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Gurdjieff's Early Talks 1914-1931: In Moscow, St. Petersburg, Essentuki, Tiflis, Constantinople, Berlin, Paris, London, Fontainebleau, New York, and Chicago
Gurdjieff's Early Talks 1914-1931: In Moscow, St. Petersburg, Essentuki, Tiflis, Constantinople, Berlin, Paris, London, Fontainebleau, New York, and Chicago
Gurdjieff's Early Talks 1914-1931: In Moscow, St. Petersburg, Essentuki, Tiflis, Constantinople, Berlin, Paris, London, Fontainebleau, New York, and Chicago
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Gurdjieff's Early Talks 1914-1931: In Moscow, St. Petersburg, Essentuki, Tiflis, Constantinople, Berlin, Paris, London, Fontainebleau, New York, and Chicago

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The talks in this volume are not verbatim transcriptions. In the early years of Gurdjieff's exposition of the fourth way teaching, he rarely allowed notes to be taken during his talks. The majority of his early talks were written down after the fact by pupils who were present, either individually or collectively, and should be taken as recollect

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PublisherBook Studio
Release dateDec 11, 2020
ISBN9781914269004
Gurdjieff's Early Talks 1914-1931: In Moscow, St. Petersburg, Essentuki, Tiflis, Constantinople, Berlin, Paris, London, Fontainebleau, New York, and Chicago

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    Gurdjieff's Early Talks 1914-1931 - G. Gurdjieff

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    © 2020 Book Studio

    All rights reserved.

    Hardback ISBN: 978-0-9572481-1-3

    Grateful acknowledgement is made to Solita Solano, the Library of Congress; P. D. Ouspensky, Maurice Nicoll, Jean Toomer, Muriel Draper; Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University. Special thanks to Matthias Buck-Gramcko for redrawing the illustrations; to Gert-Jan Blom for sharing photographs; and to Joseph Azize, Anthony Blake, Frank Brück and Harrison Koehli for assisting in unearthing Gurdjieff’s hidden gems.

    Cover: Gurdjieff observing movements in Jessmin Howarth’s Dalcroze studio, Paris 1922. (Photo from the archives of GJ Blom, Amsterdam.)

    CONTENTS

    IN APPRECIATION: A SHORT ESSAY OF COMMENDATION

    REFLEXES OF TRUTH. 1914

    LECTURE (PRE-INSTITUTE)

