Two Evenings in a Company of London Hindus
Vera Petrovna Zhelikhovsky about her sister Helena Petrovna Blavatsky
“What is a Day of Brahmâ like — do you want to know?.. It is nothing but four million and 320,000 years... Only!.. An insignificant moment when compared with one Mahayuga, to say nothing of eternity!..”
“And this — your Mahauga? What is the thing like?”
“This very Mahayuga consists of one thousand Manvantaras and Pralayas, or one thousand such Days. Manvantara is Day while Pralaya is Night, as the wise Vedas teach. Taken together, one Day of Brahmâ lasts, as I said, 4,320,000 years. During the night, he — and then followed by the whole universe — sleeps in impenetrable darkness, in complete immobility and unconsciousness of death. Now, the great Pralaya ends... There comes the first breath, the breath of the Great — and the whole universe shudders with the tide of new life. Brahmâ raises his heavy eyelids and — a new Dawn breaks over the Chaos ... He stretches his mighty hand and — the luminaries of heaven are lit again, everything comes to life, everything comes into motion ... It's the beginning of a new era — Manvantara, the Day of Brahmâ, which is nearly infinite eternity for us, short-lived ephemeras[1] and feeble infusoria, who cannot even conceive of such a duration! ...”
Such a speech was given to us by an elderly, tall, very stout woman this summer in one of the western quarters of London blooming with gardens. She was sitting in a deep armchair, in her study-living room, decorated with many curiosities taken from India, where this Russian citizen of the North American States spent the last years of her life full of more than one trying ordeals. This large woman, remarkable in all respects, after working at her desk for regular ten or twelve hours, now was having a rest in a narrow circle of her close friends, among whom there were two or three complete laymen, like myself.
It was not Thursday, when members of the society she had founded would assemble for official weekly meetings; not even her reception day for the many acquaintances, ordinary, mortal human being who besiege her on Saturdays; it was the free day of Helena Petrovna Blavatsky, the founder of the Theosophical Society, editor of the famous English journal Lucifer and author of writings, which aroused and still continue to arouse various opinions and feelings in the educated classes of all countries.
Today, she had few outsiders, which fact made us regulars unspeakably happy precisely because in the large company of scientists from all countries who always surround her, we, the novices, would have to keep quiet, ashamed of our ignorance but eager to ask her, without hesitation or any special programs, questions regarding everything — God knows what things. In addition to her deep scientific knowledge, she travelled so much, saw so much in the world and was so good at telling stories that listening to her was a great pleasure, especially when she was at her best!
But, as usual, we did not stay long en petit comité[2]. Although Madame Blavatsky tried to ransom herself by offering visitors two reception days a week, there are so many of those wishing to see her — and, among them, so many of those for whom it is impossible not to make an exception — that she always has guests, especially in the evenings, when she, as everyone knows, leaves writing to take a rest. There are always a lot of foreigners visiting London from all parts of the world near her: especially Americans and visitors from India call on her in crowds. Indeed, in America, she and Colonel Olcott started promoting the ancient Aryan sciences and theosophical ideas; their teaching flourishes there almost as splendidly as in India, although nowhere has it produced such a social upheaval as there. The respect and gratitude of the bronze-skinned children of Bengal, Calcutta and Punjab for the founders of the Theosophical Society is motivated precisely by the fact that the latter's stay in Madras and Bombay, and the spread of their beliefs, which do not allow any social inequality and recognize neither castes nor national differences, has produced a beneficial revolution in the social relations of the British towards the natives. We have heard of this moral influence of the Theosophists, truly beneficial to the poor, downtrodden Hindus, from many Englishmen who have long lived in British India. All those returning home after a ten-year stay there just like all the native intellectuals coming from the banks of the Ganges to London to acquire European wisdom — in fact, everybody, almost without exception — seek to pay a visit to the founder and chief representative of the Theosophical Society in Europe. In a word, everyone who visits E.P. Blavatsky happens to see many interesting people and European celebrities in her home. But that evening, almost all of her few visitors turned out to be her old acquaintances “from the East.”
