Father, mother carrying the baby on her back, [233] its big head
rolling about
with every motion in a most alarming manner, big children carrying
small
children, toddlers held by the hand. Seeing this one sympathizes with the
desire of the
Japanese for more territory for their increasing families and
would be
tempted, were it in one’s power, immediately to present them with half
Australia to
be put to such good use.
§2
To see Japan
properly one must walk, I think, as we did in both town and
country.
Miyanoshita to Hakone and back was a nice day’s walk (18 miles) – blown
to pieces
since we were there.
Outside
Miyanoshita we found the Miyauchi (goldfish) Inn, at Kiga, settled into
this pleasant
inn – with a delightful garden containing waterfall, pond,
goldfish,
stone lanterns, stepping stones, and indeed all the beautiful adjuncts
of the
typical Japanese garden – and walked a few miles to the Great Hell
(Ojigoku), a
barren region among the hills, where boiling sulphur springs and
their vapour
covered the whole hill-side. This was not a place in which to
linger, with
its trembling earth and its threat of instant dissolution to itself
and whomsoever
might have the temerity to remain there for any length of time.
We hurried
back to the inn and sat up to our necks in square baths, sunk in the
floor,
containing hot iron-bearing water, which was piped into the inn from
natural
springs.
We stayed
always in such Japanese inns, not in the large hotels provided for
foreigners
here and there in tourist centres. We would arrive on the doorstep, I
with a little
book of Japanese and English sentences in my hand. Again and again
I would
repeat a sentence which meant, “We want a room for two nights for two
people.” This
pronouncement would for a moment petrify the perennial smiles of
the
management of the inn, mingling them with a look of grave concern. These
stupid
English had evidently come to the wrong place. Sentences would be spoken
in reply to
mine, but in vain would I search for something resembling them in my
book.
Sometimes I understood a little, to the effect that this was not a hotel
for
Europeans. I affected not to understand. At last someone would find a youth
who knew some
English. He would tell us that [234] this was the inn for Japanese
travellers.
Yes, that was what we wanted. Surely not? Yes. But to remove shoes,
and to sleep
on the floor? Yes.
After much
hesitation on their part and insistence on ours, and a little bout of
price fixing,
we would be invited to the interior, escorted to a room upstairs,
a six-mat or
eight-mat room (mats are of a standard size) containing a fire-box
and a shrine
of beauty. The fire-box was for keeping warm the tea, light yellow
in colour and
drunk in little handleless bowls without either the cream and
sugar of
Europe or the butter of Kashmir. The shrine of beauty was a recess
containing a
kakemone (picture) on the wall, and a vase standing on a little
stool beneath
it – specimens of two-dimensional and three-dimensional art which
are changed
occasionally, to prevent any loss of freshness in their appeal to
the senses.
At night maids appeared with rolls of bedding, and spread them on
the floor,
and men put up wooden shutters all round the verandas, closing in the
air and smell
– the only defect of the Japanese inn.
Which came
first, the instinct of the Japanese for cleanliness, or the
floor-mats of
soft thick grasses, neatly sewn? The mat floors being there, you
simply cannot
treat your house as a street, as the Europeans do, walking into it
with their
shoes on. Or, the instinct for cleanliness being there, you cannot be
satisfied
with earthern floors, like the Indian, who is perpetually washing his
feet and his
cloths. We may leave the problem unsolved, like that of the hen and
the egg, yet
cannot but muse upon the far-reaching effect of little things. In
England our
medieval barons kept their floors in an abominable state, covered
with rushes
and straw containing the remains of refuse from the tables thrown
carelessly to
the dogs, and as a result we must now live up in the air on chairs
and tables
and couches, and preserve stiff creases in our trouser legs, and grow
into a
generation as stiff-necked and stiff-backed as the chairs we inhabit.
However did
we come to speak of getting up in the morning, when really we get
down from our
beds? The Japanese actually do get up.
On our
nine-mile walk from Miyanoshita to Hakone we always stopped to admire the
Jizu, a
sitting statue by the side of the road (one of Japan’s greatest
sculptures,
it is said, carved in the solid rock by the famed artist Kobo
Daishi),
representing the god of little children. On his lap [235] was a heap of
small stones,
put there as reminders to him of children needing his care.
Sometimes
when a child is teething the mother will take one of its bibs and hang
it upon the
statue.
The Japanese
seem to believe in the power of thought. We heard that one of their
pretty
customs when a child is sick is for the mother to go round to
thirty-three
families and ask from each a bit of cloth. With these she makes a
patchwork
coat for the child to wear. Is it that the good wishes of the
thirty-three
donors, stitched into that coat, work for the benefit of the child,
or is it
simply that human sympathy is something precious to remember in the
midst of a
mother’s sorrow for her ailing child?
Arrived at
Hakone, we took lunch in a restaurant and then went for a walk in a
boat on the
lake. This curious phrase occurs to me not because it is Japanese,
though it
might be. I had it from some of my students in Sind, who came one
Sunday
morning with the hospitable intention of taking us to enjoy a motor-car
ride. “Let us
go out for a walk,” was their proposal. But when I replied: “I am
rather tired
and do not feel much like walking,” their disappointed reply was:
“Oh, but we
have brought a motor-car.” Hearing that, I agreed quite cheerfully
to take the
“walk.” I ought to have remembered that if they had meant an
excursion
under our own power they would have said that we should “foot it out,”
the local
idiom, no doubt, but sounding strange in the English language.
Anyhow, we
went on Ashi-no-ko in a boat, and when we were in the middle of the
lake a cloud
descended upon us and at a moment’s notice we could see nothing but
mist and fine
rain. It was a nervous afternoon we spent in that boat. Only by
the expedient
of keeping ourselves in one direction to the wind we at last found
the shore,
and crept round it for about two hours until we came back to our
landing-place.
After that, we took food again in the restaurant and walked back
to Kiga in
the mist, to the comfort of the Goldfish Inn. It was a nice
experience of
the soft mist and straight rain which before we had seen only in
the pictures
of well-known Japanese artists, who are unique in their portraiture
of rain.
The walk from
Miyanoshita to Hakone was our favourite, rivalled only by that of
similar
length from Nikko up the mountain-side to Lake Chuzenji – with a pause
to admire the
[236] Ke-gon waterfall-waters dropping three hundred and thirty
feet.
In the
streets and roads of Japan one of the things we first marvelled at was
the Japanese
smile. If we stopped to look at anything, people would stop to look
at us, and
smile, and even giggle together. At first we would hurry on but soon
we learnt to
smile back. How simply the Japanese were pleased! Why should we not
add to the
gaiety of the nation? But later we came to still another stage of
understanding
of that smile; we realized that it meant a pleased interest and at
the same time
an offer of help if required. We learnt also that smiling is good
manners. If
you have a trouble you must smile all the more so as not to pass it
on to others.
We heard one story about an Englishman who employed a Japanese
clerk. One
morning the clerk came late – an unusual thing among the Japanese –
and the
Englishman enquired the reason. The clerk smiled and said that his
mother had
died. The Englishman stiffened with distaste, until he remembered
that there
was not a hard heart, not even stoicism, behind that smile; it was
simply a form
of culture and a civic idea.
You may weep,
however, in the theatre. At one of the Nichi-ren plays which we
attended at
Kamakura, the ladies, sitting in their little pens, wept openly at
the
misfortunes of the hero and heroine. They had come there to weep. Real
religion was
combined with drama; at a certain point the audience threw money in
screws of
tissue paper, to the shrine depicted upon the stage.
The Japanese
cinematograph (pre-talkie) also attracted us.
There were
some slap-stick comics which we could not understand, but the main
theme was
Samurai traditional stories – square warriors, with square swords as
big as
themselves, and fighting on the square, so formal that one wondered if it
really depicted
intent to hurt, or only a game – but it must have been the
former, for
somebody was always killed! While this play was going on two men,
sitting on
either side of the screen, supplied the dialogue, one of them talking
in a gruff
voice to represent the male characters and the other in falsetto for
the females,
while both clattered sticks together at any moment of special
excitement in
the picture.
It was at one
of the cinema theatres that we had our first experience of
Japanese
honesty. I had left my [237] umbrella, through forgetfulness, at the
seat where I
had been sitting. The next day I went to the booking office and
told them
about it. A few words to an attendant, and he came out with an armful
of umbrellas;
“Which is yours?” I could theoretically have improved the shining
hour, for my
umbrella was one of the poorest of the lot, but who, under the
circumstances,
could do more than take his own?
Another time,
in an inn in Nikke, I left a heavy gold finger-ring of quite
ordinary local
design at the side of the hand-basin in the men’s general
washing-room,
and forgot all about it until later in the day, when a chambermaid
came to our
room with something held daintily in a bit of tissue paper. “Is this
yours?” It
had been found in the washroom, turned over to the management, and
was now being
carried from room to room, with the question: “Is this yours?”
One could
wander for weeks in the streets of Tokyo and Yokohama, Kobe, Osaka and
Nagoya, or
among the gardens and temples of Kyoto and Nara and Kamakura. We
could spare
only a few days in each place – we had only three months for the
whole
country. Time was limited then, as space is now for these descriptions.
Let me
mention only the Daibutsu which stands in a lovely garden in Kamakura. It
is a bronze
statue of the Buddha seated in meditation, immensely reposeful,
without the
playful smile of the Burmese Buddhas. Above its pedestal it sits
fifty feet
high, with eyes of pure gold, four feet long, and a thirty-pound
silver boss
on the forehead, representing the third or mystic eye.
§3
After our
tour in Japan we were due to return to Shanghai for a month’s stay
there. Our
second voyage across the China Sea was less fortunate than the first.
After leaving
Nagasaki – with its quaint streets on the hill-side – we struck a
fair specimen
of the Japanese typhoon. Our steamer, the China, battled bravely
against the
crushing waves that beat upon her prow like giant hammers, gave her
the staggers,
and swept swirling across her decks. In forty-eight hours we
registered
four miles of progress.
Returning
again to Japan, across the same sea, in a very small steamer, the
Chikugo Maru,
we again struck heavy [238] weather, broke our steering chain, and
wallowed all
night on a restless sea. However, we were this time compensated by
beautiful
weather in the Inland Sea of Japan, which we thus saw properly for the
first time,
with its pretty coast and islands, and its occasional view of
typical Japanese
skyline of gentle mountains fringed with pines.
We could not
go into the interior of China up the Yang-tse-kiang, as we wanted.
No one would
book us, on account of the fighting that was going on at Ichang and
other places.
But there was plenty to interest us in Shanghai itself. The
Nanking Road
in Shanghai was then one of the seven wonders of the world, at
least of our
world at the moment. It was said to be next in rank to the theatre
section of
Broadway, New York, as a “Great White Way.” Certainly we had never
before seen
such a display of electric lights. And I, at any rate, had never
seen such a
great department store as the Wing On – which surpassed even the
Mitsukeshi
and Shirokiya in the main streets of Tokyo. These stores, while not
entirely
devoid of foreign goods, are filled with articles produced in their own
countries
(how different from India!) and the display was for us one of the most
interesting
introductions to human nature, which is everywhere to be known
through its
daily desires and chosen utilities and ornaments of the home and
person, more
than through the theoretical life of its literature, its politics,
and its
non-industrial arts.
We had plenty
of first-hand opportunities of seeing Chinese life. Long slender
coats
reaching almost to the ground, presumably with men inside, were plentiful
and animate
in the streets, as well as the smock and loose shapeless trousers of
the working
men, and the little jackets and coloured trousers of the working
women, going
off quietly to their factories in twos and fours on wheelbarrows.
Very clear
minds and rich voices sometimes lived in the long coats. One of the
interpreters
at my lectures could orate with all the bell-like tones of a
xylophone.
We admired,
too, the conscientious devotion of the labours of the craftsmen.
Captivated by
the charming workmanship, I purchased a nice set of chessmen
carved in tea
wood in very realistic human designs. The Indian chessmen I had
known were
all similar to one another in form, differing usually in little but
size, and one
had to remember which was which. But, alas, when my luggage [239]
was being
passed through the Indian customs, someone evidently thought that out
of so many
little dolls I could surely spare a few, so there were only
twenty-six
pieces, instead of thirty-two, when I tried to play with them later
on. They
ended up literally as dolls, for I gave them to children.
Interiors of
ordinary houses in China did not differ greatly from those in
India, but
the Chinese proved to be more concrete in their outlook than the
Indians,
though a little less extravert than the people of Japan. There was one
Chinese
doctor, at whose house we were spending an evening, who told us that his
greatest
pleasure was to sit and imagine that he was in heaven. He said that he
felt his
imaginings with such realism that it was almost as good as if he were
already
there. Such imagination is great in China, yet it does not appear to run
to
abstractions, as in India. The Indian will meditate upon heavens and the
forms of
deities, but he always has the thought that they are not really like
that, but are
something quite different from our sense-objects. Chinese
imaginings,
on the contrary, lean heavily to the concrete. One friend raised the
speculative
question as to what a traffic policeman would do with himself in
heaven. The
Chinese seemed to think a lot about heaven. Would there be traffic
for him to
regulate there? I ventured to suggest that he might like a rest or a
change. But
no, it would surely be very hard for him to surrender the splendid
authority to
direct the motor-cars of the great. He was a guardian and guide of
humanity.
The problem
was left unsolved, but I caught a glimpse of a point of view from
which the
great kings and statesmen and preachers of the earth might appear in
very much the
same category as the traffic policeman. Evidently the Chinese can
see the
greatness of the commonplace, and that faculty seems to make them
singularly
free from personal ambition, according to European standards.
One day we
took tea with a priest in charge of a temple in the Chinese city. It
was a curious
experience to sit there sipping the strong concoction, making
polite
conversation, and looking all the time at the rows of statues on
galleried
shelves, representing arhats, who might still be shedding their
blessings
upon mankind from above, little as one would expect it from the
simpering
wooden expression of their countenances. Once more I reflected – how
China [240]
makes one reflect! – with amusement mixed with concern, how the
gallery of
statues of arhats was beginning to accumulate also in the
headquarters
of the Theosophical Society at Adyar, and I wondered if the
complacent
Chinese arhats when alive had looked forward with pleasure to the
prospect of
sitting thus in effigy, as our Adyar arhats seemed to do. [241]
-------Cardiff Theosophical Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24-1DL
CHAPTER II
“NAUGHTY”
AMERICA
§1
IT was a
contrast from Japan to America, even though a sea voyage across the far
from pacific
Pacific Ocean, and two days at Honolulu were sandwiched between. We
did not know
it at the time, but Honolulu is a bit of California set far off in
the ocean –
all sunshine and ordered shrubbery. There is something similar about
the
Polynesians and the Americans, whereby they fit well together – a
smoothness,
an absence of spikes, a cleanliness of person – though there is also
the contrast
that the Polynesians do not preserve themselves well, as the
Americans do
above all. Both are supremely feminine people – in contrast to the
masculinity
of India, China, Japan and Europe.
We landed at
San Francisco. What bustle! And yet nothing to compare to that of
Chicago and
New York, as we were to learn. Four trams abreast up Market Street,
and a couple
of motor-cars on either side. As we were driven from the pier we
ran along
within three inches of the giant tram-car. What nerve! But our driver
did not know
that he had any nerve. By the way, why “street cars” instead of
tram-cars?
For surely taxi-cabs and private motor-cars – I beg pardon,
automobiles –
are also street cars, not parlour cars. Some called them “trolley
cars,” and I
had visions of hanging by a thread. But I give in; street cars,
automobiles
and elevators (“we went down in the elevator,” but “lift” is just as
bad) shall
figure in these otherwise austere pages.
I had a big
lecture programme in the United States – in the evenings and at
lunches –
covering one hundred and eight cities. The daytime was mostly free for
us to indulge
in our habit of walking and looking. We walked for hours at a
time, and
looked up at all the tall buildings and peered [242] down into all the
boweries. We
progressed through the million-dollar town halls (in that case a
little in the
spirit, I fear, of the American who, it is related, coming out of
the National
Gallery in London, met some friends on the steps and said: “Well,
that is done;
it took me half an hour, but I could have done it in a quarter if
I had had
spikes in my shoes,”) and lingered in the dime eating joints and the
five and ten
cent stores. Fifth Avenue (I am now speaking of New York) and
Broadway
alike entranced us – though progress on the latter, both on the
side-walk and
in taxis, was generally slow – the former for its shops, the
latter for
its people. America is full of people. All Americans seem to be
people,
whether rich or poor. And here people greatly impress people. A Dutch
gentleman
whom we knew abandoned his business in San Francisco and fled back to
Holland with
his family, alarmed at the rapid Americanization of his children in
the schools.
It is a curious sensation in New York to be in the midst of ten
million
people. London does not give one the same impression; somehow its eight
millions are
not people, though excellent homological horticultural specimens.
But San
Francisco. The best part of San Francisco is the Muir Woods, and Mount
Tamalpais,
with their giant sequoias or redwood trees and these, after all, are
not in San
Francisco. Go out into Market Street on a Sunday morning early in
fine weather,
and you will see hundreds of girls in riding breeches and long
boots, making
their way to the wharf at the end of the street, to take
ferry-steamer
across the harbour to Sausalito, and, after a short railway
journey to
Mill Valley, to walk to the Muir Woods to lose themselves for the day
in that bit
of country, extensive enough to absorb them all without noticing the
difference.
These were mostly school girls and business girls – seeming not to
need the aid
of young men for their week-end divertisement – a rare sight to
anyone who
for years in the Orient has been accustomed to the restraint,
especially
the self-restraint, and obscuration of women, at least in public
places.
Yet in
America the elder people do not walk. The English who do so are
considered a
bit freakish – a little reminiscent of the view of the same people
in Eastern
climes were, in the words of a popular song:
The mad dog
of an Englishman
Goes out in
the midday sun. [243]
Perhaps it is
the immensity of their country (twice as big as India) which
discourages
the Americans from walking. Or perhaps it is that they cannot walk.
The numerous
shoe advertisements almost suggest the latter, dealing as they do
with (a)
shoes with built-in arches “to save your feet,” and (b) shoes with
perfectly
flexible shanks, necessary because “the arches of the foot must be
completely
free to move at every step, or else they will grow weak.” Brains
applied to
feet have produced this paradox – no doubt a case of extremes
meeting.
Perhaps since the depression Americans are walking more, for I see now
frequent
advertisements of “shoes to fit your feet in motion.” In any case, even
if they do
walk now they also ride – the old slogan (Sanskrit sloka) “One man
one vote” has
been supplemented by “One house one automobile.” Even the poorest
sits on high
in his ancient flivver, bought for twenty-five dollars, veritably
riding a
cock-horse, and with rings on his fingers and bells on his toes, so to
speak, he
does have his music wherever he goes.