    NARCOTICS AND HORMONES

    LECTURE ON SYMBOLISM. THE ENNEAGRAM

    ESSENTUKI, ABOUT 1918

    ESSENTUKI, ABOUT 1918

    LECTURE READ IN ESSENTUKI, ABOUT 1918

    FEARS, IDENTIFICATION. (A FRAGMENT.) ESSENTUKI

    THE CONSCIOUS FEELING OF ONE’S REAL SELF

    ON HYPNOTISM, TIFLIS

    WEDNESDAY, 5 JANUARY 1921

    FIRST MEETING, NOVEMBER 1921

    THURSDAY, 10 NOVEMBER 1921

    FIRST TALK IN BERLIN, THURSDAY, 24 NOVEMBER 1921

    SECOND MEETING IN BERLIN, DECEMBER 1921

    TUESDAY, 3 JANUARY 1922

    WEDNESDAY, 8 FEBRUARY 1922

    LONDON, 1922

    LONDON, MONDAY, 13 FEBRUARY 1922

    THE STUDY OF PSYCHOLOGY. MAN, THE MACHINE. LONDON, 1922

    WARWICK GARDENS, LONDON, SUNDAY, 5 MARCH 1922

    PERSONALITY AND ESSENCE, LONDON, WEDNESDAY, 15 MARCH 1922

    LAW OF SEVEN OR LAW OF CONTINUITY OF VIBRATIONS, SATURDAY, 25 MARCH 1922

    THURSDAY, 30 MARCH 1922

    MONDAY, 3 APRIL 1922

    THURSDAY, 6 APRIL 1922

    MONDAY, 10 APRIL 1922

    LAW OF THREE, THURSDAY, 20 APRIL 1922

    MONDAY, 22 MAY 1922

    FRIDAY, 2 JUNE 1922

    SATURDAY, 3 JUNE 1922

    MONDAY, 12 JUNE 1922

    MONDAY, 10 JULY 1922

    MONDAY, 17 JULY 1922

    SATURDAY, 29 JULY 1922

    DICTATED, RUE DE VAUGIRARD, PARIS, 1922

    FUNDAMENTAL RULES FOR INMATES OF TEMPORARY HOMES OF G. I. G’S INSTITUTE, RUE DE VAUGIRARD, PARIS 1922

    THE STOP EXERCISE, PARIS. READ SUNDAY, 6 AUGUST 1922

    THE STOP EXERCISE

    BODY, ESSENCE, PERSONALITY. PARIS, AUGUST 1922

    ONE-SIDED DEVELOPMENT (RECORDED FROM MEMORY.) PARIS, AUGUST 1922

    QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. PRIEURÉ, OCTOBER 1922

    FONTAINEBLEAU, NOVEMBER 1922

    WEDNESDAY, 17 JANUARY 1923

    PRIEURÉ. FRIDAY, 19 JANUARY 1923

    FONTAINEBLEAU. FRIDAY, 19 JANUARY 1923

    FONTAINEBLEAU. SATURDAY, 20 JANUARY 1923

    SUMMARY OF LECTURES

    FASTING, BREATHING. PRIEURÉ, SATURDAY, 27 JANUARY 1923

    SEX. PRIEURÉ, SUNDAY, 28 JANUARY 1923

    FORMATORY APPARATUS. PRIEURÉ, MONDAY, 29 JANUARY 1923

    ENERGY, SLEEP. PRIEURÉ, TUESDAY, 30 JANUARY 1923

    TWO SPIRITS. PRIEURÉ, FRIDAY, 9 FEBRUARY 1923

    MOVEMENT. PRIEURÉ, FRIDAY, 9 FEBRUARY 1923

    THE MEANING OF LIFE. (ORIGINALLY READ TO US AS PURE AND IMPURE EMOTIONS.) PRIEURÉ, FRIDAY, 9 FEBRUARY 1923

    BREATHING. PRIEURÉ, SATURDAY, 10 FEBRUARY 1923

    LIBERATION, IDENTIFICATION. PRIEURÉ, TUESDAY, 13 FEBRUARY 1923

    SEPARATION OF ONESELF FROM ONESELF. TO BE A CHRISTIAN. WEDNESDAY, 28 FEBRUARY 1923

    SYMBOLOGY. FRIDAY, 2 MARCH 1923

    THE EQUIPAGE. MARCH 1923

    PALM SUNDAY, 25 MARCH 1923

    TUESDAY, 3 APRIL 1923

    TRICKS. PRIEURÉ, 1923

    PROLONGATION OF LIFE, THE CLOCK. PRIEURÉ, SATURDAY, 12 MAY 1923

    THREE POWERS, ECONOMY. PRIEURÉ, WEDNESDAY, 23 MAY 1923

    TWO KINDS OF LOVE. PRIEURÉ, THURSDAY, 24 MAY 1923

    TUESDAY, 12 JUNE 1923

    EGOISM AND AIM. FONTAINEBLEAU, TUESDAY, 21 AUGUST 1923

    MOVEMENTS, EXERCISES, DEMONSTRATIONS. NEW YORK, 1924

    EXACT LANGUAGE. NEW YORK, MONDAY, 11 FEBRUARY 1924

    ANIMATE AND INANIMATE. TUESDAY, 12 FEBRUARY 1924

    NEW YORK, TUESDAY, 12 FEBRUARY 1924

    NEW YORK, WEDNESDAY, 13 FEBRUARY 1924

    MATTER, ENERGY, LIFE. NEW YORK, FRIDAY, 15 FEBRUARY 1924

    CENTERS AND SOUL. NEW YORK, SUNDAY, 17 FEBRUARY 1924

    CARRIAGE, HORSE AND DRIVER. NEW YORK, MONDAY, 18 FEBRUARY 1924

    NEW YORK, WEDNESDAY, 20 FEBRUARY 1924

    NEW YORK, WEDNESDAY, 20 FEBRUARY 1924

    QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. NEW YORK, FRIDAY, 22 FEBRUARY 1924

    CONSIDERING. NEW YORK, FRIDAY, 22 FEBRUARY 1924

    BEAUTY, LOVE, INFLUENCES. NEW YORK, SUNDAY, 24 FEBRUARY 1924

    TWO RIVERS. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, 26 FEBRUARY 1924

    QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. NEW YORK, FRIDAY, 29 FEBRUARY 1924