We were all very happy to see the first visitor, a tall fat gentleman with a lion's mane and an open face. He was a famous artist, painter and great traveller, a Slav by origin, a wonderful linguist, Alexander Svoboda[3]. He is known in London for his paintings of India, Egypt and Asia Minor; but he is even more known as a scientist, since he had the honour of discovering the source of Plutonium[4], famous among the Romans and Greeks, in the vicinity of Laodicea, in ancient Hierapolis (now Pamukkale). Herodotus and Strabo mention this hellish deadly outlet, to which nothing living could approach at a distance of a sazhen [2.16 m] so as not to die immediately, as a phenomenon known to the whole world; but afterwards it disappeared without a trace, so that it was considered to have dried up. Nevertheless, the area in Hierapolis was reputed to be unhealthy and all the inhabitants, little by little, left the vicinity of this once famous resort. Mineral waters of various descriptions still gush there among the majestic ruins, but no matter how the explorers searched, they could not find Plutonium, until, finally, seven years ago, Svoboda, taking photographs and rummaging through the ruins, detected its location by the fact that a bird flying by suddenly fell dead on the ground... The artist, with the greatest precautions, unearthed this source and brought its water to London for chemical investigation. It was found to contain 45.3% nitrogen, 7% oxygen, 8.84% hydrogen sulphide and 33.227% carbonic acid. No wonder Svoboda killed a dozen hens and chickens while studying it!..
His wife entered with him, a tall, slender and yet very beautiful Italian lady[5]. They brought photographs of various ruins and views taken by Svoboda in Bombay and Ceylon, which Helena Petrovna wanted to see. The photographs came in very handy, because, carried away by memories at the sight of pictures of the “elephant cave”[6], she told us a lot of interesting things about its giant carvings made on the rocks of the underground passages.
Then two great friends of H[elena] P[etrovna] arrived who, just like us, always strove to find her in comparative loneliness in order to enjoy her company more calmly, these being Colonel Gordon and his wife[7], also residents of India for many years. As soon as they sat down and joined the chorus of shared memories, the bell announced new visitors... This time the hostess was about to wrinkle her eyebrows, but a cheerful voice resounding in the hall quickly smoothed them out and made us all smile cordially: the new guest could not be superfluous, on the contrary, he was very helpful. This was a lovely pink-and-white old man who had published the Times of India in Bombay for thirty years, Mr. Matthias Mull[8], whose house in London was the centre of young India.
With his snow-white head of hair, but ruddy, like a healthy child, and just as cheerful, always lively storyteller, this old man aroused general sympathy. Personally, he had but two passions: for the Hindus with their sunny homeland and for Shakespeare with all his heroes... For ten years now he has been living in retirement and translating Shakespearean writings into Sanskrit, choosing English only to comment on them and read to the people at free Sunday lectures. The English appreciate his comments highly, but slightly look askance at his good-natured, purely familial feelings to everything associated with India except for its arrogant overlords... As for the natives of the banks of the Ganges and the foothills of the Himalayas, they seem to appreciate his good disposition to them much more than his translations of Hamlet and the Moor of Venice, although they don't fail to attend his readings accurately. After arriving in London to study medicine or law, many of them would direct go to his house to board with old Mull, who had known them from birth or made friends with their fathers even before they were born.
Everyone greeted the old man in a friendly manner. But he was not alone: behind him, in the dusk of the unlit dining room, several dark silhouettes stood out, crowned with white turbans...
“I bring guests! Whole deputation!” he shouted merrily from afar. – “Here! I hand them over to you, H.P.B.[9]. They have pestered me to death with questions as to when you are expecting Colonel Olcott to arrive. Tell them please. But these two have actually come to see you, not him: they saw you when they were just small boys in Darjeeling and are eager to see you again and send you greetings from their fathers and relatives.
The white turbans, five or six in number, silently stood out from behind the small figure of the old man who stood aside; their black eyes flashed, their bronze-brown, expressive faces flickered and instantly disappeared behind their hands raised to their foreheads, as the heads of the Indians bowed in a low respectful bow.
“Salaam!”
“Salaam, dear friends! You are welcome... Come on! Do I recognize you?” the hostess answered greeting them in a friendly manner.