At San
Francisco we saw also the seals on the rocks, as everybody does. In those
days there
was in the museum on the cliff an old stuffed seal said formerly to
have been
leader of the herd for about a hundred and twenty years. The story
goes that one
day a younger seal came up from the south and made battle with the
old king;
they fought for three days and then the old seal, wounded in many
places, swam
to shore and died. It was said to be a striking example of “Nature
red in tooth
and claw with ravin.” But I reflected that these creatures cannot
enjoy
rumination in old age as man can, and it may not be too bad that when
their powers
begin to decline they should be brought to an end in a grand climax
of
excitement, in which actual pain may be little felt.
We had a nice
motor-drive from San Francisco to Los Angeles, a small matter of
nearly five
hundred miles, which our driver proposed to accomplish in one
sitting, with
but brief pauses for lunch and tea; and he would have done it too,
but that we
broke an axle on a particularly foul bit of road sixty or seventy
miles out. A
telephone call for reinforcements brought a new car for us from San
Francisco in
two or three hours, and we bowled steadily along, racing “The Owl”
(name of a
train) in the dark, though we had had to be more cautious in the
daytime, for
U.S. laws are [244] very inflexible, and thirty miles per hour was
then the
speed limit, with five miles extra for grace. Our driver’s plan was to
set his
speedometer wrong, so that he could go at thirty-five while registering
thirty, and
have another five on top of that. It was risky, all the same. Only
shortly
before Bebe Daniels had been run in and jailed without the option of a
fine, for
being caught doing fifty on that very road. The Judge who sentenced
her was
criticized a bit for jailing a beautiful young lady who was also a
popular idol,
but he replied: “When I was a barber I was a good barber and I did
my work
properly, and now I am a judge I am going to be a good judge.”
On our way we
stopped at Modesto, one of the many new towns of California of
which the
citizens are justly proud, even if it be called Modesto. The broad
main street
offered almost everything that a big city can give, but on a smaller
scale, and
its sides were lined with cars which had brought the farmers into the
town for the
evening’s life and fun. It was as hospitable as it was clean, which
is saying
much. On arrival we entered through an arch “Welcome to Modesto,” and
on passing
away we went through another “Thank you, come again.” It was there
that we sat
for the first time on high stools at a counter, consuming American
sandwiches –
two huge slabs of bread with a generous allowance of cheese,
lettuce and
small pickled cucumbers between.
In San
Francisco we had already sampled the cafeteria – an institution which had
our approval.
There is a long counter with two brass rails in front of it. You
start at one
end, pick up a tray and a little roll of table cutlery in a paper
napkin, slide
your tray along the rails, and pass in turn the cakes, pies,
sandwiches,
hot savouries, ice creams and drinks, taking from the counter or the
shelves the
plates or dishes you fancy, only at the hot counter being served by
an attendant
with whatever you choose.
At the end of
the counter you find a young woman sitting at a sort of
typewriting
machine. She casts a critical eye at your tray, then makes a
smashing
attack upon the machine with capable fingers, but succeeds in producing
only a ticket
– which nearly smashes your pocket-book, for of course from all
these
tempting things exposed to your eye you have chosen three times as much as
you can
possibly eat. You now carry your tray to a vacant table, eat what [245]
you can,
leave what you can’t, and pay at the door as you go out. I learnt that
in one of
these big cafeterias the proprietor assigned ninety-nine per cent of
the profits
to the employees, and did himself mighty well on the remaining one
per cent.
It was a
palatial cafeteria in Los Angeles that I saw a countryman, after
helping
himself from the bottle of tomato sauce, lick it all round the neck to
clean it
before replacing the cap. But enough of these intimacies.
Los Angeles;
mushroom city, it is called, but I would say bamboo city. The
bamboo shoots
in our garden in Madras would rise six or nine inches in a day and
night and
leave the mushrooms panting near the starting-point. Besides, the poor
mushrooms
soon faint by the way, and Los Angeles does not. I never could get the
hang of that
city, though I was quite sure that it had not much to do with
angels. But
all round it, in Southern California, there are dozens of little
towns as chic
and understandable as you please. In one of them, Riverside (a
beauty, with
rows and rows of flowers down the main streets), we were to stay at
a walnut
ranch. One half expected walnuts to be capering about, humpty-dumpty
bodies on
spindly legs, hotly pursued by brave boys highly skilled with the
lasso and
mounted on prancing fire-nostrilled mustangs. Might not anything be,
in a land
where alligator farms (“a thousand on exhibition; some of them five
hundred years
old”), ostrich farms (“including the tallest bird in the world”
and a family
scene of pa and ma sitting alternately on the five-pound eggs) and
lion farms
abound? But no, the walnuts were quiet and well behaved, just like
our own
walnuts in our own back garden of Ootacamund in the hills of South
India; and
you could not have found a cosier little homestead anywhere. Well,
well, reality
was good enough, especially after one had learnt that “lasso”
meant simply
rope, and “sombrero” merely a hat.
Hollywood
held us for several days. We spent some time in the film city and saw,
among other
things, Jacky Coogan shadowing a grim old sailor-man, dodging across
the village
street and hiding behind a large barrel at the critical moment, when
the sailor
looked round. The poor little chap must have done the scene half a
dozen times
before it was declared satisfactory, but no matter, he is a
millionaire
now, for his father and mother, who were in attendance, invested
[246] the
proceeds safely for him at compound interest. It is hard work, this
picture-making,
but deucedly attractive.
§2
Back we went
to San Francisco and from there over the mountains by the beautiful
Shasta Route
to Portland, and on to Tacoma, Seattle and Vancouver and the Rocky
Mountains of
Canada, with their blessed snow, that was expected to be, and was,
a joy to dust
and heat bitten eyes from the deserts of Sind.
We saw that
snow at its best, and were lucky enough to experience a more than
usual
allowance of it, because a tunnel fell in upon the train in front of ours
and we had to
make a long detour of some twenty-four hours along Lake Windermere
and Columbia
Lake, with their gorgeous background of snowy peaks, past Crow’s
Nest, and
thence via Macleod to Calgary. By special invitation we rode through
most of that
region, during the daytime, in the “caboose,” in a little
observation
chamber overlooking the roof of the train, whence the guards looked
out for
trouble, whence we looked out at one of the greatest scenes in the
world. Among
other things we saw the place where Turtle Mountain had turned over
without
warning and entirely buried a little town, leaving only one baby alive.
The
north-west is a lovely corner of America in which to ramble. We sampled
Tacoma,
Seattle, Victoria, Port Angeles, Nanaimo and Vancouver by boat, so we
saw a good
deal of the Puget Sound, as well as Vancouver Island, which we
crossed from
Victoria to Nanaimo by automobile. Shall I enter into the
controversy
as to which is the most beautiful harbour in the world? San
Francisco,
Rio de Janeiro and Sydney are usually grouped as the three rivals for
first place,
but something is to be said also for the Puget Sound, Cork,
Pang-Pange
and Trincomalee. San Francisco harbour is disappointing in the
neighbourhood
of the wharves, and miserable on the Oakland-Berkeley side, but is
lovely
towards the mouth of the Sacramento river. Sydney lacks grandeur, though
it has the
most attractive shape. Rio wins the heart, with its bright colours,
its ring of
towering and picturesque rocks (including the thousand-foot Sugar
[247] Loaf,
the two thousand-foot Hunchback and the Organ mountains with the
Five Fingers
of God), and its trim palm-fringed boulevards running for miles
round the
bay.
But the Puget
Sound has also a charm of its own, making it quite a rival to the
Inland Sea of
Japan; at least we thought so as we sat in the stern of a little
steamer and
threw bits of bread into the air to be caught with wonderful skill
by the
seagulls, which we watched for hours, wondering how they could alter
speed and
direction so much, whirling round and overtaking or lagging behind the
steamer with
only rarely a few flappings of the wings.
Vancouver
city, on the mainland, has two special attractions – the Stanley Park
to the south
(where one walks in a natural forest and looks out on the beauty of
the bay from
its headland), and the Capilano Canon to the north where one
crosses the
canon by a long narrow flexible suspension-bridge.
From
Vancouver to Chilliwak by electric car was an interesting journey. There we
walked about
eleven miles, looking at the farmsteads. From Chilliwak we went
through the
Kettle Valley to Summerland, where apples grew by the million in
lovely
surroundings and co-operative marketing of them was carried to a fine
point, then
across Okanagan Lake by steamer, to Vernon by automobile and on to
Sicamous
junction by train.
Sicamous
railway station at night is eerie – frightening, in fact – set as it is
in the almost
unexplored forest about Lake Shuswap. A curious name, Sicamous. We
heard a story
about it. It was said that a raw Scotsman had come there and had
seen a moose
which had been shot by a friend, and asked what it was. He had
looked at it
contemplatively for a moment, and then declared he had never seen
“sic a moose”
before. Sicamous was our stepping-off place for the grand journey
amongst the
snows of the Rockies right round by Macleod to Calgary and then to
Banff-Banff
with its splendid hotel with perhaps the most gorgeous prospect in
the world.
The Rocky
Mountains have a sudden termination. You descend from Banff to
Calgary, and
10, in a moment, as it were, you are in the plains, flat as a
pancake for a
thousand miles, all the way to Winnipeg, where we encountered a
temperature
of 72 degrees below freezing point (or 40 degrees below zero, where
Centigrade
and Fahrenheit meet) [249] which continued with us as we moved south
into the
United States again, to Duluth, Saint Paul and Minneapolis.
Western
Canada overshadows humanity with its natural magnitude and magnificence,
so that one
scarcely notices the people – big, strong and rough as they are, the
men often
clad in cow-boy hats, high-heeled boots with spurs, and short coats.
The few Red
Indians we saw were poor specimens of humanity, short, fat and
shapeless,
totally different from the Red Man brought to England in my boyhood
by Colonel
Cody, “Buffalo Bill.”
But back in
the United States we began to see the people again. Why is it that
so many in
the Middle West, especially women, look rather like Red Indians, with
their dry,
somewhat flat faces and broad cheek-bones, which throw the nose into
prominence?
Can it be that the Red Indians are coming back again and
transferring
by mental influence some elements of their past into new bodies,
mingling them
with their new heredity? Or is it something in the air and the
soil which
modify the human form and features?
I should have
liked an answer to that question by some reliable clairvoyant, if
such there
be. Why was it that people who claimed great clairvoyant powers would
never
properly tackle questions of this kind, but would dwell always on the
remote? Mr.
Leadbeater would count the atoms in atoms and talk about their
shapes, but I
could never persuade him to give attention to their properties and
reactions. He
would tell of people’s lives in the far past and future, but never
of yesterday
or tomorrow, about which he gave constant indications of knowing
nothing. All
clairvoyants I have known have had the same defect. There is one
who lectures
frequently on the vast importance of clairvoyance in medical
research,
saying that it would be easy to train a number of observers for
diagnostic
purposes. But will he settle down steadily to that sort of work? Not
a bit of it.
He will spend his whole life writing about his conversations with
angels and
travelling and lecturing to emotional people.
Well, it was
Christmas, and we were in Saint Paul, and it was our first American
Christmas,
and the Americans take their Christmas very seriously in their
practical
social way. It is not that God is in His heaven. God is in His own
country –
America – and He sees that it is good. [249]
Christmas in
America is not merely a Santa Claus day, a children’s day with much
blowing of
gaily painted and tasselled tin trumpets in the morning and much
pulling about
of wooden horses in the afternoon. It is a day of presents for
everybody, of
packets wrapped in paper printed all over with holly and mistletoe
and fastened
with small seals or scraps of gummed paper bearing seasonal designs
and
greetings.
Perhaps I
ought not to have said gummed paper, but mucilaginous paper. I once
made a sad
mistake in this connection when I was sending directions for the
distribution
of some circulars. I wrote: “They should be stuck at the top left
hand corner
with gum.” Dreadful thought; the young ladies of the office knew
something of
the use of chewing gum for “perfecting the facial angle” (see
advertisements),
and must have been shocked at my sacrilegious suggestion. I
ought to have
said “mucilage.”
The family
and friends in the house gather together for the opening of these
packets, with
eager wonder as to the contents. Presently the mucilaginous strips
and the holly
paper lie in torn fragments on the table and floor (for the
American does
not remove them carefully, fold them up and preserve them for a
subsequent
Christmas) and leave disclosed to view numerous fancy handkerchiefs,
silk
stockings, and a hundred different kinds of “notions.”
In the
railway station, the post offices and other public places Christmas trees
abound for
general enjoyment. When we were in Montana we found that it was the
custom in one
small town for parties to board the long-distance trains and give
presents to
the children who could not enjoy their Christmas at home.
§3
My wife and I
did not go to America for sight-seeing, but we did see the Niagara
Falls,
several times, on our six visits there, passing between Hamilton and
Buffalo. We
stood below, looking up when all around us was ice and snow, and
again when
the waters boiled and swirled between verdant banks. I cannot compare
it with
anything else. I can only say it invigorated and refreshed us. To some,
I am told,
such grand phenomena teach humbleness; they feel like something very
small in the
presence of something very big. To [250] me they give strength. I
suppose the
difference depends upon whether our habit is to admire from afar or
to enter into
everything as if it were our own or natural to us. The same
psychological
habit applies to many things. I have seen students who could make
nothing of
chemistry or a foreign language because they looked at it from the
outside and
could not then flow, as it were, into the sanctuary. In the same way
some
religious devotees remain eternally stupid on the subject of God.
I think the
great cities of the eastern States, human Niagaras, affected me in
much the same
way – New York, Boston, Philadelphia, and to a lesser degree
Washington
and Baltimore. Down in the subway at Times Square at five p.m. we
would stand
in a corner and watch the tide of faces pouring by – not a fierce,
angry,
hungry, restless tide, I think. Legs moved quickly, bodies pressed
together
without repulsion, feet hurried, but hearts here seemed to be singing –
a truly
lovable river of life, warming our coldness, cooling our heat, and
bearing us
with it in, not to, an enchanting life. True, not all the same,
without
variety. Faces there would be, seen but for a moment, from which it was
devastation
to part – a lifetime lived in ten seconds. It was not merely
“blessed,
beloved humanity”; the drops were not lost in this ocean. New York has
no landscape,
but its “homoscape” is lovely with innumerable human flowers set
in
picturesque craggy heights.
Pittsburg was
funny; I cannot tell why, but rather a comedian, a pathetic
comedian of
the stage, sorrowing for itself, appealing notwithstanding its
wealth, very
Lancashire-like or Lanarkshire-like with its hills and dales. There
we stayed in
an hotel in which we wiped our faces on little towels bearing the
inviting
legend:
STOLEN FROM
THE KING’S HOTEL.
I have spoken
of heat and warmth. It reminds me of some townsmen in India who
said, when
presenting a memorial to a retiring and departing British revenue
officer,
expressing appreciation and affection and a sense of loss: “Your heart
was always
cool towards us.” Tinkling ice, evidently, in that glass.
New Orleans
somehow was not quite so kind. This was, perhaps, not America. And
yet it was
America, only its pleasures and its cruelties were more subtle. It,
too, had
[251] brotherhood, which has a long range-good, bad and indifferent.
In New
Orleans we heard of an extreme example of bad brotherhood. A house was
shown to us
in which a foreign lady had lived long ago. One night the house
caught fire.
The fire-fighters broke into the top story, and there they found a
torture
chamber. The lady had been in the habit of torturing slaves. I reflected
that even
here was incipient brotherhood, for it would have given her no
pleasure to
torture lumps of wood. She could not be happy without tasting the
feelings of
her fellow-men, but unfortunately her appetite ran to caviare and
pate de foie
gras rather than to corn and grapes. I do not hide from myself the
fact that
brotherhood always exploits, and the flowing life which entertains a
harmless man
like me is also my sacrificial victim.
In New
Orleans we also visited the old dwelling-place of Paul Morphy, a wonder
at the chess
board in his day. I have always liked a game of chess; it is so
clean, so
free from pretence. You win or you lose, or else it is a draw, and
there is no
doubt about it. That is the joy of games which are not of chance.
When in
Boston we went out to Concord, Massachusetts, to see Emerson’s house. My
father had
enjoyed and enriched himself with Emerson’s Essays, and had
introduced me
to them when I was still a boy. Their consciousness of the hidden
good, and
their teaching of individuality without individualism, had played
their part in
giving me the grit to face my disappointments of youth without
despair.
After looking at the “Old Manse,” and the bridge of the “minuteman,”
where the
first blood was shed in the War of Independence, and passing through
the
delightful little country town, or rather village, we approached the
foursquare
unpretentious house of Emerson’s maturity. Though it was not open to
the public,
the professor from abroad was admitted and shown round as a
privileged
person. (Not that this professor particularly looked the part, or had
ever
qualified for it by any act of absent-mindedness other than that of going
out in
Chicago with two hats – one on head and one in hand.)
I remained in
the library by myself a little while, looking at the books on the
shelves, and
the table and chair in the centre of the room. The library
contained
many of the [252] translations of Sanskrit books available in
Emerson’s
time. I looked especially at these, and in some of them I found little
bits of paper
placed there to mark the points in which he took especial
interest. By
these it was easy to see where Emerson had found inspiration
similar to
his own, which may well have strengthened him in his resolves. (On a
second visit,
some years later, I found that the library had been tidied up, and
the scraps of
paper removed.) When I sat in the chair I was suddenly overwhelmed
with a
strange mood. All thoughts ceased, but not consciousness. This was my
room, these
were my books, that my old writing-pad lying on the table. The mood
passed, and I
went upstairs to the ladies. Hanging on the wall where the stairs
turn was a
picture which brought me to a standstill. My wife. My wife of now, I
mean, as she
will be thirty or forty years from now. I could not distinguish her
from the wife
of Emerson, who survived him by a number of years – the same quiet
expression,
broad eyes, actionful features, little laughing nose. This was the
lady who had
said, turning to her chickens: “It is wicked to go to church on
Sundays.”
Strange fancies. I certainly shall not try to explain them, so let me
write “whim”
on the lintel of my door.
§4
America
showed us many curious little evidences of the development of the
communal
consciousness, promise for the future of the human race, one hopes,
when mutual
trust and trustworthiness (twin deities of economic progress) shall
have become
the norm. When we were staying in an apartment in an old brownstone
house in 55th
Street, New York, I used to go down in the early mornings to buy a
newspaper at
a store near the corner of 6th Avenue. It was not at that time of
day exactly a
store, for no one was within, and the door was locked, and the
stock of
newspapers was outside, placed on a large board in front of the shop
window. There
were arrayed five or six piles of different morning papers, and on
each lay a
quantity of coins of the realm, or rather of the Union – E Pluribus
unum.
I put down my
nickel (five-cent piece), took up my two-cent paper and three
cents for
change, and went my way. Other people were doubtless doing the same,
and not [253]
stealing either the papers or the money. Or else, why should the
man or woman
concerned continue the business, which went on unchanged at least
during the
months when I was staying there? We had seen also in many cities of
the United
States and Canada piles of newspapers placed on little stands
attached to
suburban lamp-posts and street-car standards. It was the habit of
business men
to take their morning papers from these supplies and drop their
money into
little boxes fixed to the stands.
