Cardiff Theosophical Society in Wales
Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24 – 1DL
Searchable Full Text of Is
This Theosophy? by Ernest Egerton Wood
Is This Theosophy?
by
Ernest Egerton Wood
The
Secret Doctrine by H P Blavatsky
Return to Searchable Text Index
BOOK
I
-------
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]
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
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
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
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
grandfather’s
grandfather had degraded it to commerce after recklessly ruining
himself
in racing and betting on horses in the neighbourhood of
This
third commercial generation, allied to a country girl from the south of
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
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
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]
-------
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
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
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
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
teacher,
having more spacious ideas and experience, insisted that that must be
altered
to
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
afternoon
at the Zoological Gardens.
At
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
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
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
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
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
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.
city
about half-way between
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
possibilities,
while a gentleman in evening dress and a huge moustache explained
in
an
grander
demonstrations, a Chinese juggler or conjurer would perform for us in a
street
in
delectation
in marble halls of
In
anticipation of
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
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
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
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
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
–
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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]
-------
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
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
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
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]
-------Cardiff Theosophical Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24-1DL
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]
-------
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
performed
a perfect quadrant, crossed the footpath and finally landed against a
garden
wall, fortunately without capsizing. I had another similar accident in
a
little excursion on its own account.
§2
But
it was in the north of
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
Return to Searchable Text Index
Cardiff Theosophical Society in Wales
Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24 – 1DL
Searchable Full Text of Is This Theosophy? By Ernest Egerton Wood
Quick Explanations with Links to More Detailed Info
What is Theosophy ? Theosophy Defined (More Detail)
Three Fundamental Propositions Key Concepts of Theosophy
Cosmogenesis Anthropogenesis Root Races
Ascended Masters After Death States
The Seven Principles of Man Karma
Reincarnation Helena Petrovna Blavatsky
Colonel Henry Steel Olcott William Quan Judge
The Start of the Theosophical Society
History of the Theosophical Society
Theosophical Society Presidents
History of the Theosophical Society in Wales
The Three Objectives of the Theosophical
Society
Explanation of the Theosophical Society
Emblem
The Theosophical Order of Service (TOS)
Glossaries of Theosophical Terms
Index
of Searchable
Full
Text Versions of
Definitive
Theosophical
Works
H P Blavatsky’s Secret Doctrine
Isis Unveiled by H P Blavatsky
H P Blavatsky’s Esoteric Glossary
Mahatma Letters to A P Sinnett 1 - 25
A Modern Revival of Ancient Wisdom
(Selection of Articles by H P Blavatsky)
The Secret Doctrine – Volume 3
A compilation of H P Blavatsky’s
writings published after her death
Esoteric Christianity or the Lesser Mysteries
The Early Teachings of The Masters
A Collection of Fugitive Fragments
Fundamentals of the Esoteric Philosophy
Mystical,
Philosophical, Theosophical, Historical
and Scientific
Essays Selected from "The Theosophist"
Edited by George
Robert Stow Mead
From Talks on the Path of Occultism - Vol. II
Obras
Teosoficas En Espanol
Theosophische
Schriften Auf Deutsch