But, of course, she could not recognize the young men whom she had seen ten years ago when they were kids. They announced their names themselves and recalled those of their elders — very long, ornate and unpronounceable names. One of them was the son of some Babu Kanchunprashta Madal Chaterji Semaya; another, a nephew of the pundit (scholar) Bashyacharyar Dhar Nritiya Bazu Ayaswami, or something like this, I cannot vouch for the true accuracy of the names. The first recalled that his sisters once embroidered a large fan for the “old lady” (the old lady is the usual name given to Helena Petrovna in England and India by those who consider the nickname H.P.B. too familiar) with peacock feathers and wings of emerald bugs; the uncle of the second participated in the delivery of sandalwood to her in Adyar for the future fire, on which her body would be burned.[10]In a word, there was no end to memories, questions and bows. Then they switched from memoirs to “metaphysical speculations,” in the words of the hostess, who is gradually forgetting the Russian language, and therefore allows herself sometimes free translations from English... [11]
All the Hindus took a lively part in this conversation. In their country, some fifteen-year-old youths show far greater interest in abstract matters and understand them better than some European scientists, or those who think they are scientists, do. Among those Hindus who had lived in London for a long time and had plenty of time to pick up materialistic teachings alien to their homeland, there was one ardent admirer of extreme atheist philosophers. Such atheists are numerous enough among the young generation of British India; but, in general, they are not allowed into the circle of Theosophists, who tolerate all religions and all beliefs, except for lack of faith or an outright denial of the spiritual world and the immortality of the soul. Materialists have nothing to do in their society; but this one was tolerated for some old relationship, although they did not hesitate to express their unflattering opinion about him aloud. He has, in fact, rarely visited Blavatsky, and this time he joined others but to find out if Olcott was expected soon, as the colonel was to bring him some kind of package from his father, a rich raja or almost a prince. He was severely attacked by all the other guests; especially by one of the two newly arrived young men, as he belonged to a very strict religious sect of the Vedantins[12] and did not allow anyone to talk easily about the Deity or any of its attributes. The antagonists argued without raising their voices and without trespassing the requirements of refined oriental politeness; burly Diya Nal Chand Banarjee, a materialist, spoke casually, with a barely perceptible irony in his singsong voice, and a grin that at times twisted his glossy face, but he hardly raised his eyes, that were narrowed like those of a cat, as he leaned on the back of his chair with his heavy body. The white muslin turban that fell low over his left temple and cheek contrasted with his otherwise European dress. His young opponent had scarcely had time to turn, even by half, into an Englishman. He was wearing something like a cassock, long and dark, fitting close to his narrow shoulders, and his turban was tied, without any claim to chic, in strict, straight folds, from under which his long hair fell to his shoulders. He sat straight, looked at everything and everyone boldly with his open, beautiful, black eyes, spoke more ardently than others, and sometimes, in the heat of the argument, his youthful voice broke funnily into a noisy, creaky note. The sympathies of all those present were on his side. Blavatsky seethed expressing her support for him much more than he did himself.
Hammered on all sides, the anglicized Hindu finally fell silent and, at the first opportunity, got up and departed after declaring that he would be happy to see the respected colonel in a few days and would immediately appear as soon as he arrived. Two more visitors took their leave with him so that there were now only Europeans and three Hindus in the room, all sincerely devoted to Theosophy, or at least to its representative. One of the latter, who had successfully completed a law course and was now preparing to take a judicial position in his distant homeland, Benares, sadly noted that their national character had fallen so low, was so little respected by foreigners precisely because they had too little stamina, they were too inclined to take on faith everything, even meaningless — not only simply bad — from Europeans.
Colonel Gordon noticed that this was a common feature of all enslaved peoples who had strayed from their own, but did not stick to someone else's traditions. The former publisher of an Indian newspaper interrupted him with the objection that such a feature did not exist in the Hindus of former years, and that if they were now changing for the worse, it was not their fault, but, rather, all the shame should fall on the English — their teachers and reformers...
“In my time, drunkenness, for example, was an unheard-of thing outside of the big cities, already then corrupted by the East India Company; and now, I hear, there is not a village, not a single Hindu bungalow in the field, in the neighbourhood of which there would not be a tavern,” he said.
“Yes! They write to me that drunkenness, patronized by the government, is strongly spreading not only in India, but also in Ceylon, where previously they had not heard of strong drinks at all,” said the artist, showing his white teeth with a smile.
“The government, perhaps, encourages the distribution of gin and whiskey, which you Englishmen cannot do anywhere without; but why don't the natives in power, the same government officials, your own compatriots prevent their use by the people?” said one Russian lady, apparently little familiar with the situation in the British possessions.
“What?” the hostess asked in amazement and then burst out laughing.
And all the former residents of the overseas British Empire burst out laughing after her, while the native Hindus looked down sadly.
“Who has ever heard of a Hindu government official?” continued Blavatsky. “Do you really believe the government of Queen Victoria would ever allow such a humiliation? Oh, this typical Russian naivety! Do you think they are the same as us? No Hindu, were he even as wise as Solomon, would ever get a promotion from the lowest ranks.”
“I beg your pardon!” said Colonel Gordon interrupting her. “Do you mean to say Buddhists and Mohammedans can reach high ranks in Russia?”
“Why not, if they serve well? There are many generals in the Russian service who are Tatars, Kalmyks or Nagais by origin.”
The Hindus opened their astonished eyes and looked, as if not believing their ears.