One striking
experience was that of lunching at the Exchange Buffet, of which
there are
several branches in New York City. You enter the restaurant, take
whatever you
like from the counters and eat at one of the tables. Everything is
marked in
plain figures, so that you can add up the prices of what you have
taken. On
your way out you tell the cashier the total of what you owe him, and
pay, without
giving any particulars. The statistics of the company show that in
the course of
a year the takings do not deviate even one per cent from the value
of the food
put out. I heard it said that there are some office boys who, when
their money
is running short towards the end of the week, make a practice of
telling the
cashier less than they owe, but they tell him more on Monday so as
to make up
for their defalcations of Thursday and Friday!
On one
occasion we made a long stay in New York, necessary because my wife had
to lie for three
months in bed in our apartment, on account of a motor-car
accident in
which her pelvic bone had been broken through in two places and
cracked in a
third. Wonderful to relate, she had come through a stormy Atlantic
passage from
England in that condition. It was on an icy New Year’s day that we
were coming
down a long hill in Holywell, in Wales, and a man – a doctor –
coming up the
hill in his car emerged without warning into our side of the road,
to avoid a
parked car on his side, and we met with a staggering, sickening
crash. I had
seen it coming, by a second. I had shouted out to my wife, “Duck
down,” and
had myself dived into the bottom of our big car, and so escaped with
nothing more
than some blows on the head and nose, since, fortunately, a
basketware
suitcase was in front of me. But my wife (who would never do a thing
without first
knowing why) got the blow in her side.
We were
carried to cottages on opposite sides of the [254] street. At one door
the people
cried out: “Do not bring her in here. She will frighten the baby.”
The doctor,
for a wonder unhurt, patched us up. He said that no bones were
broken, but
that my wife’s muscles were badly wrenched. Three days later I
carried her
on board the S.S. Megantic at Liverpool. The ship’s doctor advised
an X-ray
photograph in New York, and that revealed to us the broken bone and led
to three
months in bed – three months which, my wife said, were among the most
pleasant of
her life. For a year afterwards, wherever we went, though she could
walk on the
level, I carried her up and down all stairs. Now, I am glad to say,
she plays
tennis again with the best.
During those
three months I became almost an habitue of the ladies’ shoe shops
in New York.
I used to make a selection and take them on approval, to be tried
on the sound
foot. “You will need some new shoes, and here are some bargains too
good to
miss.” I bought so many pairs of shoes that my wife is still wearing
some of them,
seven years afterwards. And why? The doctor had told me that
probably she
would never walk again. A little psychology, despite Pope’s
teaching:
A little
learning is a dangerous thing;
Drink deep or
touch not the Pierian spring.
Just at that
time I did, however, nearly suffer fatally for “a little learning”
with
reference to the street-car system of New York. I had gone out on 55th
Street and
was moving eastwards towards Broadway in search of an uptown car.
Crossing 6th
Avenue I asked a policeman where I could get such a car, and he
indicated the
corner of 55th Street and Broadway. Arrived there, I saw a car
coming with
about fifty automobiles in attendance. I stepped into the roadway
and held up
my hand, as I would in England at a “stop by request” corner. But
the car would
not stop – nor its satellites: I stood stock still, and everyone
of those cars
missed me, mostly by only two or three inches on either side,
though they
could not see me in advance. I take off my hat to American
auto-drivers.
It was while
we were staying in that apartment house that I gave four lectures
on India in
the Community Church in New York, and afterwards wrote, at the
request of
friends, my reply to Miss Mayo’s attack on that country, her book
being called
Mother India, and my reply to it An Englishman [255] defends Mother
India – which
subsequently had a large sale in India and England, was much liked
by several
Cabinet ministers, and I hope did some good in restoring a decent
angle of
vision towards the Indian people. Mine was a big book, crammed with
facts – at
least 600 pages, until the publishers compelled me to cut it down to
400.
The book had
to be written in a hurry, so I had six secretaries for it – three
stenographers
and three copyists. I would dictate to one after another, and out
of office
hours would correct the typewritten material, while in the very early
mornings I
would prepare my notes for dictation during the day. In this work my
wife and a
Cuban gentleman were helping me, and they generally sat together at a
card table at
the other end of the long room in which I dictated to the
stenographers.
One night my wife went to stay with a friend and she did not
return until
the next afternoon. On the morning of her absence the Cuban
gentleman
took a bad cold and could not come to help.
In the middle
of the morning, while I was dictating, there was a terrific crash,
followed by a
cloud of dust. My stenographer – a Miss Waterson – gave a tiny
squeak, like
that of a little mouse. I ran to the landlady, who fell fainting on
the
threshold, to which she had just come. The whole of one half of the old
plaster
ceiling, thickly encrusted with floral designs, had fallen in. It had
smashed a
typewriter right through the card table, and would surely have killed
both my wife
and our Cuban friend if they had not been absent that morning. The
plaster had
become softened because plumbers had been working upstairs and by
some mistake
had allowed an overflow of water which had sunk through the floor
above into
the ceiling. The only other case of the kind I have known was where
some
malicious persons, wishing to injure the progress of a new theatre, allowed
steam to
escape between the ornate ceiling and the roof, before the plaster had
fully set; it
was discovered in the nick of time. I was taken up under the roof
to have a
look. Such a queer place none of the audience ever think of, looking
up from their
seats far below. That was in Chicago. Fortunately there are really
two Chicagos
– poles asunder.
These
incidents occurred in 1928, during our third visit to America – I am not
writing a
travel book, but just some observations of men and things, including
myself. Let
me not omit to mention, however, that we were served in New [256]
York by three
Negro maids, as black and velvety as night (and none the worse for
that), but
illumined with the names of Blanche, Lily and Pearl.
On our first
visit to America, as I have said, snow and ice were especially dear
to us. We had
seen them in western and central Canada and the middle West.
Mother Nature
kept up the supply until and beyond the point of our departure
from North
America. St. John, New Brunswick, where we embarked, was deliciously
cold.
Halifax, Nova Scotia, where we spent the next day, was almost ice-bound.
Ice-breaking
craft were at work nosing about the harbour and breaking up the
crust before
it could grow too thick. We saw coming into harbour a sailing ship,
with
auxiliary engine, which had evidently been in lively weather as well as
cold; it was
literally covered with icicles, hanging from every part where
anything
could hang-a most unreal picture, possible in fancy, one would have
thought, but
not in fact. [257]
-------Cardiff Theosophical Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24-1DL
CHAPTER III
THE OLD FOLKS
AT HOME
§1
The Atlantic
treated us well and we encountered nothing sad until we entered the
port of
Liverpool one Sunday morning in the dismal month of March, and beheld
beneath us
from the height of our deck a crowd of haggard faces, hollow cheeks
accompanied
by hollow eyes, looking for a job to keep them from becoming
hollower
still.
After
America, Japan and even India, England had a great air of poverty in the
year 1922. In
England the people looked poor; in India, their surroundings.
England was
apparently a land fit for heroes, and only heroes to live in. Others
could surely
not survive. It was a land for the English, a race so accustomed to
suffering
that it can scarcely enjoy anything else, a people of stout hearts,
well-governed
tempers, and above all disciplined minds, a race of horses
plodding
through mire and rain in constant inexpressiveness, not expecting to
enjoy itself
much, or horses prancing over the meadows in pursuit of foxes, and
wondering in
the evening why they had not enjoyed themselves. But they console
themselves:
good old England, steady, dependable England – no typhoons, no
hurricanes,
no revolutions; heaven for climate, even if we must dispense with
company,
which belongs to a warmer place.
While we
waited at the wharf two or three hours for some official to get out of
bed, dress
himself and come on board, I wondered how much extra coal we had
spent to save
a few hours on the Atlantic run, and whether the gentleman was
aware that
hundreds of passengers were missing, for his small pleasure, morning
trains to all
parts of England. But perhaps nothing could please him, not even
the sight of
some hundreds of early morning faces [258] looking for a welcome on
return to
their native land. No, he would leave them standing awhile, to wonder
if this were
really the Old Country, gone older than they had expected, gone
dead, in
fact, and buried too.
But there was
some illusion. England was not quite dead yet. At long last
passports
were examined and the overdressed passengers (so different from the
people on
deck the day before) descended the gangway, were swallowed up in the
huge Customs
shed and, a little later, by taxi-cabs and railway stations (for
few wanted to
stay in Liverpool – England’s premier doormat), after more or less
sharp
encounters with the human ferrets who gravitate into the Customs
department –
strange contrast from the jolly dogs who played ball with our
belongings on
the wharves of San Francisco and New York, and took a pirate’s
hearty, if
grim, interest in the personal idiosyncrasies revealed by the
interiors of
suitcases and trunks.
At Liverpool
the youthful inspector allotted to me was about to drop the lid on
the contents
of a cabin trunk, when a sharp-faced senior mongoose hurried up.
“Ha, what
have we here,” – he jerked out a little pile of yellow paper-backed
books. But he
soon retired before the austerity of the National Geographical
Magazine,
after looking at me with an injured air, as upon one who had played a
dirty trick
on him, and might be expected to steal bread from the mouths of
England’s
defenceless widows and orphans.
In Liverpool,
as in other places, some things catch the eye more than others,
and generally
they are the incongruous. As we stood about the deck of our
forlorn
steamer on that cold Sunday morning our gaze was troubled, but yet
fascinated,
by a huge artificial bird balanced perilously on top of one of the
prominent
buildings. The high visibility of several iron rods absurdly holding
it in place
did not detract from the uneasiness occasioned by the sense of its
insecurity.
Only compassion for those in the place beneath prevented us from
wishing that
it might immediately fall and be done with its misery and ours. I
jerked myself
back to normal.
We went, as I
have said, through the Customs, and then a porter took our stuff
to a waiting
cab, and whispered: “Don’t let him see yer give me anything” – him
being a
foreman who kept count of all luggage and collected so much [259] per
piece from
the taxi driver afterwards. I thought for a moment that there was
some new and
unaccountable conspiracy afoot for the protection of travelers –
until I
learnt at the railway station that I had to pay the taximan a
substantial
sum for each piece of luggage.
As at
Liverpool my eye had been caught by the preposterous bird, so also at San
Francisco something
peculiar had attracted my attention, a big “57” standing out
above the
town. I wondered what it was for. Some direction to the shipping,
perhaps, and
to-morrow there would be 56 or 58? Our American friends were much
amused at my
not knowing that this was an advertisement – the Heinz company,
with their
“From tree to bottle in one day.”
I like
advertisements. They form almost the best Baedeker to the minds of the
people. They
instruct that mind on the good points of ordinary useful things,
and awaken it
to desire for a constantly higher standard of living. I
appreciated
the hoardings of America, which are not rough planks pasted over
with printed
bills, but neat individual structures bearing well-painted designs.
“Keep that
Schoolgirl Complexion” can excite interest, with its variations upon
one theme.
These new advertisements enter in softly, arm in arm with reason and
beauty,
unlike some of the old style publicity, which tried to bludgeon us into
taking
somebody’s pills.
§2
I will draw a
veil over the family reunion. The English are sensitive about
their private
affairs, both their defects and their virtues. If I am somewhat
different in
my willingness to expose my life and thought with all their defects
and follies,
as data for psychological study in the interests of science, I must
none the less
respect the probable sensitiveness of my father and mother, my
brothers and
their wives, and even my elder brother’s daughter, albeit she
appears in
the Christmas pantomimes. Suffice it to say I renewed my close
personal
friendship with my father – something additional to the ties of a
thousand
appreciative memories – appeased my mother’s resentment at my long
absence,
sympathized with my elder brother’s despondency at the loss of his
business
(which had been closed down when he went as a cavalryman to
Mesopotamia,
and could not be
revived
afterwards), re-recognized my younger brother (now a watch and clock
maker and,
strange to relate, almost twin brother in appearance and manner to a
gentleman I
had stayed with in Washington who was in charge of the clocks in the
Government
buildings in that city), made the acquaintance of the two new wives
(who
corresponded to the descriptions given by the astrologer in India) and the
niece, a bouncing
girl distinctly belonging to the new age, with its new ideals
in children.
My wife and I
also acquainted ourselves with more of England than we had known
before. We
purchased a second-hand three-wheeled two-cylindered two-seater
Coventry
Premier car, for £170 – what a price cars were in 1922! I learned to
drive it on
Saturday, taught my wife on Sunday, and on Monday she drove it a
hundred and
twenty miles, to the home of an aunt in Anglesea. After that we
drove five
thousand miles through England and Scotland.
It was a nice
little car, I liked the swaying motion resulting from the single
back wheel,
but that very merit made for trouble. It was difficult to avoid the
pot-holes (as
numerous then in England’s roads as the hollows in English cheeks)
with the
third wheel, and dangerous to drive in towns on account of the tram
lines from
which the third wheel would come out only with a jerk and the start
of a fine
skid in wet weather. I remember a perilous occasion on which we
performed
several circles on the long hilly road near the Crystal Palace in
London.
Fortunately it was Sunday morning, so we hit no other traffic.
It was a
devilish little car to start, having no self-starter and a powerful
compression
from which the most ardent garage boys used to shrink. My wife would
sit in the
car, I would crank her up for periods varying from half a minute to
half an hour,
until the engine started, then I would go outside and warn the
public that
something was coming, and out she would leap through the garage door
with a roar,
like a clown in a circus going through a flaming hoop. Then I would
jump on the
running board, step over the door and away we would go, feeling like
Kaye Don
himself. We were always losing pieces of that car, but generally we
retrieved
them and stuck them on again. The driving chain especially kept coming
off. I do not
think we ever went a hundred miles without some running repairs.
Ultimately we
lost our little car. When we went abroad we left it in the [261]
garage of a
cousin, who volunteered to sell it for us for £10, but he never
replied to
our questions regarding it, and after some years went bankrupt and
disappeared
from our lives.
In those days
we used to think we were reckless persons if we swept along at
twenty-five
miles an hour, and to expect a collision at every corner – most of
England’s
roads were so constantly winding and so shut in with hedges that one
could not see
far ahead. This was quite symbolic. In England the future is
always just
round the corner, so we must be on the look out and not “let her
rip,” as in
the long open roads of more spacious lands. So the English have
learned to
live from moment to moment, relying upon character more than
calculation.
The English
are not kind to themselves. They seem to have accepted labour as the
lot of man.
Therefore they do not take steps, as the Americans do, to eliminate
it from their
lives. There is much room for compassion in this respect. On the
tramcars and
omnibuses, the conductor must perpetually be running up and down
the steps.
One day I tried to pay my fare on the platform before mounting to a
seat on the
roof, but the conductor would not take it. He must follow me
upstairs,
collect my two-pence there and go down again, and do the same with the
next
passenger. I did not wonder at the busman’s holiday; think of the luxury of
sitting up on
top for a whole journey without having to run up and down those
steps ten or
twenty times. And all that ticket-punching for every halfpenny
difference in
the stages!
I preferred
the one price pay-as-you-enter or pay-as-you-leave system I had seen
elsewhere.
“One price! said a gentleman to whom I broached this idea. “But that
would be grossly
unfair. Must the people who live four miles out pay only the
same price
that I pay for my two miles’ ride?”
I pointed out
that he was not riding for enjoyment at so much a mile, that all
were riding
for the same purpose, namely to get to or from their destination, so
all really
received the same service. Besides, a one-price system helped to
spread the
city and to keep down the rents in the inner residential zone. But
that idea is
still too communal for England, and those poor busmen will have to
run up and
down for some time more. Well, well, Britons never shall be slaves,
but it is
their capacity for self-imposed slavery that has put them at the top
of the world.
You won’t catch [262] an Indian, nor usually an American, doing
to-day what
can just as well be left till to-morrow, or altogether – such a
waste of
time, which may be spent in sitting or romping in the sunshine.
§3
By invitation
we went to Finland and the Baltic states to lecture. Finland gave
us a
surprise. In England we had thought it “off the map.” But it appeared that
it might very
soon be near the centre of European civilization, which has been
shifting
steadily northwards from the Mediterranean shores these last two
thousand
years, and may easily blossom anew in Leningrad and Helsingfors.
Is there
another country in Europe which has made so much use of its
water-courses
for electric power and has gone forward in its own special
industries at
such a rate in recent years? In a paper age it has the largest
paper mill in
Europe. In education – Finland has no illiterates, and its
bookshops are
prominent in the big towns, instead of being aside, as in many
other
countries. In the arts it has produced Sibelius and Gallen. In
architecture
it speaks the latest word – clean, bold lines, and ornament
announcing
only essence and power – a combination producing beauty such as I
have not seen
elsewhere.
In
Helsingfors we stayed in a large apartment house which was deserted by its
normal
occupants, who had gone to the lakes for the holiday season. One day we
stuck halfway
up in the automatic lift. Fortunately it was built on a spacious
and open
plan. I dropped my wife over the tall iron gate into the arms of a
postman, before
clambering out myself.
Finland is
not sufficiently known as a holiday resort. In summer its sunshine
and lakes are
delicious. It is called the land of a thousand lakes, though I was
told there
are more than thirty thousand of them. These lakes are studded with
tiny islands
covered with pine trees. Only Minnesota can elsewhere show this
kind of
beauty.
It is part of
the pleasure of Finland that one can travel far by water. Our
longest trip
in that way was from Kajaana in the interior to Uleaborg on the
coast, in the
northern part of the country. In one section of that journey we
had to shoot
the rapids called Kissakoski (about 7 miles) [263] and Pyhakoski
(about 14
miles) – the most powerful rapids in Finland. This was done in a large
narrow boat
of the kind used to convey the tar which is made from the resinous
fir trunks in
those parts, with a crew of two – an oarsman in the prow and a
steersman who
worked with a paddle in the stern. Our lives certainly depended
upon the
skill with which they avoided the numerous rocks lurking beneath the
surface of
the water and peeping through it, while we sped along at some forty
miles an
hour, with the water tossing occasionally over the gunwales.
In a tiny
steamer on one of the lakes we had a drunken skipper-steersman, who
took a
delight in ramming the pine logs in the water, and once actually ran us
on the bank.
Everybody was anxious, including his subordinates, but nobody dared
interfere
with him.
I lectured in
most of the big towns of Finland, after opening with a series in
the fine hall
of the University at Helsingfors, put at my disposal as “a brother
educationist.”
We saw most of the holiday places as well as the big towns. In
Abo we went
into the old Cathedral to look round. It happened to be just the
critical
moment for an unusual sight, for workmen were digging trenches under
the floor and
taking out hundreds of human skulls and thousands of miscellaneous
bones.