    RELIGION, WILL, EDUCATION. NEW YORK, SATURDAY, 1 MARCH 1924

    NEW YORK, SUNDAY, 2 MARCH 1924

    SELF-OBSERVATION. NEW YORK, THURSDAY, 13 MARCH 1924

    THE ACTOR. NEW YORK, SUNDAY, 16 MARCH 1924

    PRISON. NEW YORK, MONDAY, 17 MARCH 1924

    DEPARTMENT. NEW YORK, MONDAY, 17 MARCH 1924

    ARTIFICIAL BREATHING. CHICAGO, WEDNESDAY, 26 MARCH 1924

    CHICAGO, 1924

    ESSENCE AND PERSONALITY. AMERICA, SATURDAY, 29 MARCH 1924

    TUESDAY, 1 JULY 1924

    AUGUST 1924

    MONDAY, 22 DECEMBER 1924

    ECSTASY OF REVELATION

    NEW YORK, TUESDAY, 9 DECEMBER 1930

    NEW YORK, FRIDAY, 12 DECEMBER 1930

    NEW YORK, MONDAY, 29 DECEMBER 1930

    THE COMPROMISE EXERCISE. NEW YORK, 1930

    NEW YORK, FRIDAY, 6 FEBRUARY 1931

    EXERCISE. 1939

    THE FOUR IDEALS EXERCISE. FRIDAY, 1 OCTOBER 1948

    FRAGMENTS

    SAYINGS

    APHORISMS

    BIBLIOGRAPHY

    IN APPRECIATION: A SHORT ESSAY OF COMMENDATION

    Gurdjieff’s ideas and methods hold out the possibility of a fresh start for anyone who has ever felt both that there is an objective meaning to our lives, and that the ways, religions, schools of thought and philosophies they have known are noble but lacking in some essential element which could make them practical and effective. The life of a conscious human being is so full of promise. The world seems so full of activity and achievement that we cannot believe that there is no purpose to it, that people out there don’t have some secret we don’t yet know, that there is nothing behind the bright facades.

    When I used to visit the Old City of Damascus, I would pass by non-descript walls lining narrow stone streets. Small balconies, usually empty, protrude from above. I would notice the tightly sealed doors, all appearing alike, knowing that there must be someone and something behind them, but unable to guess what. Most doors would conceal nothing but residences and restaurants, and people living ordinary lives; but how could I be sure that one did not open onto wonder for those few who had the key? Sometimes a door would be opened and quickly closed again. But in that second I might glimpse an unexpectedly large courtyard built around a fountain, with not just plants but actually trees growing there, birds singing in their branches, and people intently moving about the many balconies and corridors: a panorama of purposeful life. It was not just imagination, although of course some faculty in us can make psychic images from subtle impressions. There was something rare in that ancient city, and you could feel it, especially near and in the heart of Old Damascus, the Umayyad Mosque, the ancient Church of St John the Baptist, where the accumulated traces of worship and reverence have left an ethereal deposit, almost investing the site with a soul.

    For many of us, Gurdjieff’s ideas and methods came into our lives like that. At some point, we had found that the glittering roads led only to an enclosed world where we would be not so much satisfied as self-satisfied; not so much fulfilled as complacent; not so much wise as self-opinionated. We would see people, and could even feel ourselves start to trim our desires to what was readily available, eventually settling into a small low room of creature comforts and amusements. That would be to live in a prison, no matter how sophisticated, entertaining and expensive. Gurdjieff’s teaching offered a way out, a practical system of ideas and methods which, if diligently applied, would bridge the gap between dream and reality.

    Gurdjieff offered a startlingly clear perspective: we forget ourselves, and in that forgetting, we lose the power of directing our lives in accordance with reason. But a man can remember himself, and so can begin to intentionally develop his mind, feelings, and organic impulses in order to achieve his rational aim.

    In the light of Gurdjieff, mysticism becomes rational and even practical. The divine goal is not a mirage: it is the only sane pursuit in this world. But we approach it all wrong: we try and jump into heaven as we are. We need a practical aim which will include becoming free of negative emotion, for we are made in such a way that until we have made these emotions passive, we cannot become conscious. Otherwise, a conscious man who was given to hatred, jealousy and revenge, could wreak great damage. Only a virtuous person can become conscious. The material in this book will indicate, far better than I ever could, what Gurdjieff taught about aim, purpose and meaning, and how to consciously find and realise them.

    The path which Gurdjieff pointed to does not lead straight out of the world, but through it, fulfilling the legitimate demands of daily life. One can transcend our state only by fulfilling two lives at once—the earthly and the celestial. This is no cop-out, no escapism of any kind, sentimental, utopian or blissed-out. This philosophy makes sense of the undeniable hypnotically powerful force in the world, which leads us to live our lives for pleasure, and the equally undeniable but more subtle impulse which says that the meaning of life is not for something like pleasure, but must be for life, life of a higher measure.

    This is perhaps, philosophically considered, Gurdjieff’s great discovery: that consciousness, being and life are not fixed, settled quantities. They are not infinitely flat and even like Euclidian space and time. They are like the universe of relativity: they can be concentrated, buckled, rarified, organized on different levels and across a spectrum.

    So the life of a conscious human being is indeed full of promise, more than we have ever realised. But we had subliminally believed that consciousness, being and life are something we already have. We labour under the illusion that they are our starting point. And so they are, but we only know them in a weak way, passing through us, not our own. They are also the goal, but in a purer form, more stabilized within us, grounding our individuality. And once we have grasped this, no other goal, not money, fame or pleasure, holds any meaning.