“They must certainly change their faith by entering the service, I presume?” asked Mrs. Gordon.
“Never!” Blavatsky retorted hotly. “Our barbarian country is more merciful than your humane Great Britain.”
“Moreover, there are special orders, insignia, established for non-Christians. There are thousands of Muslims in our service, especially in the military!” said a Russian lady.
“Perhaps as many as Buddhists, for the Kalmyks and Nagais are all Buddhists,” remarked another.
“Do you mean to say they, too, can be promoted to the rank of general?” one of the Hindus inquired incredulously.
“No doubt, they can and are promoted quite on a par with the Russian Orthodox,” we answered.
“Do not suppose that Russian subjects of other faiths are oppressed in Russia!” exclaimed Blavatsky, always emphasizing the advantages of her homeland she has left over other countries with particular joy. “Our religious tolerance is not complete in words alone! And, by the grace of God, missionaries do not put a knife to anyone's throat, as they do in your colonies.”
“But... such facts are, perhaps, rare, some special exceptions?” one of the young Hindus said interrogating the lady uncertainly.
“Not at all! We all know dozens of Muslim generals ...”
“Probably only by rank?.. They must be promoted to the rank of general as a distinction ... as a special encouragement!” the British joined the discussion. “It is impossible that they can be given powers and general positions.”
“Why!.. There are great many generals in the Caucasus, Tatars by origin, who command separate units. During the last war with Turkey, my son[13] served in a regiment commanded by a Muslim!” I protested.
“Is not your government afraid to put its regiments at the disposal of Muslims?”
“Do Christian soldiers and officers obey non-Christians?”?
“Especially during a war with their co-religionists, the Turks! It's extremely risky!”
“Can you name this regiment and its Tatar commander? Could you also give us the names of your non-Christian generals?” The exclamations and questions of the Europeans and the bronze-coloured children of India, equally amazed by our words, rained down on us.
Of course, we tried to answer everyone and satisfy everybody.
The amazed Hindus took out their notebooks and diligently wrote down the names of non-Christian Russian colonels and generals we had given them...
“We will show this! We will tell our people about it!” they repeated thoughtfully, shaking their heads meaningfully.
“We are told that the Russians are ruthless tyrants... that the dominion of the British over us is a light feather in comparison with the iron vice imposed by the Russian government on the Gentiles subject to them!” one of the Hindus whispered to us, while the rest of the company carried on a noisy conversation about the same subject.
“If there is justice in one thing, then it must be in everything!” thought aloud another.
“Would you mind telling me,” the Hindu, a candidate for a judicial position, raised his voice, “whether Russian rulers show respect for alien religions, in general?”
We answered that, as far as we know, both the rulers and, in general, educated Russian people respect every faith and every temple, whether it be a mosque, a temple of fire worshipers or even a synagogue...
“No! It's not the point,” the lawyer interrupted us thoughtfully, “fanaticism and prejudices cannot but exist among the masses; but is insulting the beliefs of people who do not belong to the dominant religion encouraged by the government in your country?.. Would, say, any merchant firm in Russia be allowed to take for its trade mark any religious symbol — an image of Mohammed, for example?”
We protested in unison. Neither our own thoughts, nor merchant councils would ever approve such a brand.
The Hindu turned sadly to Gordon, Mull, and the other Englishmen.
“How can you, English gentlemen, talk so readily about barbarism and despotism of the Russians, exalt so highly your own liberalism and humaneness, and meanwhile encourage such insults to our own beliefs and national sentiments!” he said, taking out of his pocket an issue of a leading Indian newspaper. “Look! Whose image is this?” he added, handing the issue to the hostess.
“Buddha's” she answered looking at it. And all her guests, bending over her, confirmed the same.
“How can this be possible?”
“Would you like to read about a scandal that occurred in Bombay only because one English company, tea merchants, took it into their head to take for their trade-mark the image of the great reformer, honoured by 500 million people?..”
And he read an article about deep indignation, almost national resentment, produced by the stupidity of one trading company[14], supported by some senior government officials, thus provoking outrage from all sane people... This story has aroused universal sincere indignation; but the expression on the face of the young Vedantist Hindu positively frightened me by the profound malice that distorted his characteristic features and made his brown face turn so yellow!..
“Well, if there were many like this one in India,” I said, leaning towards Blavatsky, “the British prestige would not prosper there.”
“But, fortunately for Queen Victoria, there are few of them!” she replied. “The Mohammedan population is more capable of indignation than these poor fellows.”
“Is it cowardice?” I asked.