Kuopio presents
one of the fairest scenes, with its lovely view of lakes and
pine trees
and an ancient island castle. It gave us also a small psychic
experience. I
do not take much account of dreams, but I have noticed that
sometimes
they seem to be connected with other people’s thoughts, apparently
left in the
atmosphere or upon objects, much as my thoughts had been impressed
upon paper in
the experiments in England which I have already mentioned.
My wife and I
had travelled from Hull, through the Kiel Canal (is there anything
more trim in
this world?) and up the Baltic Sea to Helinsgfors, in a little
steamer, the
S.S. Astraea. After the first night on board my wife described to
me a
peculiarly vivid dream that she had had. She had seen beautiful lakes
stretching as
far as the eye could reach, and full of tree-clad islands. She had
then no
knowledge that Finland was a land of lakes – had seen no pictures, read
no guidebooks
and taken no interest in the subject. I brought her a book of
Finnish views
from the saloon and showed her the pictures of the lakes. She
expressed her
[264] astonishment and said they resembled what she had seen in
her dream,
and later, when we stood on a hill in Kuopio, she declared that there
was a picture
exactly like that of her dream.
In the dream
the scene had been only incidental to a little drama. A woman with
a little
child had run away from an erring husband; the husband had followed and
found them
sitting on a hill overlooking the lakes, and had there effected a
reconciliation.
It seemed to me probable that such persons had travelled in our
cabin and
left their thoughts behind, because I had had a similar experience
when
inspecting a country school in India. During the night I had had vivid and
prolonged
dreams about South Africa. I wondered what could have caused me to
dream like
that about a country which was not at all in my thoughts. The
explanation
was that I had been occupying the room of a lady teacher who had
recently come
from South Africa, where she had lived for many years.
A similar
incident occurred when I was staying in the island of Barbados, in the
West Indies.
I had been talking with a man who was interested in
thought-transference
and I happened to remark that, of course, not all dreams
had such an
origin, and I said: “Only last night in this little hotel I had a
strikingly
clear dream about drilling for oil, and certainly here in Barbados
there is
nothing of the kind.” (Quite a mistake on my part. Afterwards I learnt
that
oil-development in Barbados had begun seriously four years before my visit
there.)
“Well, that
is curious,” remarked my companion. “Only recently this hotel was
occupied by a
party of men who had been over from Trinidad, looking for oil.”
Any mention
of experiences in Finland would not be complete without allusion to
the Finnish
bath – not that I went in for it myself. The bathroom is usually a
log house
built at the bottom of the garden, near the edge of the lake. There is
a sort of
stove with a flat top, which grows hot when wood is burnt inside. As
soon as it is
well-heated water is thrown over it, so that the room becomes
filled with
steam. We will suppose a young man is to have his bath and his
mother has
thus made everything ready. First he lies on a low shelf while she
rubs him all
over and gently switches him with sweet-smelling tender pine
branches
which have been dipped in hot water. Then she throws [265] more water
on the hot
stones, so as to increase the steam, and the young man climbs up to
another shelf
half-way up the wall where the steam is denser, and he is again
rubbed and
switched. The process is repeated a third time on a shelf near the
ceiling, in
still denser steam. Finally, he springs from the shelf and rolls
himself in
the snow on the edge of the frozen lake, or jumps into the water if
it is
summer-time, so as to prevent himself from catching cold after the hot
steam bath.
We crossed
the Gulf of Finland to Reval and after a week there we went to Riga
by a tiny
steamer, the Mailand, which had a long sleepy roll, the deck reaching
down very
near to the water on either side. From Riga we returned to Reval by
train – or
trains rather, for one must change at the frontier of Latvia and
Esthonia.
The people of
both countries were enduring great poverty. The bulk of the
population
had had no new clothes for many years, as might be seen in the
picturesque
gatherings in the cobbled market-places. On the tramcar in Riga I
gave a small
silver coin for fare, and received as change a bundle of about one
hundred
pieces of paper money, sounding, in copecks, a formidable sum. Here and
there were
commission shops containing jewellery and personal articles deposited
by Russian
refugees in the hope of procuring a little cash in exchange for them.
There were
grand churches of the Russian type, with splendid domes. Out of
curiosity we
went to the last service to be allowed to be held in the Russian
language in
the church in Reval. Both countries were in constant fear of their
big neighbour
to the east, so I was permitted to lecture only after explaining
my subject to
the police and receiving from them an authorization heavily marked
with rubber
stamps.
From Reval we
again returned to Helsingfors, and from Helsingfors to England. My
wife and I
always travelled with a single passport, bearing our two photographs,
of which we
carried a number of extra copies, known to us familiarly as “the
grinning
apes.” In a small consulate, without thinking I asked my wife if she
thought we
had enough grinning apes – the smaller the country the more
photographs
required – causing some quite simian lifting and waving of eyebrows.
On the pier
of Reval I was talking with a friend, one Madame Sokoloska, a
Russian
refugee, while my wife, [266] according to her wont, was playing about
on some part
of the pier where passengers were not supposed to be. The passport
inspector
asked for my papers, looked inside, scrutinized the photographs, made
a grumpy
survey of Mme Sokoloska, removed his shaggy eyes once more to me, and
coughed out
the words: “Mit Frau?” I thought it was simplest to say “Ya,” even
if I did give
grounds for divorce. Meantime my wife had reached the proper side
of the
barrier, by means best known to herself.
She was
always doing things like that. She persisted in walking on the deck at
the Kiel end
of the canal, despite the wavings and guttural ejaculations of a
burly German
policeman, until he took her firmly by the arm, and walked her to
the ship’s
steps, where I stood. I believe she thought that I ought to have
biffed him on
the nose for this indignity, but I knew that where German law and
order were
involved there was nothing to do but submit. You may take liberties
to a certain
extent with a London bobby, even with a New York cop if you have a
dazzling
smile, but nothing can divert the devotion to duty of a German
policeman,
let even the heavens rain movie stars.
I sent word
to my college in Sind that I was ready to return if really required,
but would
continue my travels if the management were satisfied that all was
going well.
In due course I heard that they could carry on without me, so my
wife and I
returned to America after a brief interlude among the clogs and
cabbages of
rural France and the cafes and Russian ballets of Paris. Do the
nightingales
sing anywhere else as sweetly as in the environs of Paris on a
moonlit
midnight?
§4
In America I
was to meet Krishnamurti again after ten years. His movement, the
Order of the
Star in the East, was lagging. He thought that with my experience I
might be able
to help him to revive it, so one day I received a telegram while
at Duluth,
asking if I could come to California, where he was living, and
discuss the
matter. We went to the little town of Ojai, in Ventura County.
I must
explain that although disliking it heartily in the beginning I had paid
my penny –
booking fee – and joined [267] the Order at Adyar, some little time
before Mr.
Leadbeater left for Australia. It had happened in this way. One day I
said to Mr.
Leadbeater: “What I especially don’t like about the Order is that
you announce
to the world that there is to be a coming Teacher, and that there
is great
expectation of this event among Christians, Buddhists, Muhammadans and
others, but
you do not say that you have a World Teacher in preparation, in the
person of
Krishnamurti, though it is known to us that he, the nominal Head of
the Order
looking out for a World Teacher, will himself blossom into that
Teacher. When
it is plainly and openly said that Krishnamurti is to be the World
Teacher, I
will join.”
There and
then Mr. Leadbeater wrote a letter to a man in America stating plainly
and
definitely that Krishnamurti’s body would be taken by the World Teacher,
unless there
were some improbable mishap. A few minutes later I was down in Don
Fabrizio
Ruspoli’s Star Office, entering my name. So I was a member of the Order
when
Krishnamurti called me to Ojai, where we stayed a few days, and then
travelled
with him to the home of Dr. Ingelman in Hollywood.
I studied the
situation. There were eigthy branches of the Order in the United
States. It
looked fine on paper but I found in fact that among them all only
about four
meetings had been held in a year. They would awaken when a speaker
came round
and then go to sleep again. All the members were looking forward to
the glorious
leap forward that the world would take when the Teacher came (who,
it was
predicted, would concern himself with public affairs, not merely ethical
teachings)
and the joy and benefit of being personally in his service. But the
question in
the mind of Krishnamurti, who had been persuaded, I understood, that
at some time
his own consciousness would depart from his body and its place
would be
taken by that of another (the World Teacher, known as the Christ and as
the Lord
Maitreya, the successor of the Lord Buddha), was: “Were all these
people living
in a dream, or were they really preparing for the coming of the
Teacher?” It
seemed to him that the Order had gone to sleep.
I diagnosed
the situation and gave my opinion: “It is your fault. The people
look to you
for a lead, and have not received it. If the movement is to be
revived I
think it [268] needs your personal activity, not merely nominal
existence as
Head.”
What to do
then?
I thought out
a plan, which was that of the “self-preparation groups.” The point
was that
there should be groups of people who would refine their own characters
and develop
their own capacities so as to be able to respond to the Teacher and
to be
serviceable to his cause when he should come. And Krishnamurti must
himself write
every month a little message which would be printed and sent to
all members
of these groups, who would thus have the guidance of their leader
who, it was
to be presumed, would be most sensitive to the influence of the
coming
Teacher and therefore able to instruct them according to his wishes.
The method
met with great success. As “National Representative” I issued it for
Krishnamurti
in America. The system soon extended to the whole world, and
continued for
several years. Only one hitch occurred as far as I was concerned.
I advised the
members not to keep Krishnamurti’s messages, but to make the
utmost use of
them month by month and destroy them as new ones came in. This I
did because I
knew something of human psychology. I knew that if the messages
were stored
up and bound together the members would not make every possible
effort to
absorb the contents of each one while it was current, and so be ready
to give full
attention to the next, but they would fall into arrears, feeling
that they had
the past lessons to refer to. However, my advice produced some
indignation.
What, Krishnamurti’s messages to be destroyed! And I think
Krishnamurti
himself was affected, for he issued a notice that they should be
kept and
bound for future reference. Anyhow, the Order of the Star in the East
obtained a
new impetus, which continued until the great climax of 1929, which I
will describe
after disposing of my own affairs in the meantime. [269]
-------Cardiff Theosophical Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24-1DL
CHAPTER IV
MERCURIAL
BLOOD
§1
In 1923 my
wife and I went to South America for six months – a land of
prodigious
enthusiasms, and of great thirst for the occult. Spiritualism
flourishes in
South America as almost nowhere else, and, incidentally, most of
the spirits
preach the doctrine of reincarnation, quite in contrast to most of
the spirits
of Great Britain and North America, who preach infinite progress in
the spirit
world. I always thought that if infinite progress in the spirit world
were the
destiny of man, this world of ours might very conveniently have been
dispensed
with altogether. Its lessons could not be regarded as a necessary
springboard,
when even babies dying at and before birth could continue upwards
and onwards
for ever in the realms of light.
Our first
call was at Rio de Janeiro. Could anyone describe this beauty of
colour and
tropical vegetation, and rocky mountains thrown all around against
the sky-soft
greatness (not the rugged greatness of the Rocky Mountains of the
United States
and Canada, of the grand Canon of Colorado, of the castellated
gorges of the
Rio Grande, of the Niagara Falls), harmonizing with the soft
greatness of
human artistry in the buildings and the mosaic pavements of the
spacious
Avenida Rio Branco, chief street of the city, and with the floral
architecture
of the Avenida Beira-Mar, the grand boulevard along Botafego Bay.
We stayed for
the first fortnight on a hill – the Morro de Santa Thereza – high
above the
city, reached by a tramcar that comes tearing with screech after
screech down
the curves of the hillside, and across the old two-story aqueduct
(Ponteo
Arcos) – arch above arch in perilous loftiness – built [270] four
hundred years
ago by Portuguese prisoners brought to Brazil especially for this
work. Or
again it was reached by an escalator hauled along sloping rails up the
steep
cliff-side by means of ropes. Such escalators are a common feature of the
cliff-side of
Valparaiso, in Chile, and there is one also in Beyoglu, in
Istanbul, of
which we frequently made use. On the same principle we found the
whole train
taken up and down the cliff-side – about two thousand five hundred
feet in
height – between Sao Paulo and Santos, the famous coffee port to the
south of Rio
de Janeiro. In South India, at Pykara, there is a trolley on the
same
principle, which goes over a cliff at an alarming angle, with a vision of
endless
plains five thousand feet below – but this is for the use of the staff
of the
electrical works, not for the general public, except by special
arrangement,
and even then not for the ladies, who are expected to lose their
heads rather
easily – while gentlemen are only prone to lose their hearts, which
do not matter
so materially.
Brazil is a
land of mixed blood. Its official motto is brotherhood. After
liberating
the slaves over fifty years ago, the white population mingled freely
with them – a
great contrast with the social colour-bar which is so strong in
the United
States of North America. (The Brazilians will not speak of the
“United
States of America,” because they also designate themselves the United
States – the
United States of Brazil – and they also are in America. They always
speak of the
sister Union, which is a little smaller than Brazil, as “Norte
America” –
pronounced “naughty” – with amusing effect upon the English visitor.)
The result of
this Brazilian brotherhood has been that today most of the people
have some
negro blood, which helps to produce an uncommonly soft and agreeable
disposition.
Truly, the negroes in North America are mostly tinged with a little
white blood,
but here it is the white that predominates, and the negro influence
is seen only
in the slight shade of the skin. Once only I saw in Rio a pure
negress, in a
tramcar, suckling her baby; she was strikingly beautiful, the
characteristic
features being in their proper place.
In Brazil the
brotherhood endency comes out even in the treatment of criminals.
We were taken
to see and to speak at a prison called the Caza de Correcion. Here
were some
hundreds of men, mostly convicted for violent offences. The
institution
bore more the aspect of a residential school [271] than of a prison.
The men had
plenty of games, both indoor and outdoor, and the windows of their
rooms
overlooked most beautiful scenery. Each prisoner had a decent bed and a
shelf full of
books, borrowed generally from the prison library. Moving about
freely among
the prisoners for several hours, I found them a sociable lot of
men, not
distinguishable except in a few cases from the people outside, and
their
psychological state seemed much the same as that of the ordinary citizen.
There
appeared to be no resentment against society in their minds, and what they
wanted in
their future was an ordinary life with ordinary pleasures.
Talking with
the Superintendent afterwards, I put to him the usual question as
to the
efficacy of his method:
“What
percentage of men who have been in this prison come back again?”
He told me
that very very few ever came back to the Casa de Correcion, although
they looked
back to it as a cheerful place. It was rather in contrast to the
report of the
Prison Committee presided over by Lord Sandwich in England, which
found that of
the men in English prisons no less than twenty per cent had been
sentenced six
times previously.
§2
Brazil for
feeling; Argentine for intellect; Chile for material activity – such
is the triad
of leading countries of South America to-day.
In the
Argentine our career was more adventurous than in Brazil. Buenos Aires
has a natural
location in great contrast to that of Rio de Janiero, as it stands
on the flat
banks of the river La Plata. So flat is all this part of the country
that on the
other side of the river, on a low promontory between the ocean and
Horseshoe
Bay, the capital of Uruguay, to which one comes a hundred miles before
reaching
Buenos Aires from the sea, bears the singular name of Montevideo, “I
see a
mountain,” the said mountain being but an isolated cone.
Still, Buenos
Aires is none the less beautiful, as cities are made beautiful by
man, that is,
with the beauty of buildings and of plazas and parks and
promenades,
and monuments and statues, and floral supplements to all of these.
My visit
[272] there was opened with a grand reception and concert – more than
three hundred
in the orchestra – in the St. George’s Hall (there is much English
influence in
Argentina) at which I spoke on “Pleasure, Pain and Happiness” (“El
placer, el
dolor y el gozo”).
In the
streets of Buenos Aires we were struck (figuratively speaking) by the
tiny South
American Indian policemen, regulating a mass of traffic which seemed
to take but
little notice of them. We saw one of them knocked down by a passing
vehicle. He
got up, and while dusting himself appeared to be apologizing for
obstructing
the traffic!
I was thanked
by the President of the Republic (in evening dress in the middle
of the day!)
for coming to do good among “our people,” and we were provided with
free tickets
on the railway by which we proceeded northward to Rosaria de Santa
Fe, Tucuman
and other places, until we reached Jujuy (pronounced Hoo-hooey), and
finally La
Quiaca on the frontier of Bolivia.
Tucuman
especially seemed an interesting town. We saw there the little house,
now enclosed
within a large hall with a glass roof, in which the Independence of
the Argentine
was signed in 1816-somewhat similar to the little house enclosed
in a larger
hall in Philadelphia-the place of the Declaration of Independence of
the United
States.
At Tucuman we
saw also the evening promenade which is a feature of very many
South
American towns. This took place every evening in the central square (Plaza
Independencia),
which was pleasingly lined with trees charmingly laden with
oranges – an
inedible variety. The young men sat on garden seats on one side of
the broad
pavement, while the ladies walked to and fro in small parties, giving
full
opportunity for admiration and comment, which is considered the very
reverse of
impolite, for the Spaniard is a Latin, sensitive but also frank, and
indeed full
of contrasts – a paradoxical character to the more strictly
concentrated
“Nordic” types. Not that any of the people call themselves
Spaniards;
no, not for a moment. They are Argentinos, whether bearing the name
of Madril, or
Gossweiler or Robertson.
It was
between Jujuy and La Quiaca that our train ran through an immense cloud
of locusts,
which I estimated to be several miles in diameter. The day was
darkened by
them, and full of the smell of their burning as they fell into [273]
the engine.
They settled all over the train and seemed as if they might have
smothered us
had we not closed all the means of ingress. Some of them got in,
through what
crevices we could not tell. Looking through the windows we could
see nothing
but locusts covering the ground as well as every tree and shrub that
was near
enough not to be entirely obscured from view. At length the cloud
thinned, and
we then soon emerged from it and passed for many miles through a
countryside
in which remained no vestige of vegetation. I reflected: “If the
locusts can
multiply like this why do they not multiply even more until they
reach the
limit of their food supplies and no vegetation at all is left? Is life
limited in
its various forms?”
But it was at
La Quiaca that the adventurous part of the journey really began.
Already high
in the mountains we had now to find our way for about a hundred and
fifty miles
up a gorge to Atocha, where one could get a train to Uyuni, a
junction on
the railway connecting La Paz with Antofagasta and other parts of
Chile.
But before
leaving Argentina I may refer to our second visit to that country,
when I was
engaged to lecture for the Educational Department of the Government
of the
Province of Mendoza. In Mendoza I gave a series of addresses afterwards
published by
the department and circulated free to all teachers.
During that
visit we three times made the long railway journey from Mendoza to
Buenos Aires,
across the immense flat plains of the Argentine. Once, there had
been a great
storm, and we saw clusters of carcasses of cattle which had sought
shelter, but
in vain, beside the hedges in the corners of the fields. The skins
had been
removed by men, and the grisly remains were being torn to pieces by
wild dogs. On
one occasion we saw an ostrich careering across the plains. On
another we
changed in the night at the little junction of Rufino, and sat in a
tiny cafe, playing
chess and observing local life, until our train was ready to
start in the
small hours. But to return to our main journey.