    And now, in 2014, Gurdjieff’s legacy has reached a critical point. The line which he began, and which those who follow it more or less faithfully call the Work, has reached an interval or gap. I mean by this what Gurdjieff meant: if the Work is to develop in the direction with which it began, it must cross each interval with the help of forces which correspond to the current with which the movement began. An impulse which is not true to Gurdjieff’s own line will carry it in the wrong direction.

    The first step of this line of development, the note do, was Gurdjieff’s personal efforts: bringing his ideas and methods, teaching, writing, composing, etc. The second and third steps were, I would say, the work of his direct pupils (the note re), and then the publication of his writings and music (the note mi). Of course, there is some overlap at each stage: living processes are like that. It is only analysis which distinguishes clearly separated stages: a trumpet does not sound in heaven to announce the end of one and the commencement of another.

    In this case the interval between mi and fa would bear risks if not only because those learned from him in person have almost all died. But the interval is even more dangerous because many important texts remain unpublished. Very few of his pupils, whether second generation or later, have access to all of his talks, transcripts and papers in their original form. Even the English version of Beelzebub, upon which Gurdjieff manifestly placed so much of his hopes, has been effectively bleached of colour by what purport to be two retranslations, displacing or at least relativizing the text he himself authorized, so that it is now but one text to be compared and contrasted with others.

    Then there is the world-wide departure, in Gurdjieff groups, from Gurdjieff’s method. Gurdjieff’s style was one of engagement under fluid conditions. Unlike his pupils, he created no institutions beyond the temporary. Even before the motor accident, he had told Nicoll that the conditions at Fontainebleau were temporary. Gurdjieff rarely repeated himself, and he made pupils responsible for passing what they had learned. What falls from the wagon is lost. Each pupil had this privilege and burden. It is arguable that too many did not pass on as much as they could have. Some things can only be passed on from person to person, others can be indicated or even transmitted well enough in writing—and if they are not passed on that way, may well be lost for ever. Despite the good intentions of those establishing them, could the founding of foundations have effectively served as a corporate substitute for the individual efforts required? And although associations are necessary, perhaps not associations of the type we have seen.

    So what can be done? Gurdjieff founded no religion, sect or denomination, but the engagement with his ideas and methods needs to be fed. Personal contact with someone who knows more than we do is necessary. The groups have not worked beyond a certain limited point, and now that those who knew Gurdjieff have all but disappeared, their worth has become even less. We of the second generation are not like those of old.

    Of course not all groups are the same, but it is lawful that their value becomes limited after a certain period. If the groups are, or can be beneficial, they are only useful for some, and even then, not for ever. Further, there is one experience of critical importance which a group can never give you, and that is the experience of being by yourself without a group, flying solo with what you have and have not made your own.

    Something else is also necessary: good records of personal encounters with Gurdjieff, and attempts to develop his ideas in the light of contemporary experience. These are vital. Without them, no engagement is possible for those who did not know Gurdjieff. Often they have preserved an aside or a saying of Gurdjieff’s which, made in the maelstrom of life, is of great assistance for us in our state. For example, in Martin Benson Speaks, there are two brief powerful reminiscences: You know, Mr Gurdjieff would say a curious thing: ‘The angels are pure, and there is no place for them to go. We on this earth are fallen angels, but we have a place to strive for, objectively and actively to come to,’ and, on an occasion when Benson, was suffering tremendously, Gurdjieff said to him: You see that skin? That is yours and no one else’s. This is a part of you.

    Anecdotes and sayings like those are even more abundantly to be found in this volume. That is why books like this one are vital for the entirety of the Gurdjieff Work.

    If the interval between Gurdjieff’s direct legacy (the notes do, re and mi), is to be filled to allow note fa (which must be Gurdjieff’s indirect legacy) to sound as it should, then the first three notes should be fully sounded.

    That is, the ability of the Gurdjieff Work to continue in the direct line initiated by Gurdjieff himself absolutely and necessarily depends upon the full and complete transmission of that legacy. To the extent that this transmission is defective, the direction will veer off into tangents. The Gurdjieff Work will lose its vivifyingness.

    Increasing difficulties are met with in the Work, whether considered at the level of individuals, groups or as a movement. These difficulties are lawful, for now—right now—all are working in the interval. The momentum that once was is now weak, and the new energy which is needed has not yet appeared. Worldwide, the Gurdjieff current and all those in that line, are in the interval of its development.

    The great value of Gurdjieff’s ideas and methods is still apparent. But the line of force which came from Gurdjieff himself and his direct pupils has been dispersed, never to be directly recovered. At the interval, indeed, precisely at the interval, new forces are needed, and wisdom is necessary if it is not to be diverted in a new direction, and run the risk of disappearing, or even worse, continuing and becoming its opposite.

    Memoirs and collections of talks, such as those in this interesting volume, provide some of the requisite force. Will they provide sufficient? By themselves, of course not. The ideas have to be applied in a balanced manner. Yet, I can be confident that this book will help. I can go further, and say that I have an objective hope, a hope based not on what I would like to think has happened, but upon my experience.

    It is only now, that copyright in these works has expired, that they can be collected and published in their authentic forms. I do not wish to attribute ungenerous motives to anyone, but the talks as published in Views from the Real World do not do justice to the material. The editing process behind that book was, I am sure, subjectively well-intentioned, but it was neither transparent nor respectful of the integrity of the texts. Available materials were omitted, and a certain amount of splicing was done.

    Sometimes, to polish is to tarnish. And here, at last, are the unpolished texts, taken down by anonymous pupils. So far as I am aware, Gurdjieff did not check and correct these notes, although I am certain that he was aware and approved of their existence. Precisely because the material is so rough, it should be taken only as recollections of what people believed Gurdjieff to have said. It should not be believed uncritically, but tested, by logical confrontation, by experience and by intuition. What do we feel before this material? Is it of some subtle benefit which transcends the intellectual?

    I salute the editors for their indefatigable efforts to collect this material from collections and libraries around the world. They have done so because it means something to them. This is not a labour of antiquarianism. It is not more bookish exercise. This is work for the Work. The process has been marked by intention, consciousness, and a feeling of obligation to share this valuable material with their fellow human being.

    That is why I can say that I have an objective hope that this material can help us.

    Joseph Azize

    27 February 2014

    REFLEXES OF TRUTH. 1914

    Nearly everybody taking part in the discussions organized by Mr. G., asks at first why these ideas are not set forth on paper in the form of popular lectures, in order that everyone who wishes, but has no opportunity to hear them personally, could become acquainted with these original and uncommon ideas when he can find the time.

    I thought the same myself at first, and even tried to begin to write; but my writings led to the same result as in the case of all those who had so often undertaken the same task.

    In the beginning, the writing appears to go fluently, but later, with a wider acquaintance with these ideas, what has already been written becomes more and more meaningless.

    As in continuing to listen to these lectures or discussions, new questions appear of more importance, one does not know to which question the preference should be given and which is to be made the center of gravity of the writings, and so on. But it is impossible to write on all the questions at once, within a limited compass and with some chance of throwing light upon them and making them as intelligible to everybody as they are to oneself. To do this, one would need to write many volumes, and it may that at last one would give up the attempt, being finally convinced of the impossibility and purposelessness of expounding these questions in writing. The reason for this unintelligible fact I will try to explain some other time in a special article on Our language.

    At present, among the members and pupils of the Institute, there are many manuscripts, written at different times, and on various themes. Some of them represent exact shorthand records of the lectures read by Mr. G. and his fellow-workers; but these records, when read, may sound weak and sometimes like a collection of words, as they have been read for a definite kind of audience in accordance with the time they have been working and the number of lectures they have attended.

    Others represent the expositions in the form of belles-lettres written by the pupils of the Institute, mostly by professional writers. Among these works there are also some written collectively.

    Of this latter group, the manuscripts under the general name of Reflexes of Truth deserve great attention and represent a very serious scientific work in twenty-seven large manuscript books, written in the form of belles-lettres and intended at the time to be printed in Russia.

    But when the revolution began they were not yet published and, later on, the authors themselves found them unsatisfactory and decided not to print them at all.

    I have dwelt upon these manuscripts because the form of interpretation applied in them is the best one, that is to say, in the first booklet all the questions are touched upon and enumerated, but very little explanation is given, as if only the first sketch were made upon the canvas. In the two following chapters one meets with the same questions; and here each of them is explained only so far as to provide the reader with an approximate idea of general notions; in the following four essays, the same questions are dealt with in the same order, but more in detail. Of the remaining books each one is devoted to some special question.

    The first essays are of special interest to us, as they can help us to grasp quickly the principal features of these ideas.

    I am going to read the first essay this evening.

    first meeting

    Strange, and—from the ordinary point of view—incomprehensible events have guided my life. I mean those events which influence a man’s inner life, changing its direction and aim in a radical way and creating in it, new epochs. I call them incomprehensible because their connection was clear to me alone. It was as though some invisible person, pursuing a definite aim, had placed in the path of my life that which I found, as if by chance, at the very moment of my need. Guided by these events, I have been accustomed from my early years to look more deeply and widely into the circumstances which surrounded me, trying to grasp the principle connecting them and to find in their interrelations a broader and more complete explanation. I might say that in every result which I saw, it was the hidden cause evoking it that interested me most.