§3
There is now
a railway between La Quiaca and Atocha, but when we passed that way
it did not
yet exist, and the [274] only direct means of transport from
Argentina to
the uplands of Bolivia was that afforded by a few daring motorcar
drivers, who
would take passengers along the river-bed (there was no road) for a
consideration,
very moderate in view of the difficulty and danger. We found a
Japanese who
undertook the task for us.
Between high
cliffs a river ran down the gorge. At first we could run on the
hard ground
beside the stream, but afterwards the gorge grew narrower and the
river wound
about, striking the vertical cliff at one side and then on the
other. We had
to ford that river more than fifty times, and as we went on it
became deeper
and deeper, with the increase of gradient. At each crossing we had
to get out
and pack the engine closely with cloths, to prevent the water from
getting into
it, and as soon as we were over we had to get out again and take
the cloths
away to allow the engine to cool, for the water was boiling, although
at the same
time icicles were hanging from our head-lamps, frozen almost
instantly
from the water thrown up in front of us as we crossed the river.
For many
miles this process was repeated, with no signs of any habitation, nor
of any human,
animal or vegetable life in that rocky desolation, except when two
rough-looking
men appeared apparently from nowhere and held us up. At first we
thought they
were robbers, but though they looked and spoke like operatic
brigands, and
commandeered the back seat of our car, apparently without payment
(my wife and
I established ourselves beside the driver), they were content to
travel some
forty or fifty miles and then leave us as suddenly as they had
appeared.
At length we
finished with our climb up the river-bed, and came out at the
little town
of Tupiza, where we were to spend the night.
Our Japanese
driver took us to a little hotel with a big name and inside of it a
crowd of men
drinking and playing billiards. Enquiries for a room at last caused
one
individual – the proprietor – to separate himself from the rest – hair black
and shining,
eyebrows of a grand distinction, moustache beyond compare, teeth
white and
bare, manner excitable, the total indeed fearsome.
I had been
warned against being overcharged, so with my few Spanish sentences I
beat him down
to what I afterwards learned was an unreasonably low price. But
the little
[275] Englishman with the pretty and dainty senora, of a figure
rarely found
among the Spanish ladies, who was attracting many eyes, though
quaking in
his shoes, had to put on a bold front and make it seem (no great
exaggeration)
that he had but little money to attract any covetous eye.
Really behind
the wildness of our host’s demeanour there was quite a gentle
heart, but it
was disturbed, even somewhat angry, with my meanness, and when
evening came
he would give me only half a candle and no matches. However, I went
out into the
streets and found an old woman with a little stall at a corner, and
obtained from
her the matches necessary for the production of light.
Night being
sufficiently advanced, our host, with the aid of one servant, closed
his saloon,
barricaded the doors and windows with every chair and table that
could be
moved, and retired to some mysterious region in the rear, there to
sleep, while
we refreshed ourselves with a little supper from a square tea
canister – in
which we had previously made a mixture of raisins, nuts and
breakfast
cereals – and slept with clear consciences till dawn, when we arose,
paid our
modest bill (no thanks), found our car and driver (welcome sight –
fearless,
dependable, silent, unobtrusive Japanese, who had come to this
unlikeliest
of places to make a fortune to take home to his family in far
Nippon) and
were soon speeding on a more favourable road in the uplands of
Bolivia.
A wait at
Atocha, another at Uyuni, and we were in the main-line train for La
Paz,
trundling along the stony plateau, which bears a striking resemblance to
the high
plateau of Ladak, on the road to Leh, in Kashmirian Tibet, beyond the
Zoji-la Pass,
up which we had gone when we visited Kashmir. Very similar to
Tibet is
Bolivia; the people, too, are very similar to the Tibetans, with their
flat faces
and reddish-brown skin.
The city of
La Paz, although twelve thousand feet high, is approached from
above. The
railway, after passing over stony plateau and between many groups of
fantastic
rocks, comes suddenly to the edge of a great natural bowl, down the
side of which
it carefully dips, until it reaches the city more than thirteen
hundred feet
below.
Here I gave
four lectures under the auspices of the University of San Andres
(University
of La Paz) in its Salon de Honor. The Governor of the Province was
present, [276]
and was so strongly impressed by the subject-matter that he gave
orders for
verbatim reports of all the four lectures to appear in the leading
newspaper, in
which they occupied many pages. That subject-matter seemed rather
commonplace
to my wife and myself – not exactly that familiarity bred contempt,
but that
there is something in human nature which requires constantly new fields
to conquer,
since it is always trying to equate itself with its infinite
possibilities.
We were more interested in the life around us than in our own.
La Paz, we
found, contains three kinds of humanity – the trim Spaniard in his
faultless
European dress, the Indian with his sandals, bare legs, brightly
striped
blanket and helmet-like cap or hat, and the people of combined Indian
and European
stock, distinctively dressed, at least as regards the women, in
voluminous
skirts, high-legged, high-heeled boots, laced both top and bottom and
with fancy
bows stitched on the toes, and a high-crowned, flat-brimmed stiff
bowler hat,
generally made of straw thickly covered with white paint. The women
move about
freely, like the Indians, and indeed conduct much vigorous business
in the
market, but the Spanish ladies are little to be seen, except in carriages
at evening
time.
The three
kinds of human beings appeared to be more or less equally distributed,
but in the
animal world one predominated above all – the llama (pronounced yama)
– standing
and sitting about everywhere, in groups, or bearing loads along the
roads – a beast
that will stand no nonsense, silly and conceited as it may look.
In La Paz we
stayed in the house of a poor man, who had many little daughters,
but had lost
his wife. He was honourably and indeed familiarly acquainted with
the great men
of the university and the town – such is the influence of caste,
which can
make bonds and cleavages across the social strata laid down by money,
as in India,
where I would find a village postman, earning one pound a month,
sitting upon
the veranda of the millionaire and joining as an equal in the
conversations
with friends – because both were Brahmins belonging to the same
group.
We lived in a
poor quarter and fared simply. This was much more agreeable to us
than would
have been a sojourn in the hotel kept mainly for foreigners in the
central
square, even though we were not able to preserve our vegetarian [277]
principles
intact, on account of thousands of small flies which found their way
into the
soup! Still, who knows the ingredients of food? I have seen, in the
large
“electric kitchen” of a palatial luxury liner – while the chief steward
proudly
showed a party of passengers round his spotless domain – a stream of
perspiration
dropping from the eyebrows of a kitchen-boy into the vegetables
which he was
peeling and cutting up for the coming meal.
From La Paz
we made a side trip to Copacabana, on the shores of Lake Titicaca,
and to the
Islands of the Sun and Moon (inti-Karka and Coati) where Manco-Ccapac
and his
sister-wife are believed to have descended from heaven for the founding
of the Inca
race and civilization, which the Spanish conquistadores brought to
an untimely
end.
Our
arrangements for this trip were as follows: Train from La Paz some forty or
fifty miles
to Guaqui on the shore of Lake Titicaca; motor-boat over the lake to
a little
landing-stage; motor-car from the landing-stage to Copacabana, and
thence
whatever might turn up.
The first
part of the journey took place according to schedule. The train
behaved
itself as good little trains should do, and it stayed long enough in
Tiahuanaco
(very different from the Tiahuanaco in Mexico where the horses race
and the
fashionable world gathers from over the border) for us to fill our
pockets with
little images of the ancient pre-Inca statues of that place, carved
in replica
but in miniature from the soft stone of the ancient temples.
At Guaqui, we
slept the night in a little hotel, and in the early morning
entered our
motor-boat, in which there was just room for us along with some
twenty
Indians, including a surprisingly large proportion of babies, and some
two hundred
baskets of vegetables and cocks and hens. We chutted across the
waters of
Lake Titicaca “highest navigable lake in the world – 12,550 feet; in
which steel
will not rust”; we broke with our ripples the reflection of the
“seventy-five
miles of eternal snow” ending in the handsome peak of Illimani,
twenty-two
thousand feet high; we saw the reed boats with reed sails used still
by the Indian
fishermen and ferry-men as in the Inca times, and we endured a
dreadful cold
wind seeming impossible to endure, for it was July – mid-winter in
those parts,
though too near the equator for ice to form on the lake.
When we
reached the shore there was no road and no [278] motor-car to take us
over the
mountain to another part of the lake, where lie the sanctuary of
Copacabana,
and the islands of the Sun and the Moon. Road and motor-car were
going to be,
and that was almost as good as if they already existed, in the
vivid Spanish
imagination, developed in a land where the sun never fails to
shine. But
there were mules, and the mules were willing to go home, and willing
to carry us,
without grudge and without respite.
Fortunately
those mules knew their way, for there was no guiding or stopping
them as they
sped along the tracks of the mountains and slid about on the little
stones of the
cliff-side and – after several hours, or was it weeks? – scampered
into the
little town of Copacabana and decanted us in the courtyard of a hotel.
Or rather
there was one stop, when I found myself with my back resting gently on
the ground,
my hands clinging to the ventral segment of a mule – for all the
world like a
baby monkey clinging to its mother – and its surprised face peering
down at mine.
The girths had given way, and I had executed a graceful semicircle
into this new
position, while the novelty of the situation had brought my
otherwise
unmanageable steed to a complete halt.
We arrived at
Copacabana two hours in advance of our guides, who came along
behind with
another mule bearing our small kit.
The chief
feature of Copacabana is the church of Our Lady of Candelaria, who is
reputed to
have materialized in order to rescue the Apostle Thomas from the
wrathy natives
by carrying him off in a boat on the lake – though he was
afterwards
martyred at Copacabana (as in several other places, including St.
Thomas’s
Mount outside Madras). The church is full of tinsel and votive
offerings,
distasteful to one of the modern world, who regards appeal to the
supernatural
or the super-physical for the satisfaction of material desires as a
great
obstacle to the progress and happiness of mankind, for which man should
trust to man
himself, since man himself has all the necessary power. And the
islands, with
their ruins – peace, peace, peace.
§4
Our next move
was down into Chile – two countries, two lands, one in the north,
nitrate
fields bare and terrible, [279] another in the south, smiling green
meadows. We
descended from La Paz into the clouds – a strange sight on the
railway
leading down to Arica on the coast, where we were to take steamer for
Iquique, the
nitrate port. We looked down upon a sea of clouds lit from beneath
by a rising
sun, passed through them and down, with ears popping, to the coast,
where
pelicans by the thousand sat upon the rocks and filled their baggy beaks
with fish for
which one would think they could not possibly find room in their
interiors.
Chile carries
with it an atmosphere of commerce. Even the audiences going to the
lectures
strode along as if on business bent-a sort of Manchester march, as
sharp as a
military parade, as intent and individual as the pursuits of a
mongoose. It
was in Chile, where mostly the fin"" public library halls were
placed at my
disposal, that while walking to a lecture I was disturbed by the
sight of
large crowds of people going the opposite way. What had happened? Why
were the
people going the wrong way? Was there a football match, or something?
No, these
were the hundreds being turned away from my own lecture for want of
room. In
Talcahuano we had a cinema theatre, crowded with workers from the
dockyards,
who nevertheless seemed to find in my talk something much to their
taste.
Unexpected as
it might seem, the businesslike people of Chile were very eager to
know about
Indian yoga (which was not the usual subject of my lectures, though I
had studied
it deeply and practised it to a considerable extent). Really the
explanation
was simple. Yoga is businesslike religion; more mystical people
might be
content with mere methaphysical thought (as in Argentina), or
devotional
exercises (as in Brazil), but here were people who wanted action
leading to
definite results.
It was part
of the organizing instinct of the Chilenos to have identification
cards even
for comparatively temporary visitors, and one had to provide finger
prints. They
insisted on adding the mother’s family name, so I was known
officially as
Ernesto Wood Egerton.
Santiago de Chile
is beautiful. We went to the races there, run on a glorious
course, with
the snowy peaks of the southern Andes for a background. We won
something,
too, on the second race – on a beautiful black horse named Puff –
exactly what
we had lost on the previous race. By this [280] time I had been in
South America
long enough to become a convert to judicious gambling – they seem
to be able to
do it in this part of the world in such a balanced way.
It was in
Brazil that my conversion to the lottery took place. I found many
people
getting their weekly wages and paying out of them a small regular amount
which might
at any moment bring in a fortune. This possibility is a bright ray
in many
otherwise ordinary lives – I cannot say dull lives, for life in South
America is
never dull.
It is
nonsense to talk about saving that shilling a week for old age. As a boy I
had looked
upon the dreary years ahead, and I had made my calculations. I had
figured that
if I was lucky enough to obtain £4 a week and to save one of them,
I might in
twenty years have capital which would bring in one pound a week, and
save myself
and prospective family from the workhouse! No, give me a shilling a
week less and
the open door of opportunity, and for the Government an income
which is not
wrung from the people in an atmosphere of irritation and
resentment.
The Latin can be trusted to gamble. They are a versatile people, but
they do not
run to extreme lengths. I am not sure but that my Hindus, if
allowed,
would kill themselves with lotteries, they are so thorough in all they
do, and don’t
do. But if I were Dictator I would take the risk to-morrow, to
brighten four
hundred million lives. [281]
-------Cardiff Theosophical Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24-1DL
CHAPTER V
ANTIPODAL
EXPERIENCE
§1
We were in
California again in the spring of 1924. There we met Mr. A. P.
Warrington,
former President of the American Section of the Theosophical Society
and still a
prominent figure in the movement. He had recently been to Australia
and was
filled with enthusiasm for Mr. Leadbeater’s work there. He told my wife
that Mr.
Leadbeater had been asking about me, and wishing that I would come
there, and
saying what a great opportunity there was for me to make rapid occult
advancement –
“three initiations at least.” He and she both wanted me to go.
I hesitated
for a long time, because of my lack of confidence in Mr.
Leadbeater’s
clairvoyance in connection with the past lives of Krishnamurti, and
also because my
personal affection for the old gentleman might cause me to get
caught again
(as I put it to myself) in the work of book-making for him.
However, Mr.
Warrington was very impressive on the point and I at last yielded,
fulfilled an
engagement to lecture for the British Section of the Society,
returned
again to America to complete engagements there, and sailed from San
Francisco for
Sydney in October, 1924.
In this and
other trips across the Pacific Ocean my wife and I had opportunities
to see
several of the Pacific Islands. The Cook Islands, with Avarua on
Rarotonga as
capital, are boldly beautiful. Papeete, on Tahiti, chief of the
Society
Isles, has less rocky and more floral charm. Pango Pango, on Tutuila, of
the Samoan or
Navigator Islands, is superb – mountains and the sea at their best
in a lovely
land-locked harbour.
The Samoans
are said to be the tallest race in the world. [282] Those at Pango
Pango seemed
more accessible than most of the Polynesians, perhaps because of
the sociable
tendencies of the Americans who govern it and use it as a naval
base. When a
ship comes into harbour these people seat themselves in rows in the
public
gardens, with specimens of their handicraft spread in front of them –
mainly carved
wooden bowls and model catamarans, beaten bark “cloth,” and bead
work. These
articles are for sale, but also for exchange, especially for your
umbrella. The
people have a passion for umbrellas and pyjamas; we exchanged
nearly all we
had for wooden bowls and bark curtains. No doubt they felt towards
us as our
English felt towards the Maoris when they acquired land in exchange
for a few
Birmingham toys (with the difference that the Maoris afterwards
maintained
that they did not understand that they were parting with their land).
Fiji was
somehow a pathetic place, no doubt because of the unhappy condition of
the colonists
from India, who number two-fifths of the population. Apart from
economic
conditions, there seems always a touch of pathos about Hindus-and
Spaniards.
Lost glories, felt in the blood.
New Zealand
and Australia, which are usually felt to be near together from the
distance of
England, though really they are more than twelve hundred miles
apart, stand
in considerable contrast, as regards both their natural features
(New Zealand
has all the rugged beauty of Japan – both volcanic countries, which
might well
compete for first place in a beauty contest) and their people (the
New
Zealanders are very British and the Australians rather American in
appearance
and mode of life).
We travelled
throughout New Zealand. In several places we saw the Maoris at
their farming
work and travelling on the railway – very gentle people they
seemed. But
the women who act as guides at Potarua were altogether too pushing
and personal.
They seemed to think that we wanted to see them rather than the
natural
wonders of the place. We looked at the giant geyser, which happened to
spurt while
we were there, at the ponds of boiling mud, which jumps up in little
lumps, giving
one the illusion of a colony of lively frogs, and at the people
cooking their
food in vessels placed in the waters of the boiling springs. In
the South
Island, Christchurch especially seemed a little bit of old England,
with its Avon
(river) and its very English population. [283]
One day I
rowed some ladies on that Avon, and as we were going round a bend a
man cutting
off the corner ran his prow on one of our rowlocks, causing our boat
to heel over
and half fill with water. I begged him not to back off but he did
so, with the
result that we rolled over on the other side, completely filled and
slowly sank.
The ladies behaved with perfect calm, sitting still, and only
rising to
their feet as the boat entirely disappeared under the water which was
fortunately
only about three feet deep. It was very amusing to see them holding
up their
little handbags and wading in three inches of mud and three feet of
water to the
bank, whence we hurried home in motor-cars.
Sydney is a
crowded town with narrow streets, but beautiful suburbs, containing
over a
million people of the finest physical race in the world. I have said that
the
Australians are something like the Americans, but physically they have got
them beat.
The Americans are a little soft, but not so this outdoor race,
everywhere
fond of physical sports and pastimes, especially swimming, which is
convenient
for the Australian population, as it resides mostly round the coast.
It is a race
good for the eyes, I never tired of looking at them, although they
made me feel
rather small.
§2
Our
destination was a suburb named Clifton Gardens and a fine old house, renamed
“The Manor,”
when it became the residence of Mr. Leadbeater and his colony of
Theosophists.
I must, however, now call him Bishop Leadbeater, because since I
had met him
last he had become a Bishop of the Liberal Catholic Church, a new
organization
which some Theosophists had founded, with ceremonials closely
following
those of the Roman Catholic Church but a platform intended to allow
entire
freedom of thought with reference to all religious dogmas, except of
course the
belief in Jesus Christ as “our corner-stone.”
Bishop
Leadbeater had always said that churches and their ceremonies radiated
“force.” Long
before, he and Mrs. Besant had inspected at Rome the holy water of
St. Peter’s
and also that of an independent preacher who had not the Apostolic
Succession,
and they had found the unofficial water more influential. But this
was regarded
as an exceptional case, because of the superlative goodness of
[284] the
independent preacher, while the organization of the Apostolic
Succession,
on the other hand, provided for an allowance of force to pass
through the
body of any person properly initiated into the Succession, if the
sex be male,
even if the personal character be quite immoral and the body
unclean.
Bishop
Leadbeater had attained his rank in the Church through the agency of two
or three
other Theosophists who had obtained their Succession through a man
named
Willoughby, who had been a Bishop in the Roman Catholic Church, but for
some reason
had left that body and had been experimenting with a new church of
his own.
In addition
to joining the Liberal Catholic Church Bishop Leadbeater had entered
the
Co-Masonic movement (which admitted women and men on equal terms) and become
a leading
figure in that also, with the aid of Mrs. Besant, who was at the head
of that
movement as far as the British Empire was concerned.
The great
attraction of both these movements from Bishop Leadbeater’s point of
view was the
sacramental force of their rituals. Some of the ceremonies were
directed to
help the individual – as, for example, those connected with
absolution,
marriage and death. Absolution was not regarded as removing the
effects of
sins but only as turning the sinner’s face back into the virtuous
direction and
putting him right, so to speak, with God. But the most important
sacramental
actions or ceremonies, such as the Mass, were considered to
distribute
“help” over a large area.
Both these
movements were held to be vastly important for the work of the World
Teacher who
was still to come, and two Masters were in charge of them,
personally directing
their renaissance through Bishop Leadbeater, who was
helping to
revise as well as revive and popularize the ceremonial forms. The
Master Jesus,
now living in seclusion somewhere in Syria, was held to be in
charge of the
Church. Since his incarnation in Palestine he had been incarnated,
it was
declared, in South India in the twelfth century as the reformer Sri
Ramanujacharya.
I already
knew that Ramanujacharya had led a highly devotional revival in South
India and had
established one of the largest and most vigorous sects, in
opposition to
the old widespread Hindu belief that the soul of every man is
absolutely
one with God. Afterwards I learned that he [285] rejected the
movement for
the substitution of “flour-substitutes” for living victims in the
sacrifical
ceremonies, and as such support of animal sacrifices did not seem
consistent
with the traditional character of Jesus, I was led by this to further
doubt as to
the reliability of Bishop Leadbeater’s clairvoyant powers.
In charge of
the masonic movement was a Master, it was announced, living
incognito in
Europe, a man of great culture, formerly incarnated as Roger Bacon,
and again as
Francis Bacon, who was responsible for the chief part of the
writings
attributed to Shakespeare. Both these Masters were devoted to a still
greater
Master, the World Teacher, who had used the body of Jesus, and was now
to use that
of Krishnamurti as soon as the occasion might be ripe.
Being of an
open mind I did not regard these propositions as inherently
improbable.
There are plenty of things in heaven and earth which are not yet
known to the
man in the street, the man in the laboratory and the man in the
church. And I
always had been predisposed to the belief that the best is the
true, that
goodness sprouts from something fundamental in the Universe and is
not merely a
superficial accident in man. But I disliked the ceremonials. They
seemed to me
to obstruct the good and the true, and make them dependent upon
externals. How
absurd to think that certain gestures and words could be vehicles
of spiritual
forces. Love, truth and the will were the only spiritual forces,
and virtue
was its own reward, or it was not virtue. Spiritual force could not
be ladled out
like soup, nor distributed to the worthy as Sunday-school prizes,
nor inherited
like grandfather’s pantaloons.
When I saw
what Bishop Leadbeater had been doing during the eleven years that I
had been away
from him I could not help thinking that there was little to show
for the
unique clairvoyant powers of which he believed himself to be possessed.
I knew, of
course, that it was “forbidden” to use those powers in any way which
would give
proof of their actual existence to a public which might easily, if
convinced of
such things, throw overboard its rational progress and indulge in
an orgy of
revelation and magic, or might at least prostitute the new science to
selfish ends.
In material matters, seemingly they could be used only for
providing
such information as that jazz music attracted revolting “elementals”
and dead
negroes, onions polluted [286] the astral as well as the physical body,
and the
wearing or black delayed occult progress. In my younger days, in the
thoroughness
of my passion for perfection, I might have dyed my hair golden, and
recommended
the whole Indian nation to do the same. But by now I was a confirmed
disciple only
of goodness, truth and beauty – perfection lay in the balanced
synthesis of
these, a terrific task, since the conditions of human life
constantly
called for the sacrifice of one virtue to another.
I think that
Bishop Leadbeater had come to the conclusion that his clairvoyance
and the
powers associated with it were useful only for occult purposes. He
wanted
humanity to undergo a change of heart. People were too self-centred,
thinking of
personal comfort, pleasure, ambition, pride and acquisition. Could
they be
persuaded to come out of themselves, and look at life from the
standpoint of
the general good instead of individual desire, the whole world
would change.
This was the one essential of progress, from his point of view,
both for the
individual and the world. One could do little for the world at
large, for
who would take heed of the preaching of this truth? Therefore he
would (1)
concentrate his attention upon a small community of people, especially
young people,
earnestly trying to become unselfish in thought, feeling and life,
and (2) work
for the ceremonial movements by which occult forces could be caused
to play upon
the auras of the people, and thus facilitate the impersonalizing
process from
the outside.
Impersonalization,
he held, would naturally lead to occult progress, that is, to
growth on
other planes, to discipleship to the Masters (who were working always
at the
distribution of forces for the uplift of mankind), and to Initiations, of
which there
were five, of which the last was the gateway to adeptship or
masterhood.
He agreed that in this there was a subtle danger – one must take
care that
one’s impersonality be not tainted by personal desire for these
achievements
or rewards, for such self-induction would certainly counteract the
purpose of
the effort.
I wanted to
know why those who believed in the efficacy of the forces released
by the
ceremonies did not practise them more. If I felt that I had such great
powers to
help I would want to do the ceremonies a hundred times a day, not once
or twice.
There was no satisfactory answer to this question. It could only be
said that one
must not give too [287] much force. Well, then, the force was only
medicine or a
tonic, not a gift of life itself, and I would on the contrary
prefer to
devote myself to promoting the direct means by which life sustained
and evolved
itself. Bishop Leadbeater sighed at my obstinacy. He would say: “I
find it much
easier to develop the people with the aid of the ceremonies than
without them,
and as long as I find that to be so I shall go on using them.”
I think he
was suffering under an illusion in the matter. He thought that the
smoothing and
refining of the auras indicated progress. He was running an occult
beauty
parlour. The auras may have come to look prettier to the clairvoyant eye,
but it
appeared to me that the people specially cultivated by him lacked in
essential
qualities of character as compared with others whom I knew, and that
the
atmosphere of his community encouraged the lack. He was painting dolls.
I have
alluded already to the analogy which he used of the cultivation of
flowers and
animals by man. I t was really useless as an argument, for that
cultivation
is generally of one quality at the expense of another, and besides
it is done by
selective breeding of the plants or animals, not by pumping
anything into
their veins. I saw little use in making black salamanders turn
yellow by
keeping them in yellow boxes.
§3
On arrival at
“The Manor” I did not at first find myself in the midst of the
ceremonial
activities, though the new dispensation was evident in the
conversation
and occupations of the community. I heard the church music
frequently,
both in the regular services and the practices, as the Manor Chapel
was next to
my room.
I liked the
music, which was well played and nicely softened by having to come
through the
wall. But I found that it had some hypnotic effect. Sometimes, when
the mind was
faced with a special difficulty requiring clear thought, it would
jump the
rails and one would find oneself humming a church tune instead of
thinking.
This hypnotic effect is one of the defects of all ceremonies, and of
meditation
involving repetition of formulas. I remember one young man at “The
Manor” who
was very devout, and used [288] always to speak with bated breath. On
one occasion
he made a small faux pas in conversation, and immediately crossed
himself,
involving himself in still greater confusion.
I found
Bishop Leadbeater in bed. He had been suffering for a long time from
rheumatic
fever, and his hands, which lay outside the bed-cover were terribly
twisted. My
sympathy flamed up. I did not know how to express myself. After a
little time
our conversation turned to the subject of his books. He told me that
he did not
know whether he had much longer to live. He would like to have all
his latest
discoveries and thoughts put into books, that they might be correctly
stated and
recorded before he passed away. He had given many talks, and there
were reports
of these which would serve as a basis for books. During the eleven
years he had
written only three books – only one of real importance, The Science
of the
Sacraments, a study of the church rituals, describing what was
clairvoyantly
seen in connection with them.
I remarked
that there were some twenty or thirty fine-looking people in the
community,
and no doubt as soon as he was a little better they would rally round
and help him
to bring his literary works up to date.
“No,” he
sadly replied. “If you do not stay they will never be done. Several
people have
tried, without success.” So I stayed, for over four years – with
some small
interludes of travel.
The first
book we selected was intended to publish all he knew about the Masters
and discipleship
to them. It was called The Masters and the Path. Some material
had already
been gathered together. I collected all the reports of Bishop
Leadbeater’s
talks touching on these subjects, and then every day sat at his
bedside and
read what I had written up from these and from notes of our
conversations.
One of my little accomplishments acquired at Adyar was the
ability to
write in the style of either Mr. Leadbeater or Mrs. Besant, and
neither of
them could tell that paragraphs written by me had not been written by
themselves.
Then there would be questions, discussions, and alterations and
additions
where necessary.
In all my
work with Mr. Leadbeater at Adyar there had seldom been any actual
dictation,
except in The Lives of Alcyone and in the last rescension of The
Beginnings of
the Sixth Root Race. Now there was no dictation at all. I must
[289] have
written about half of The Masters and the Path, some parts of it
containing my
own ideas, as well as language, submitted to him for
incorporation.
A new thing was his statement that, surprising at it might seem,
he had seen
God (the Solar Logos) in personal form; I wrote it up suitably and
put it in the
book.
A curious
thing happened a few days after we had started work. I was sitting
near his bed
one afternoon when I suddenly felt something break open (like the
bursting of a
seed pod) in my head, and from it a cold current flooded my whole
body, passing
down the spine in waves and radiating from every part of the body.
It seemed to
me that this was not my own force, but was coming into me through
my head, and
that it was going out from me direct to Bishop Leadbeater. I was
also aware
that it was a healing current of some kind. After several minutes it
died away,
and I never mentioned it to Bishop Leadbeater, nor to others, except
in a letter
to Mrs. Besant. I do not know anything more about this phenomenon,
which
occurred quite outside my will. But it did coincide with an abrupt change
in Bishop
Leadbeater’s condition. In a few days he was able to move about, and
then it was
only a matter of weeks until he had straightened himself up, and
even his
hands assumed their normal form.
When we were
about half-way through the preparation of The Masters and the Path
Bishop
Leadbeater one day showed me a document which he said had been given to
him by a
Master at Adyar many years before. It was simply a table of the rays or
types of
humanity. He thought it might be incorporated into the book, but there
were some
points he could not understand – he indicated three items in
particular. I
looked at the diagram, and at once exclaimed: “But I can explain
these items.”
I gave him my
explanations of the points in question. He was much astonished and
asked me
where I got this knowledge of a rather obscure subject. I told him that
before
leaving India I had been now and then receiving what seemed to me like
internal
communications on this subject of the rays or types of men. Sometimes
there had
been a voice, but generally ideas had been, as it were, insinuated
into my mind,
quite distinctly with the feeling of the presence of an
intelligence
other than my own. In this way I had accumulated a quantity of
notes on the
subject. [290]
I had been
speaking on it occasionally at theosophical gatherings in America,
without
saying anything about occult experiences in connection with it, if such
they could be
called. It happened in Chicago that some of the members,
particularly
one, Dr. Beckwith, a leader there, had taken my information very
seriously,
and I was consequently much troubled, as I had no wish to lead others
where I was
myself somewhat blind. Late one night, as I was travelling along in
an otherwise
empty carriage on the elevated railway in Chicago, and I was
brooding in a
troubled way over this point, something electrical in my immediate
atmosphere
caused me to look up and I saw, or thought I saw, the Master standing
there; and he
said: “Do not be troubled about that information about the rays.
It is quite
correct. I gave it to you.”
When I had
recounted this to Bishop Leadbeater, he said: “Well, we will not do
any more of
my work until you have written a book of your own on the seven
rays.” He put
his work aside. I set to work on my own book. Early every morning
I made notes
for the day’s dictation. During the day I dictated. In eight days
my book was
ready for the press. I gave the manuscript to Bishop Leadbeater with
the request
to paint out any errors or defects, but after a few days he returned
it to me
saying: “I should not like to interfere with anything coming from that
source.”
The book was
duly published, and created quite a sensation among the
Theosophists,
who translated it into several languages, but no mention was made
of the
history I have recounted above. Afterwards, whenever I raised my voice
against
“authority” in the theosophical movement, Bishop Leadbeater would say to
me: “But we
regard you as our authority on the rays!” I could not, however,
agree with
him. Such experiences as I had had might very well be the work of the
subconscious
mind.
My abnormal
experiences in Sydney were not all connected with psychism. One
morning I
opened the newspaper, and this is what confronted me in massive type
on the front
page:
PROFESSOR
WOOD’S
TRAGIC END
BELOVED
UNIVERSITY MAN FOUND HANGED [291]
My photograph
appeared under this, and then two columns of letterpress:
“Professor
Wood was found hanged in his room ...”
There was a
Professor Wood in the Sydney University and he had hanged himself –
the result of
a distressing illness. Only the photograph was wrong, but letters
of condolence
poured into the office of the Broadcasting Station for which I was
then speaking
every week. Some of the writers must afterwards have been
surprised on
hearing my voice from the tomb – or rather the morgue – as it were,
if they had
not heard the explanation of the mistake. [292]
-------Cardiff Theosophical Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24-1DL
CHAPTER VI
THE NEW
APOSTLES
§1
The year 1925
was to be momentous in the history of the Theosophical Society. In
August, in
Holland, Mrs. Besant made pronouncements of great import. She said
that the
coming of the Lord was very near at hand and that he had chosen twelve
apostles.
This followed the Palestine tradition, but this time the apostles were
to be
prepared for him in advance. Seven of these apostles were already prepared
and these
were of the rank of arhats, or initiates of the fourth degree.
She and
Bishop Leadbeater had already pronounced themselves to be arhats. Many
others had
reached the first degree and some few the second degree on their
lists. Such
an extensive group of initiates was declared to be possible (it had
not existed
in the Society before nor, it was thought, in the world, except
perhaps in
the time of Buddha) on account of the coming of the World Teacher.
Not that the
standard of the examination, so to speak, had been lowered, but
that the Lord
would need many helpers, and so a little “cramming” or “forcing”
was permissible,
though not generally advisable.
The seven
arhats who were then named as included among the apostles were Mrs.
Besant,
Bishop Leadbeater, Mr. Jinarajadasa, Bishop Arundale and his wife,
Bishop
Wedgwood and the Rev. O. Kollestrom. Three of the four men had been “Mr.
Leadbeater’s
boys” and the fourth a close friend in early manhood. Three of them
by now
pronounced themselves clairvoyant, and in direct communication with the
World Teacher.
It was announced that Bishop Arundale only just managed to become
an arhat by
submitting himself to the stimulating influence connected [293] with
his becoming
a Bishop of the Liberal Catholic Church, and his wife, an Indian
lady, was
outside the circle for a little while, but was soon ready to be
admitted.
At the same
time it was announced that the Liberal Catholic Church, Co-Masonry
and a
proposed World University had been officially accepted by the Lord as
special means
by which he would help the world when he came.
Mrs. Besant
accepted all these predictions and became the mouthpiece of them.
She had
always been modest about her own psychic powers. She believed that she
could have
been superlative in this respect if she had cared to practise the use
of them
frequently, but she adhered to the principle of the division of labour
and its
logical complements – a loyal co-operation with others and a willingness
to bear the
burden if mistakes were made and trouble arose. Her position was
that she was
on the “ruling line,” and therefore her chief part in the work was
to decide
policy, organize campaigns and take the leading part in carrying them
out. In this
division of labour it was not her method to distinguish between the
workers, but
to proceed collectively, so it was not her custom to say through
whom she
received any statement she might give to the world.
While this
was going on in Europe Bishop Leadbeater, in Australia, was
significantly
silent on the subject of the pronouncements. He would not make any
statements
openly about them, but said to me: “I hope she will not wreck the
Society.”
Really he did not like the idea of the twelve apostles, and the
speculations
about a coming Judas also, which Mrs. Besant highly dramatized in
her speeches
at that time. The fact was, from his point of view, the movement
was getting a
bit out of hand. Many times he had said to me and others that
really the
only fault of “our President” was that she would catch at the least
hint of the
Masters’ wishes and act upon it impulsively, getting the principle
of the thing
right, but not what was exactly intended to be worked out. She used
to say that
she would rather make mistakes than miss the slightest hint of the
Masters’
wishes.
All through
the years Bishop Leadbeater had been writing to her with hints and
suggestions,
very delicately worded: he had had such and such information; no
doubt she
also knew about this, etc. Practically she always rose to the
suggestion.
But it now happened that among the group of [294] initiates who met
in Europe
during that fateful summer of 1925 there were several who were
“bringing
through” information and messages on their own account – particularly
Bishop
Wedgwood, Mr. Kollestrom and Mr. Arundale and his wife. Mrs. Besant felt
that the
whole situation was quite safely in the Masters’ grip, that for the
sake of
conservation of energy the Masters would use the instruments easiest to
work with,
and that because of her dedication to the ruling department it was
only natural
that much information should come through these co-workers.
Krishnamurti
“remained quiet,” to use a familiar Indian expression.
There was
tremendous enthusiasm in most of the sections of the Theosophical
Society. The
Society reached its peak of membership, as the statistics showed,
in the
subsequent two years. There was a great Jubilee Convention at Adyar
between
Christmas and New Year. An electrical expectation filled the air, that
something
decisive would occur with regard to the coming Teacher. It did occur.
Krishnamurti
addressed a large audience under the banyan tree. He spoke of the
great
Teacher. He comes, he said, for those who are in need, etc. Suddenly there
was a pause
for a second and he spoke in the first person, repeating the “I”
three or four
times – “I come for those who have need of sympathy ...”
Afterwards
Mrs. Besant said the Lord had now definitely spoken through his
disciple, and
we might expect Him to make use of the body occasionally, while
Krishnamurti
would stand aside for the time being in his subtle body.
I did not
attend very many of the Convention meetings. Bishop Leadbeater and I
were engaged
in every spare moment on a book on Masonry which he wished to hurry
through the
press. He used this piece of work as a means of avoiding intimate
conversation
with Mrs. Besant. He was afraid to talk with her at that time
because he
could not agree with her but did not want to say so. Besides, he was
a little hurt
at her taking important information from others in Europe without
even
consulting him at all. To give an example – there was one young man,
admitted to
the inner circle, whom Bishop Leadbeater regarded as quite outside
the pale. At
the door before entering a meeting the Bishop quietly said: “But
surely it is
not right that So-and-so should be here?” Mrs. Besant walked over
to one of the
[295] European arhats, spoke with him, came back: “– says it is
quite all
right.”