    In the same apparently strange way I came one day, in the course of my life, face to face with occultism, and was interested in it as in a deep and harmonious philosophical system. But at the very same moment when I had attained to something greater than mere interest in the subject, I lost the possibility of proceeding systematically with the study of it as suddenly as I had found it. In other words, I was entirely thrown on my own resources. This accident, which seemed to me a senseless and unnecessary failure, I recognized later as a necessary stage, full of deep meaning, in the course of my life—but this was only after a lapse of time. I did not forsake the way, but went forward upon it on my own responsibility and at my own risks. Insuperable obstacles arose in front of me, and I was compelled to retreat before them. The widest of horizons opened before my eyes, and in rushing forward, I often slipped back, entangling myself and apparently losing what I had found, remaining fixed in the same spot and wandering in fog. I employed, in the search, many efforts and much work which seemed to me useless, and inadequately repaid by the results achieved. Now, I see that no work went unrewarded and that every mistake served as a guide to the truth which alone I sought.

    I plunged into the study of occult literature, and can say without any exaggeration that I not only read but patiently and perseveringly mastered the sense of the greater part of the material accessible to me in this region, trying to seize and understand what was hidden behind the words. All this I did only to convince myself that I should never be able to find in books what I looked for, and that, although I caught sight of the outlines of a majestic building, I was not able to see them clearly, and distinctly.

    I looked for those who might have interests in common with me. Some appeared to me to have found something, but on a closer examination I saw them also, like myself, groping in darkness. And still I hoped that I should find at last the one whom I needed; for I looked for a living man who could give me more than I could find in a book; and I sought perseveringly and obstinately, and at every failure, the hope which had left me revived again and guided me towards a new search. With this object in view I visited Egypt, India and other countries.

    Among my encounters in the course of these researches there were many which left no trace, but there were also some of great importance. Several years passed, and I counted among my acquaintances some to whom I was bound more durably by the community of our interests. One of them in closer touch with me was a certain A. We passed together not a few sleepless nights, puzzling our brains over some passage in a book which we did not understand and searching for a suitable explanation. In short, we knew each other well and intimately and went, as it were, hand in hand.

    But during a period of a few months, half a year approximately, I had begun to notice something strange about him, first at long intervals, and then more and more often. It was not that he turned away from me, but that he seemed to grow cooler towards this search which had not ceased to be vital to me. And at the same time I saw that he had not forgotten it. He often expressed thoughts and made remarks which became fully comprehensible to me only after long consideration. I remarked on it to him more than once, but he always skillfully avoided conversation on this subject.

    I must confess that this ever more clearly realized loss of A., the constant companion of my work, led me to sad reflections, and once I spoke openly of it to him—I scarcely remember in what form.

    Who told you objected A., that I am deserting you? Wait a little and you will see clearly that you are mistaken.

    But for some reason, neither these remarks nor some others which at times seemed strange to me, attracted my attention. Perhaps it was because I was occupied in reconciling myself to the idea of my complete isolation.

    So it continued up to the last and it is only now that I see how, in spite of my apparent capacity for observation and analysis of passing events, I omitted in a very unpardonable way the principal thing, which was set persistently before my eyes.

    But let the facts speak for themselves.

    One day about the middle of November, I spent the evening with a certain friend of mine. The conversation was on some subject of little interest to me. During a pause in the talk, the host said, turning to me—By the bye, knowing your partiality for occultism, I think an article in today’s number of Golos Moskvi (The Voice of Moscow) will be of some interest to you. And fetching the newspaper, he pointed to an article headed Round about the Theater.

    It spoke of the scenario for a ballet-mystery, The Struggle of the Magicians, written by an orientalist well-known among Moscow collectors, Mr. G., and gave a brief summary of its contents. The mention of occultism and the very title and contents of the scenario excited great interest in me, but none of those present could give me any additional information about the article. The host, a great amateur of antiquities, and himself an ardent collector, confessed that among his acquaintances he could point out no one corresponding to the description contained in the article. With his permission, I cut it out and took it away with me.

    I am not going to trouble you with an exposition of my line of reasoning, or with an analysis of the interest which I took in this article myself. I will only say that the result was that on Saturday morning I took a firm resolve to find Mr. G., the writer of the scenario, whatever it might cost.

    The same Saturday evening, A. called upon me. I showed him the article as a matter of course, and having told him that it was my intention to search out Mr. G., I asked his opinion about it.

    A. read the article and, glancing at me, said, Well, I wish you success in your search. As far as I am concerned, it is of no interest to me. Have we not read enough tales of all sorts? And he put the article aside with an air of indifference. Such an attitude towards a question of so much interest to me was so chilling that I gave it up and said no more on the subject. I relapsed into my own thoughts and A. was also thinking about something. Our conversation halted and at last broke down entirely. The long silence was interrupted by A. who came to me and put his hand on my shoulder recalling me from my thoughts.

    Look here he said, gazing at me, don’t be offended. I had my own reasons for replying to you as I did, but I will explain them to you afterwards. Answer first a few questions of mine, but keep in mind that I shall ask you so seriously (he emphasized the word so) that you have no idea of it.

    Rather astonished by this announcement I replied shortly Ask.

    Tell me, please, why do you wish to find this Mr. G.? How will you look for him? What aim will you pursue, if your search is successful? That is, from which side will you approach him?

    First unwillingly, but afterwards with greater animation, and encouraged both by A.’s serious attention and by the questions which he occasionally threw in, I explained to him the whole line of my reasoning.

    When I had finished, A. gave me a short résumé of what I had said and added, Now I can tell you that you won’t find anything.

    How can that be? I replied. It seems to me that the scenario for the ballet, The Struggle of the Magicians, dedicated moreover to E. V. Geltsch, is not so small a thing that its author could be lost without any trace.

    It is not a question of the author. You may find him, but he won’t talk with you in the way he could said A., emphasizing the end of the phrase.

    I flew out at this and said heatedly: Why do you imagine that he . . .

    I do not imagine anything interrupted A. But I know for certain. In order not to tease you any more I will tell you this. I know the contents of the scenario. Moreover, I am personally acquainted with the author of it, Mr. G., and have known him for a considerable time. The way you have chosen for finding him may lead you to make his acquaintance, but not from the side you would like. In this you may believe me, and if you will let me advise you as a friend, I should recommend you to wait a little longer, and I will try to arrange your meeting with Mr. G. on the lines that you would wish. Well, good-bye, it is time I went."

    Wait, wait I said, awaking from my ever growing astonishment, and seizing hold of him, I can’t let you go yet. How did you get to know him? Who is he? Why have you never told me about him before?

    Not so many questions at once, said A. smiling. The more so because I refuse distinctly to answer them now. In due time I will answer but meanwhile, to set your mind at rest, I promise to do all I can to introduce you to Mr. G.

    In spite of my persistent worrying and requests, A. categorically refused to answer, and added that it was in my interest not to detain him any longer.

    On Sunday about two o’clock A. telephoned me and informed me shortly. If you wish, at seven o’clock at the X Station.

    Where are we going? asked I.

    To Mr. G’s he replied, and hung up the receiver.

    Anyhow he does not stand on ceremony with me was the thought which flashed through my mind. He did not even ask me whether I could go, and I happen to have some important business on hand tonight. Besides, I don’t know in the least how far we have to go? When shall we be back? How shall I explain matters at home?

    But then I decided that A. was not likely to ignore the circumstances of my life, and the important business at once lost its importance and I began to wait for the time of the appointment.

    In my impatience I arrived at the station almost an hour too early, and waited for Mr. A., who came much later.

    Come quickly he said, hurrying me. The tickets are taken. I have been detained and I am late.

    The porter was carrying two capacious boxes after us.

    What is that? I asked A. Are we going for a year?

    No he replied laughing, I shall come back with you and this does not concern us.

    We took our places in the compartment and found ourselves alone there, so that nobody disturbed our conversation.

    Are we going far? I asked A.

    A. named one of the country resorts near Moscow and added: To forestall further inquiries I will now tell you myself all that is possible but the greater part of my tale will be for you alone. Of course you are right in being interested in Mr. G’s personality, but I will only tell you a few external facts about him to give you some idea of where you stand. As for my personal opinion of him, I will say nothing of that in order that you may the more fully analyze your own impressions. We shall come back to this question afterwards.

    Having settled himself more comfortably in his seat, he began his story.

    He told me that Mr. G. spent many years wandering in the East with some definite purpose and that he had been in places inaccessible to Europeans; that two or three years ago he came to Russia and lived in Petrograd, devoting his forces and knowledge chiefly to some work of his own. Not long ago he moved to Moscow and rented a winter country-house near the town in order to be able to work in retirement and undisturbed. In accordance with a rhythm known only to himself he sometimes left his work and moved to Moscow, returning to work again after a certain time. I learned that he did not think it necessary to tell his Moscow acquaintances about it and that he did not receive anybody in his country house.

    As to how I came to know him, said A., of that we will talk another time. This story also is far from being usual.