Bishop
Leadbeater became very quiet! He would never contradict Mrs. Besant. In
fact, he
would not contradict any lady. This Victorian code of manners of his
necessitated
avoiding as much as possible any contact with ladies on the level.
His secluded
life made him an anachronism in this and some other respects. While
tremendously
loyal to Queen Victoria, King Edward and King George, in the belief
that – a
divine affiatus pervaded the kingly office, he was a determined
Jacobite and
would often speak of the House of Stuart as rightfully entitled to
the British
throne. But although thus deferential to Mrs. Besant he nevertheless
marked off
from his own list more than eighty occultly titled persons as not
being really
such, although they had been informed by other arhats that they
were.
§2
After the Jubilee
Convention of 1925 Bishop Leadbeater and his party of some
seventy
people returned to Australia, but I stayed at Adyar for some months to
attend to
literary work. I had compiled a huge volume of theosophical ethics
from rough
reports of hundreds of lectures (which must have amounted to about
two million
words) given by Bishop Leadbeater and Dr. Besant during thirty
years.
I must now
refer to Mrs. Besant as Doctor, as she had been given an honorary
doctorate by
the Benares Hindu University, which she had done much to promote.
Titles of all
kinds were highly valued in the Theosophical Society.
Notwithstanding
allegiance to the teaching in Light on the Path: “That power
which the
disciple shall covet is that which shall make him appear as nothing in
the eyes of
men,” it was thought wrong to hide one’s light under a bushel, as
one could not
then do so much good – an instance of the peculiar habit of
wanting
things both ways at once. Bishop Leadbeater would urge his young men to
secure a
University degree, though he used to say that more good was done by an
initiate
lecturing than by anyone else, even if the matter and manner of the
former was
inferior.
Dr. Besant
was much pleased with her part of the large book entitled Talks on
the Path of
Occultism. She wrote me from Benares that she had no idea that those
old talks of
[296] hers had been so good. Though an expert and exacting editor,
she had not
found it necessary to make more than half a dozen alterations – and
those only
typographical. One part of the work I had had to write entirely
myself, on
account of the total absence of notes in that section. As regards
Bishop
Leadbeater’s portion, he gave up editing it about half-way through and
did not even
trouble to read the remainder.
Some amusing
incidents occurred in connection with these writings. When we were
doing The
Masters and the Path, I was reading to Bishop Leadbeater a portion
relating to
some talks to young disciples. Suddenly he burst out: “Where did you
get that
drivel?” It was not his habit to dissemble his feelings, whether of
pleasure or
the reverse. I traced out the offending portions, and discovered
that it
consisted of some talks by one of his colleagues which had been included
among his
notes by mistake. However, the material was adapted and put into the
book.
On another
occasion he exploded to me with: “That’s just like your little mind!”
What had
annoyed him was an opinion expressed to me by Mrs. Besant about five
minutes earlier,
which I had happened to repeat! On another occasion he threw
down a bundle
of manuscript in front of me and cried out: “Can you do anything
with this
ranting stuff?” I boiled it down to about half and linked it together
a little, and
it finally emerged as a book – dealing with nirvana – by another
of his
colleagues, who, however, never knew anything of this portion of the
history of
his own book.
There was an
old member at Adyar who had been somewhat opposed to Bishop
Leadbeater’s
outlook. When I returned to Adyar I found him quite converted. He
told me with
what joy he had read a portion of the “Talks” dealing with Nirvana
and
liberation. I had supplied the whole thing, both ideas and words, but I did
not mention
this, as I thought it might devaluate the ideas, since things had
now reached
the stage in the Society at which it mattered very much who said a
thing, not
what that thing was.
That had come
about in the natural sequence of events. There had been a steady
increase of
literature in the nature of revelations and many people had come to
feel that
study and thought were not essentially profitable, being too
speculative,
and that the important things were facts, which [297] were to be
obtained with
the aid of psychical faculties rather than by thought. It was true
that Mme
Blavatsky’s work of thirty years before, especially The Secret
Doctrine, was
said to be derived from the Masters by psychic means, but that
dealt with
main principles forming a system, while the later literature, due
almost
entirely to Bishop Leadbeater’s researches, was a vast mass of detail
relating to
objects or facts.
§3
While at
Adyar in 1926 I had much talk with Dr. Besant about initiations and
similar
matters. Of occult recognition she gave me “all that is in my power” and
said that she
was diffident about it because she felt that “it was not good
enough.” She
told me that my participation or nonparticipation in Masonic or
other
ceremonials would make no difference to this recognition or to further
progress –
yet some years later when she was ill and helpless, others cut my
name out of
the list when I ceased to take part in those organized mysticisms!
I returned to
Sydney trailing some clouds of glory, and resumed my work with
Bishop
Leadbeater. To compose new chapters for a revised edition of his book,
The Other
Side of Death, I read dozens of the latest books of spiritualistic
research, and
found that such works as those of Dr. Geley, the Rev. Dray ton
Thomas and
Dr. Crawford contained investigations of great scientific value in
that
connection. For another book, Chakras, I placed before Bishop Leadbeater
all the
information on the subject available in Sanskrit works known to me. This
book lagged
for a long time, so I tried to make some investigations myself.
Concentrating
on the chakra between the eyebrows, I became aware of a double
rotation like
that of two plates revolving in opposite directions. I put this
idea before
Bishop Leadbeater. For several weeks he told me that he could not
find it, but
at last he did find such a double rotation in all the chakras, and
explained it
in his book.
There was no
doubt in my mind that, whatever they may have been, Bishop
Leadbeater’s
psychic faculties were declining. Shortly afterwards, his principal
helper on the
astral plane died unexpectedly, but the Bishop did not know it
until
informed by ordinary means, and actually [298] wrote a letter to him after
he was dead.
His next important helper also died unexpectedly. He had been ill.
One day a friend
asked Bishop Leadbeater how he was. Oh, yes, he had seen him;
he was going
on much the same. Actually he had been dead for two days.
During this
time I had a little stream of psychic experiences which I need not
detail here.
I used to tell these to Bishop Leadbeater and ask him about them,
and he
constantly replied: “I should advise you to take them at their face
value.” They
were very mixed. Some had to do with Masters and initiation; others
fell to the
level of the following. One morning I awoke with the sound of a cat
mewing and in
the half awake state I heard a voice saying: “You were Nathaniel;
look it up in
the Bible. Promise that you will remember.” Why anybody on the
astral plane
or anywhere else should wish me to believe that I had been
Nathaniel in
a former incarnation I am completely at a loss to understand. My
wife was
convinced that there was some kind of hypnotic influence brooding over
the Manor, to
which she, however, refused to yield in any degree.
My own theory
at present with regard to such experiences, whether mine or
occurring to
others, is that there is a small foundation of fact in them. I had
physical
confirmation of some of them, as in the experiments on
thought-transference
and some experiences with Indian yogis which I have already
related, and
also there is a very convincing sediment of good evidence in such
works as
those of Dr. Geley, where they record experiments done under test
conditions –
more convincing on that account than one’s own psychic impressions.
But there is
also a vast superstructure which is completely false, being the
product of
that state of mind in which dreams originate, dreams which become
perfervidly
important and take the rank of truer visions in any atmosphere in
which they
are cultivated or encouraged in connection with a mission, or strong
interest in
oneself as a person or a character.
Even the part
which is true (which anyhow is impossible to determine, except by
other means
than those of the visions themselves) is not important. If one’s
conduct
improves as the result of such knowledge there is no gain in character.
Virtue is
spoiled by calculation.
People say
that they get thrills and encouragement and uplift out of psychic
experience,
but after much observation [299] I have come to the conclusion that
these are
essentially of the same nature as the thrills and encouragement and
feeling of
well-being and elevation that others obtain physically from the
cocktails
preceding dinner. There is something in man which is struggling for
birth, but it
is surely not to be liberated by stimulating the emotions and the
mind, any
more than by over-feeding the stomach.
As to
devotion to the Masters – whatever their true form may be it is not
logical that
they should want that, either for direct personal purposes or for
setting up a
new authority to govern this playground of human fancies and
desires. Nor
does a thing improve by being dressed in a halo of its origin; we
can admire
and love children without waiting to be guided in the matter by
knowledge of
their ancestry, and without thinking of the incidents which
preceded
their material births.
Sometimes in
the mix-up of occult experiences the error can refute itself, as
when in
America I had been wanting to set my thought beside that of the Master
and find out
by feeling whether an action of mine was right, and I thought I saw
that Master
and heard him say: “You must not do that. You are spoiling our
unity. What you
do I do.” With that somewhat cryptic utterance I may have been
talking to
myself, from the subconscious to the conscious mind. I accepted the
proposition –
because it was logically sound. One must not look to God or
Masters to do
one’s work or to make one’s decisions. Could one do it to
perfection
one would not only miss the benefit of effort, but would become an
imbecile, as
so many religious fanatics do – “O God, shall I wear my blue dress
or my green
to this party? Which will have the best influence on the auras of
the people?”
The same tendency destroys intellectual brotherhood, for you cannot
converse with
a man who has his thoughts and ideas ready-made from above, and
quite
unchangeable.
§4
As the new
tendency in the theosophical movement increased it offended me more
and more. My
object all along had been to sift the gold from the ore, but now it
seemed that
the ore was growing more and the gold less. Theoretically there was
freedom of
thought and opinion, and [300] the Society was a truth-seeking body,
and our
truth-seeking was to be done as a brotherhood, without distinction of
race, sex,
creed, caste or colour. In this spirit we were to study and
investigate
for the promotion of knowledge of the truth, especially about man,
his relation
to his environment and his destiny. But in practice there was more
than a
tendency to give the platform to the believer and to squeeze out the
critic or the
independent thinker. Instead of the subjection of all doctrines to
a co-operative
inquisition, “You must respect the faith of your fellow-members.”
By 1925
prayers of all the materially powerful religions were introduced on the
Society’s
official platform, and the movement definitely degenerated into a
brotherhood
of creeds. Criticism of other people’s ideas became “unbrotherly!”
And besides,
it “spoiled the work,” and the work was largely a conveyance of
blessings and
forces by those who were admitted to the systems of organized
access to
these things. On these grounds offices were filled, and invitations
were issued
to leaders to preside and lecture at the Society’s gatherings nearly
all over the
world.
Bishop
Leadbeater was one of the worst politicians in this respect, especially
as he grew
older. He detested argument and criticism – such a waste of time;
such a
dissipation of energy. He said to me: “We must try to get our own people
in as General
Secretaries in as many countries as possible.” He wrote many
letters
hinting that certain persons were the best. I did not question his
earnestness
and sincerity, but I thought that he ought to have gone out and
started a new
society on his own lines, which were quite different from those
for which the
Theosophical Society was intended. But he won his way, on account
of his
extraordinary persistence.
Bishop
Leadbeater and his agents were eminent in the theosophical weakness of
wanting
things both ways at once, though that was quite illogical. The Society
must be quite
without dogma, and yet its councils must be governed and its
platforms
occupied by those who were eager to promote certain beliefs,
leaderships
and objectives, and members who opposed these must be kept in the
background.
There was no
question but that the Society must be neutral, just as a good
scientific
society is neutral, though providing a platform for professors and
investigators
to discuss and publish the results of their researches. The [301]
difference
between a church and a society is that the latter does not give its
support to
anyone professor or doctrine in particular.
I remember a
meeting at which someone wanted to pass a resolution against
capital
punishment, but a delegate, a young Indian lady who was sitting beside
me, got up
and said she would consider the advocacy of the death penalty more in
accordance
with brotherhood, for she herself would prefer to be hanged and on
the way to a
new incarnation rather than to be kept in a degrading prison for a
long term of
years!
The chairman
decided that the meeting could not rightly pass the resolution, but
there was
such a body as “The Theosophical Order of Service,” which could do so.
That body met
immediately afterwards, passed the resolution and sent it to the
newspapers.
So they had it both ways. But the public could not distinguish
between the
Theosophical Society and the Theosophical Order of Service. The
Society was
in the anomalous position of sponsoring the Order and lending to it
all its
conveniences. In the same way there was the Eastern or Esoteric School
of Theosophy,
constantly being referred to on the Society’s platform as “the
heart of the
Society.” In that heart there were dogmas, beliefs and mediation,
but not in
the Society!
§5
In 1927 Dr.
Besant was in America with Krishnamurti. He had now become very
active and
independent. He wrote charming poetry at that time, full of
sympathetic
feeling and penetrating thought. Dr. Besant announced that the World
Teacher had
definitely come, not as she had expected by the occasional stepping
out of
Krishnamurti and stepping in of the Lord, but by a constant mingling of
the
consciousness of the Lord and that of his disciple. To this belief she
adhered to
the end of her life, and she made it the topic of her greatest
enthusiasm,
as can be seen in all her subsequent annual presidential addresses
to the
Society. In 1928 she closed the Eastern School, as the Lord had come, and
it was his
guidance that the people should now seek, not hers. But it was soon
strongly
represented to her by Bishop Leadbeater and his close adherents that
many of its
members, released from the discipline of the School, [302] were
becoming
slack in their personal conduct, and in consequence of this pressure
she opened it
again a year later for those who felt that they could not
discipline
themselves and wanted a routine laid down for them.
Meantime, the
intensive production of disciples and initiates continued. In
Australia I
was occasionally present at the selections for recommendation. The
following was
not untypical: Bishop Leadbeater would say: “So-and-so has been an
accepted
disciple for more than seven years. I think it is about time for her to
take a
further step.” His companions would reply: “Why not?” Within a few days
she was an
initiate – quite a useless person from the external point of view,
but very
faithful to the Church and perhaps therefore useful for the radiation
of forces.
This “force” was the dominating thought in the later part of Bishop
Leadbeater’s
life. The office of Secretary for the Order of the Star fell vacant
in Melbourne,
and he asked me to suggest a name. I did so, and he said: “But do
you not think
that the Lord would prefer to have one of his priests in that
position?”
And the priest was put in. He carried the force. [303]
-------Cardiff Theosophical Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24-1DL
CHAPTER VII
THE NEW
KRISHNAMURTI
§1
Early in
1928, when I was in New York, writing my book on India, Krishnamurti
came there
and gave a lecture in the Chemical Society’s Hall. I was asked to
preside. I
found that, as he expressed it himself, the picture had come out of
its frame.
Krishnamurti
was administering truth from his own point of view to the people
who had built
up various organizations for his use. He declined the disciples
announced for
him, rejected all the modes of organized access to the forces of
inner planes,
said that the system of master and pupil was injurious, declared
that
ceremonies were hindrances, not helps, and reverted uncompromisingly to the
position that
in order to have spirituality a man must lean upon no thing or
person
outside himself. He cast off his connection with the Theosophical Society
because, he
said, it was addicted to these things. A year later he closed down
his own Order
of the Star, because its members were inclined to lean upon him,
and he was
determined that no cult, dogma or system should be built round his
personality.
Some persons,
including Dr. Besant, not realizing at first the completeness with
which Krishnamurti
was rejecting all material and mental props to spirituality,
said that of
course it was quite understandable that he should not want the
ceremonials
himself, but they would be useful and indeed necessary to carry on
the
life-giving power which he brought to us after he had gone, just as Christ
was present
in the transubstantiation of bread and wine into His Body and Blood
on the altars
of the Catholic Church.
This idea
also Krishnamurti severely rejected, but some of the arhats continued
in the belief
none the less, now [304] saying: “Krishnamurti does not know
everything
about the Lord. We too have our direct connections with him.
Krishnamurti
is only authoritative in connection with a special and limited
mission.”
Dr. Besant
speculated that Krishnamurti might really be speaking for the future,
and said that
his utterances were probably intended for the people of the coming
sixth race,
hundreds of years hence, more than for the world to-day. She said
that her
policy was to take as much as she could understand from Krishnamurti
and leave the
rest for the future to deal with. On the other hand Bishop
Leadbeater at
the same time wrote that the realization claimed by Krishnamurti
had already
been attained by “ourselves” and he was now really preaching to the
horse-racing
and fox-hunting outer world, rather than to the theosophically
inclined!
These views well illustrate the difference in character between Bishop
Leadbeater
and Dr. Besant, the former always sure of himself, the latter modest
and seeking,
and therefore yielding.
It became
very clear to me that the movement was going to be shivered from top
to bottom if
something was not done to relieve the Society from all connection
with other
movements which were advocating material means to spiritual goals.
In the middle
of 1928 Dr. Besant was re-elected President of the Society for a
fourth
seven-year term. She appointed Mr. A. P. Warrington, of America,
Vice-President,
and continued Mr. Albert Schwarz in the post of Hon. Treasurer,
which he had
occupied for over twenty years. On my return from Australia at the
end of the
year she completed her trio of officers by appointing me Hon.
Secretary of
the Society, fully knowing my views with reference to the
undesirable
influence of other organizations upon the practical affairs of the
Society.
At the same
time she spoke very seriously to me on that subject. She told me
that she was
anxious to encourage everybody in their laudable undertakings, but
she was
afraid of crystallization in the Society. She praised highly the
enthusiasm of
those who had launched various movements, but was at the same time
anxious to
prevent any bias from establishing itself in the Society, or even
from appearing
to do so. She spoke of the difficulty which she felt on account
of the
pressure upon her of the religious [305] enthusiasts on one side, and
finally said
on that point: “I wish some of you would push equally hard on the
other side.
It would make it much easier for me.” She told me of her policy of
co-operation
with others, and that she had scarcely used her own psychic powers
for years,
but had been relying on her co-workers in that respect.
This last
was, I confess, a blow to me. I had all along been trying to sift the
gold from the
sand in connection with the many occult pronouncements made in the
Society, and
had relied primarily on her testimony to the existence of that
gold. But now
I was informed by Dr. Besant herself that she had been and was
accepting
without critical examination or first-hand confirmation many of the
statements of
those whom I positively knew to be incorrect, at least on some
points. The
amount of gold in recent statements diminished in my eyes almost to
vanishing point.
Although positive, recorded evidence of the earlier days as to
the abnormal
powers of Mme Blavatsky and the inherent reasonableness of the
system which
she had expounded under the name of theosophy remained untouched by
this, the
living testimony had now vanished as far as I was concerned.
And here also
was Krishnamurti, declared to be the World Teacher in person,
stating that
ceremonies were hindrances to a spiritual life, and even that
explanations
of life, such as those of reincarnation and karma were soporific,
for only the
aid of pure action in the present, making the most of the present,
was
consistent with spirituality, liberation, or the clean and self-fructifying
operation of
life itself. To hold a theory that we must work for the development
or
accumulation or acquisition of opportunities or powers to be attained at some
future time
was simply to spoil the living present.