    A. went on to say that very early in his acquaintance with Mr. G. he spoke to him about me and wanted to introduce me to him, but he not only refused but even forbade A. to tell me anything about him. In view of my persistent determination to make Mr. G’s acquaintance and of my aim in doing so, A. decided to ask Mr. G. once more. He had seen him the previous night after leaving me and after many detailed questions about me Mr. G. had agreed to see me and himself proposed that A. should bring me to him that evening in the country where he had already gone in the morning.

    From what I have told him he certainly knows you better than I do in spite of my acquaintance with you for so many years, said A. Now you see that it was not only fancy when I told you that you could not get anything in the ordinary way. Remember that a great exception is being made for you, because where you are going none of his acquaintances either have been or ever will be, for even his nearest acquaintances do not suspect the existence of his retreat. This exception you owe to my recommendation only. See therefore that you do not place me in an awkward position.

    Several questions of mine produced no reply from A. but when I asked him about the Struggle of the Magicians he told me its contents in some detail. When I asked him about something which struck me as an incompatibility, A. told me that G. would tell me about it himself if he found it necessary.

    All this conversation aroused an immense number of thoughts and conjectures in me once more, and after some silence, I turned to A. with a question. A. glanced at me with a slight shade of perplexity, and after a short pause said:

    Collect your thoughts in order not to make a fool of yourself. We are nearly there. Do not make me regret having brought you. Remember what you said about your aim yesterday.

    After this he said no more.

    In silence we left the train and I offered to carry one of the boxes. It weighed sixty-four pounds or thirty-two kilograms, and the box carried by A. was probably no lighter. A four-seated sled was waiting for us at the station and the driver took off his hat to us. In silence we took our places and in the same deep silence we drove all the way. At the end of about fifteen minutes, the sled stopped before a gate leading through a hedge. A large two-storied country house was dimly visible at the far end of the garden.

    Preceded by our driver carrying the luggage, we entered the unlocked gate and walked to the house along a cleared path.

    A. rang the bell. After some silence a voice from behind the door asked Who is there? A. gave his name. How are you, sir? said the same voice through the half-open door.

    The driver carried the boxes into the house, and having handed them over to somebody, went out again.

    Now let us go said A., who appeared to have been waiting for something.

    We passed through a dark hall into a dimly lighted ante-room. A. shut the doors behind us. There was nobody in the ante-room. Take off your things he said shortly to me pointing to a peg. We took off our coats.

    Give me your hand and don’t be afraid. You won’t fall, and taking me by the hand he led me into a perfectly dark room. A. closed the door firmly behind him and led me forward. The floor of the room was covered with a soft carpet on which our steps made no sound. I put out my free hand sideways in the darkness and felt a thick heavy curtain, which appeared to be stretched across the whole width of what, to judge by the number of our steps, must have been a large room, leaving a kind of passage between the doors.

    Don’t forget your aim whispered A. to me, and having lifted, as I realized later, a carpet hung across the door, he pushed me gently through into a lighted room.

    Against the wall opposite the door, a middle-aged man was sitting on a low ottoman with his feet crossed in Eastern fashion, and smoking a curiously shaped nargile which stood on a low table in front of him. Besides the nargile stood a small cup of coffee. These were the first things that caught my eye.

    As we entered Mr. G.—for it was he—raised his head, and glancing calmly at us, greeted us with a nod and said simply, How are you? After we had greeted each other, he asked me to sit down, pointing to the ottoman beside him.

    The swarthy complexion of the face and hands of Mr. G. betrayed his oriental origin. His eyes particularly attracted my attention, not so much in themselves as by the look with which he greeted me, as one looks at a man whom one sees not for the first time, but whom one has known long and well.

    I sat down and looked around the room. Its appearance was so unusual to the eyes of a European that I should like to describe it in more detail. As I looked around I could see no free space that was not covered either with carpets or with cloths of some sort. The whole floor of this rather spacious apartment was covered with a single enormous carpet. All the walls were entirely hung with carpets, hiding the positions of the doors and windows. The ceiling was covered with silk cloths (evidently antique shawls) of many resplendent colors, astonishingly beautiful in their combination. They were drawn together in a strange pattern towards the center of the ceiling. Hidden by a dull glass shade of peculiar form resembling a huge lotus flower, it threw out an equally diffused white light.

    Another lamp giving a similar light stood on a high stand to the left of the ottoman on which we sat. An upright piano stood against the left wall covered with antique draperies which so concealed its form that if it had not been for its candlesticks I should not have guessed what it was. Over the piano, a large carpet there hung a whole collection of stringed musical instruments of unusual shapes and some in the nature of flutes. Two other collections also adorned the walls; ancient weapons, some slings, Yataghans, poinards and others hung behind and above our heads. On the opposite wall on a thin white metal wire, there hung a number of old carved pipes arranged in a harmonious group.

    Under this last collection on the floor against the wall, lay a long row of big cushions covered with a single carpet. This

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