§3
I saw much of
Krishnamurti during his visit to New York and on subsequent
occasions. I
tried to grasp how life appeared and what it meant to him. That was
difficult,
because it did not mean anything at all. It stood for itself and
required no
interpretation. He said he had reached liberation; he was free, but
he could not
describe that freedom. Mind could no more grasp life than teeth
could bite
the air. Life was knowing itself direct in him, not [306] through the
veil of mind,
with its clumsy categories of past, present and future.
I could see
clearly what he was driving at in describing so many things as
hindrances,
but I was not able to grasp the positive and superior life of which
he spoke.
After all, his position seemed to be that of the yoga school of India,
which I knew
well. It was simply that the mind (perception and reason) is not
the
instrument for knowing the positive element of being that is, life itself,
but is
concerned with the limited department of production and understanding of
forms. Its
enhancement could not lead to discovery of fundamental truth any more
than could
development of abnormal muscularity. On the other hand its
suppression
could not lead to it, any more than material suicide.
We ought not,
therefore, to picture our evolution into some godly or angelic
type of being
and stultify our present power by waiting or working for that.
That would
not be different from the way in which stupid devotees set aside
their own
judgment and waited for orders from above. Nor, on the other hand,
should we
discredit our present capacity by going backwards, as it were, to the
peaceful
animal state of mind. In short, the secret of the real is to click with
the present,
to be fully what we are. Consolation, hope, remorse, and any
philosophy
which softens the incidence of life upon us in the present stands in
the way of
life’s realization of itself. The mind can help only by removing the
obstacles,
the errors created by itself. To think of life in its fullness is to
make only a
picture on canvas. Life is life, and cannot be known mentally by
comparison
with any object. You cannot put God in a box.
Several times
I discussed with Krishnamurti the function of the Theosophical
Society. He
said: “You cannot organize truth.”
I pointed out
that the Society was intended to be only a business organization.
It existed
for the promotion of truth, but did not say what that truth was.
“I am afraid
you cannot have such a brotherhood,” was his reply. “Consider the
weakness of
human nature. Some creed will get control of the thing, or will be
fighting for
it and giving trouble all the time.”
I pointed out
that the position is maintained in scientific and learned
societies;
the Chemical Society does not advocate the use of any particular
brand of soap
or matches. [307]
“People can
be impersonal with reference to soap and matches,” was the substance
of his reply,
“but your society proposes to deal with man himself, and you will
find that
people simply will not face the truth with reference to themselves.”
“Let us put
it to the test of experience,” said I. At any rate I am going to try
to make the
position clear, since there ought to be a society where people may
meet to
discuss and criticize their various efforts to find the truth.
“Go ahead,”
was his conclusion. “I shall watch the effort with great interest,
but I think
there is little hope.”
I had still
to learn that there are no truth-seekers, because really to want it
would be to
have it: it is because we do not really want it that we are what we
are, embodiments
of wanting something less.
§4
My first
active step was to join with several others in January of 1929 in a
renewed
effort to establish freedom in the Society, not freedom of individual
belief, which
was constantly being asserted and accepted, but with regard to the
platform of
the Society, so that no party could use the organization mainly for
its own
purposes. We were highly conscious of the acute situation arising in the
movement
between those whom I may call the catholics, who wanted to organize a
system of
living, with stations on the road and all the rest, and the
protestants,
so to speak, who wanted I private judgment, individual freedom and
ethical
purity, rather than ceremonials, disciplines and obedience.
The position
was becoming exacerbated. The big guns began to urge that the Star
Office be not
allowed on the Adyar estate, although it was full of churches and
temples
administered by their several sectarian bodies. No one could tell, it
was argued,
what Krishnamurti’s attitude to the Society was going to be.
Some of us,
therefore, put before Dr. Besant the idea that she might take the
lead in a
reconstruction, a reformed society, such that membership of it should
give not even
a flavour of sectarianism, and would thereby be a suitable
instrument
for the teacher to use, though it would not as a society advocate his
views any
more than those of any other person. Dr. Besant was willing to make
alterations
[308] somewhat on those lines. At least she went the length of
putting
forward a tentative proposition which was defeated in the Council, that
the stated
objects of the Society should be replaced by one simple statement
that its sole
object was to seek for the truth. [309]
-------Cardiff Theosophical Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24-1DL
CHAPTER VIII
“GOOD-BYE,
PROUD WORLD!”
§1
My wife and I
settled down from our wanderings in our little house at Adyar. In
1930 I acted
as Treasurer as well as Secretary, as in that year Mr. Schwarz took
a year’s
leave to visit Switzerland, his native land. In correspondence with Dr.
Besant, who
went to Europe, I conducted the business of the Society, held
meetings and
edited the Adyar Theosophist.
The
Theosophist had been removed to America, because it could be carried on
better from
there; but shortly afterwards the Adyar Theosophist was started to
replace it at
Adyar, to satisfy a condition in Colonel Olcott’s will. When
Bishop
Leadbeater returned to live again at Adyar at the end of 1930, not
knowing that
Dr. Besant had said in Chicago that the magazine had been
transferred
to America by Master’s orders, he brought forth a statement from the
Masters that
it should be returned to Adyar, as it had never been their desire
that it
should be removed from there.
I also found
time to continue my Sanskrit studies for several hours every day,
reading with
a number of pandits in succession the original source books of all
the principal
darshanas (views) or schools of Hindu philosophy. After what I had
been through
I was immensely impressed by the straightforwardness and
thoroughness
of the Indian philosophers. Their very quality of honesty makes
them tedious
reading for most people, but I could conceive nothing more
agreeable
than their method, according to which each writer collects together
all the
possible arguments against his own view and systematically demolishes
them, with
argument and counter-argument, bringing in [310]
every
implication and side-issue that he can think of. No suppressio veri here.
Advocacy,
yes, clear and decisive, but always the position that the reader is to
be the judge
of truth, and is to be provided by the writer with every bit of
information
or of thought which may bear on the subject.
It is curious
that the very completeness of old Hindu thought has brought about
some apparent
inactivity of the modern Hindus in that direction. India is full
of
philosophers, but they do not rush into print with every new thought that
strikes them.
They know that generally it is a very old thought, and that it has
already been
well presented for those who are sufficiently interested to take
the trouble
to read. And he who will not take the trouble to read and think is
not worth
bothering about – there can be no kindergarten in philosophy.
I found
something of the same attitude towards art in Athens. It was obvious
that the
Greeks are still philosophers and artists. Yet they do not display it.
On visiting
the museums in Athens I put to some friends the question: “Why do
you not do
these things now?”
The answer
was: “Why should we? We cannot improve upon these.”
Thousands
upon thousands of exquisite shapes continued their unwinking
millennial
gaze at us from the shelves of the museums, and seemed to add a
conclusive
note to the argument.
But my wife
and I were not Greeks. We took the trouble to collect nearly fifty
specimens of
Greek pottery to take back with us to India – what a trouble,
taking these
as passengers’ luggage through Cyprus, Palestine and Egypt – some
of them
bought from village potters by the roadsides, some of them ancient
pieces from
Athens and Kyrenia.
It was an
unusual collection of things that we accumulated in our little house
at Adyar, for
side by side with Greek and Oriental and South American pottery
and Buddhist
sculpture there reposed my collection of paper weights – stones
from
everywhere, from the pyramids of Egypt and the bathing beach of Limassol,
to “the
Chilliwack potato” and quartz from the Himalayas bearing shining traces
and sometimes
more than traces of rare metals all picked up in rambles in the
wild.
Always fond
of nature and of architecture, in the midst of [311] our groves of
banyans and
bamboos, and flowering trees and palms, I decorated our house with
Spanish and
Greek gardens, with oriental patios and fountains and tanks of
goldfish. We
brought the goldfish ourselves from Cyprus by hand, and they gave
us no little
trouble on the way.
When we were
trying to enter a train from Alexandria to go to Cairo the Egyptian
officials
stopped us, saying: “No live stock allowed on the train.”
We disputed
whether goldfish were live stock or not, but a local friend knew a
better way,
and after a little whispering in a corner the goldfish were allowed
to continue
their journey, no one caring further whether they were alive or
dead, since
certain small discs of life-supporting matter had gone to enhance
the life of
its recipient. On the Italian boat from Port Said to Bombay the
authorities
were good enough to furnish the goldfish with a bath-tub, and on the
train from
Bombay to Madras they reposed in another bath-tub in the bathroom
without even
the cognizance of the authorities.
Still, the
most charming addition to our house was my wife’s collection of
animals – her
tame mongoose and monkey, and her deer and peacock, for which I
made an
enclosed Japanese garden, with proper artificial mountain, and
stepping-stones,
and stone lanterns and statues, and an irregular pond complete
with red
lacquered bridge and a fountain in the centre. With these she refreshed
herself in
the intervals of her work for village schools and trade unions and
co-operative
stores.
But I must
not linger to detail these things. I will only say that the mother
mongoose
probably saved my life on one occasion, when she pulled out a big snake
that was
hiding in my bed and dispatched it on the floor. She would play
charmingly,
too, pretending that my wrist was a snake and performing her unique
feat of
coiling into a ball and jumping from the middle of her back with the
force of her
uncoiling. She loved to sleep with human company except when her
babies came
from time to time.
Mongooses
never have more than two babies at a time, but once ours had three.
Someone else
had a little baby mongoose and she happened to catch sight of it.
At once she
pounced upon it and carried it away upstairs to a little den which
she had under
the roof, and for some time thereafter she ran about trailing
three
youngsters instead of two. [312]
§2
At the end of
1930 Dr. Besant returned from Europe in broken health, and never
recovered.
Her memory with regard to material affairs had been failing a little
for some
time. It was not unnatural at her advanced age – she was eighty-five –
and would not
have seemed so pathetic had not a few devotees who looked after
her
physically tried to hide the facts of her decline. She spent her time in
reading and
quiet reflection, they announced, and was really doing more work
than ever
before by radiating beneficial forces upon the world. But the fact was
she did not
attend to the practical work any more because she could not. The
Society was
carried on by the officers (the Vice-President came over from
America) and
the Executive Committee.
The last
business transaction I did for her was the purchase of a Ford car.
Three times
she told me to buy it – twice after it had been bought. Before
completing
the purchase I asked her if she had no objection to going about in a
Ford instead
of a Rolls-Royce. Her reply was characteristic: “I shall be proud
to co-operate
with Mr. Ford, even in this small way.”
Afterwards,
some devotees persuaded her that it was not dignified for her to
ride in a
Ford. She called me: “I have decided not to buy that car.” I explained
that it was
already done.
“What do you
mean,” she demanded imperiously, “by buying a car without my
orders?” She
had forgotten. I had not the heart to tell her that her memory was
at fault. I
apologized for the “misunderstanding,” and by a stroke of luck sold
the car
without loss the next day.
In 1931 Dr.
Besant made a new will. In it she directed that her living quarters
(the
traditional residence of the President of the Society) should as far as
possible be
left in their then condition, as a sort of shrine, and put in the
custody of
the Outer Head of the Esoteric (Eastern) School of Theosophy. This
was quite
contrary to her earlier character, and contrary to the scrupulous
regard which
she had always had for the property of the Society, for the E.S.
was a
separate organization, and she had always before carefully distinguished
it from the
Society. From about that time her strength gradually declined,
without specific
disease or pain, until she died in the September of 1933 [313]
and was
cremated with great pomp and ceremony at Adyar.
A few years
earlier I would have considered severance from Dr. Besant a great
calamity. Now
it was a relief, for really Annie Besant had left us years before.
In these last
years her few utterances were almost confined to expressions of
anxiety lest
the Society become “crystallized.” In the Convention of 1931 she
appeared for
a few minutes, and then for a brief moment she recovered her former
fire, and
flung to us again the heroic message that each should seek the divine
within
himself and never in any external place or form.
That
statement was of a piece with a birthday resolution which she had written
down on the
preceding first of October: “I will patiently try to tune my daily
life into
fuller harmony with that of the divine Master who lives within my
heart.” It
was quite contrary, in my opinion, to the outlook and methods of the
group led by
Bishop Leadbeater, which grasped her name for their activities and
beliefs, and
afterwards indeed went so far as to claim the word Theosophy for
these and
deny it to the views of Krishnamurti and others agreeing with him.
Krishnamurti
unconsciously helped them in this, for he spoke often against “your
theosophy.”
Theosophy had become identified in his eyes with the operations of
what was
really a sect, inasmuch as it claimed evolutionary advantages (the
modern
equivalent of heavenly rewards) for those who believed in it, and had
“sufficient
intuition” to follow and obey its leaders.
My own last
conversations with Dr. Besant were saddening, they revealed so
intimately
the pathos of all material greatness. She could speak only of the
“little
fairies,” and wonder why so many pretty little animals died so young.
Her loving
heart was never impaired by her decline in other respects. It shone
all the
brightier when she was released from material affairs. The world
overcame her.
It broke her strength and her mind, but it could not stain her
heart, though
it were betrayed by many a kiss.
§3
Now commenced
a painful period for me. As Secretary of the Theosophical Society
I had to call
for nominations [314] and to conduct the election to the office of
President – a
process which was to take nine months, since the electors were
scattered all
over the world. Sure that if I were President the Society would
not be one
thing in the proscenium and another behind the scenes, many members
requested me
to accept nominations. I did so, and on the same day resigned from
the office of
Hon. Secretary.
Only one
other nomination came in – that of Bishop Arundale – and he had the
great
advantage of me that he claimed to be the candidate wanted by Dr. Besant
and her
Master, though she had left no evidence to that effect, but had on the
contrary
repeatedly declined to express an opinion or do anything that might
influence the
members with reference to her possible successor.
It had
happened that seven years earlier she had accepted for a time an occult
statement
made to her that Bishop Arundale was to be her successor, and in two
private and
very affectionate letters to him (in which she said she did not wish
to miss any
hint of the Master’s desire) she mentioned it, said she thought he
would make a
splendid President, and advised him to begin some
pre-electioneering
in America. These old letters, with others, Bishop Arundale
gave to Mr.
Jinarajadasa shortly before the death of Dr. Besant, and Mr.
Jinarajadasa
circulated facsimiles of them as a first move in his election
campaign on
behalf of his nominee, Bishop Arundale.
In reply to
this some members who had been closely in touch with Dr. Besant
requested the
President pro tem., Mr. A. P. Warrington, to prevent backstairs
propaganda by
printing Dr. Besant’s letters and also their own testimony to her
later views,
in fairness to the electorate. But he declined to publish anything
more than the
names of the candidates, and would not allow me a statement of
policy, even
in the paid advertisement pages of the magazine.
We then had
the extraordinary spectacle of a great worldwide Society conducting
its
presidential election (which was of the nature of a referendum on policy)
with no
statements published in the presidential magazine – in which the
business
affairs of the Society had always theretofore been published – and no
publication
of the electoral roll.
The Society
was thus delivered into the hands of other organizations, for Mr.
Jinarajadasa
had the advantage of possessing lists of active workers in the
Eastern
School and [315] other movements to whom to send out his circulars.
Those
enthusiasts could be relied upon to do all the necessary propaganda among
the members
of the Society all over the world.
Mr.
Jinarajadasa followed up with one circular letter after another. With
reference to
my memorial lecture on “Dr. Annie Besant and the Theosophical
Movement” he
circulated and supported an electioneering canard to the effect
that in it I
had made a studied depreciation of her. He did not quote a single
word of the
lecture nor allude to my refutation of the canard in the Indian
newspaper
which first printed it. He misrepresented my policy, ignoring my
manifesto,
and only one of the General Secretaries in various countries who
printed his
letters gave me an opportunity to reply. At last came a circular
saying that
supporters of Professor Wood – acting no doubt under instructions –
accused Dr.
Besant of misuse of funds. A French lady had so written to him. He
circulated
her statement in lands as widespread as Europe, India and Australia,
with his own
testimony to Dr. Besant’s honesty. That was going too far. I
insisted upon
a public explanation, which was ultimately forthcoming – too late,
however, to
repair the damage done. Though I could forgive him for the harm done
to my name
among Theosophists and also for thus depriving me of many votes, my
regard for
Dr. Besant made it impossible for me to forget that some of this mud
flung round
the world would surely stick to her.
Thus the
election which ought to have been a courtly record of policy and
opinion – a
manifestation of brotherhood in a society established “to form a
nucleus of
the universal brotherhood of humanity” – degenerated into something
worse than
any political election I have ever known. Alas, that every experiment
in
brotherhood should fail, on reaching a modicum of material prosperity.
Since
Krishnamurti’s announcement that he would have no disciples, and that he
disapproved
the methods prevailing in the Society, there had been a stream of
resignations
and lapses, which lost the Society 28,000 (out of 45,000) members
between 1928
and the time of the election. This decline was not due to economic
depression,
as some thought; the biggest part of it took place in 1928, the year
of the boom,
and besides, the Society had always maintained its upward trend
through
previous depressions and wars. [316]
The result of
all these things was that I received less than five thousand votes
while my
opponent scored more than fifteen thousand. It was a victory for Bishop
Leadbeater,
who had at last attained practically full control during Dr.
Besant’s
illness, though he himself, then at the age of eighty-seven, did not
live to see
the result of the election.
He was
entirely sincere in wanting to guide things by his own psychic
experience.
But in such an atmosphere psychic experiences were bound to come to
many people –
and to conflict. One afternoon, as I was about to enter the
bathroom to
wash my hands (I had been gardening) I was told by an inner voice to
go at once to
the library. When I arrived there I found the Master standing near
the table,
and the whole room throbbing – as it appeared to me – with his aura.
He thanked
me, for himself and his colleagues, for what I had done in connection
with the
election. I record. The true inwardness of it I do not know. I am quite
prepared to
believe that a thought-form or entity which can be created by a
group of
people, having psychic influence but no intelligence of its own, can
hover above
all and impress each sensitive person according to his own
subconscious
desire.
§4
The new
President, Mr. Arundale – he now dropped the use of his title of Bishop
outside the
church activities, as he had announced his intention to do – or Dr.
Arundale, if
we are to recognize the honorary degree conferred upon him by the
short-lived
thoroughly
liberal policy. I could not congratulate him on his election,
considering
the way in which it had been conducted, but I wrote wishing him
success in
the liberal intentions expressed in his letter to me.
But I saw no
landing-place for the weary unwelcome foot of the white dove of
truth in the
new interpretation of the Society’s principle of tolerance: “Thou
shalt not
find fault with a brother’s views or activities.” What a convenience
that sort of
tolerance would be to lawbreakers in general, if only it could be
adopted in
the outside world!
I learned to
detest theosophical politics, with their hiding of everything that
does not
redound to the credit of [317] those in power, and their perpetual
circles of
mutual admiration, but I was left with a high regard for the
theosophists
scattered over the world as a lovable – albeit most innocent and
childlike –
body of people.
It is not
here, nor is it there, that pure life or truth shall be found. There
are no secret
passages to truth. No hocus-pocus of incantations, of word or of
the subtler
word that is thought, can light or fan the central fire. No
establishment
can establish it; no communications communicate.
THE END
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