“Partly... But no! It's rather, fanaticism, which you cannot eradicate. Every Buddhist firmly believes that he is living in a fatal period; that the Kali Yuga has come — the “black age”, during which trials and sorrows are destined for everyone, over which even the great Parabrahm has no control. ‘We must submit and endure everything,’ they say and endure!”
We spoke in Russian, but Mr. Mull, looking with his brilliant blue eyes first at the Hindu, then at us, seemed to understand the meaning of our conversation. He suddenly leaned towards us and said drawing out the affirmative: “Yes-s-s!”
“Yes! Yes! You're right!” he agreed pondering profoundly. “London is not the proper place for such people as this young man... A stay in England will not reconcile him with us, but will turn him away even more. People like him and Diarma Chandra Bagaruswami from Chandernagore would be better off staying at home than travelling around European universities.”
“Oh yes! What is he doing, Diarma Chandra? I haven’t seen him for a long time,” Helena Petrovna asked. “Does he call on you? Does he sing? He had a nice voice ...”
“Rarely!” the old man replied, pursing his lips into a negative smile and shaking his head. “He comes rarely to see me, and even sings not as often as he used to. Where is his former cheerfulness?.. He is a completely different person now. However, once he is back to India, he will have more fun! He's thinking of returning and very happy finishing his last meals at Temple Bar”[15].
The Gordons and Svoboda with his wife got up to say goodbye. The artist collected his photographs, promising to bring his last paintings next time: “Abduction in the Desert” and “Niobe”, which were much talked about at that time. Lack of time and sore legs hinder H.P. Blavatsky to travel to exhibitions and workshops; many artists bring their works to her home. She thanked and said goodbye, while Mr. Mull turned to me and two other ladies close to the hostess, asking us to honour him with our visit the next day in the evening.
“You love original spectacles, don't you?” the kind old man said. “Tomorrow, I have a national Indian evening.” You will not see a meeting like this anywhere else!.. All these gentlemen will be in their national costumes. The gentlemen will sing, dance and bring their musical instruments.”
We, of course, thanked him accepting the invitation with great pleasure.
Mr. Matthias Mull spoke to Blavatsky, who was seeing her guests off, explaining what happiness it would be to him and pleasure to all his guests if she could be at this party... She replied that she herself would be very delighted to come, but she could not promise, unsure of her health.
“But on what occasion do you have such a gathering?” she asked the former journalist.
He explained that this was a farewell party for him and Mr. Russell; that many departing “Indian gentlemen” agreed to give them this farewell pleasure and asked them to invite any outsiders they pleased.
“Russell also wanted to ask you to come,” he added. “He will recite... Diarma Chandra promised to be present without fail, and we will beg him to sing “Brother”... Do you remember how he sang it to us in a palm forest under lianas?” he turned to the hostess. “It was spectacular!.. And it was a good time! Happy time, indeed!..”
“Very happy!” Helena Petrovna agreed with a sigh. “It hurts that it will ‘never come back.’ ‘Never more! Never more!..’[16] — just like that song says about Diarma Chandra's missing brother.”
Mr. Edmond Russell is a master in painting, recitation, and dramatic art. A famous lecturer and “aesthetician,” who successfully competed in fame with the head of the American (now London) aesthetic society, Mr. Oscar Wilde, he is one of the most frequent visitors to H.P. Blavatsky. He and his wife[17], a charming woman and a student of Delsarte[18], who also lectures on "Expression in art" — on the poetry of movements, on harmony in facial expressions, in voice, in settings, etc., — have given many a dramatic artist a start in life. They both come from New York where they had a professional school; but they found it more pleasant and advantageous to travel and lecture, and it is the fifth year now that they have moved to Europe. In London, they both immediately became the darlings of all hearts and indispensable members of every aristocratic circle that had a claim to fashion and originality. Three years ago, they would be all but torn apart by invitations from palaces and mansions of princes and lords of any sort, but now other favorites have appeared, their vogue is somewhat over and the demand has diminished. Nevertheless, their lectures are always crowded with listeners and, indeed, are extremely interesting.
Looking everywhere for singular beauty, originality and picturesqueness in everything, Russell got along with Mull's Hindu circle and often gave him the free pleasure of listening to his lectures or reciting poetic works. Russell is a great reciter, especially when given an opportunity to wear an appropriate costume, so that his movements are not constrained by the curvy European dress.
Indeed, he came next morning to ask us to attend the party at Mr. Mull's house; he even offered to accompany us himself, but we refused fearing that we might detain him, the highlight of the “evening party with the Hindus” instead of the Italians...
At 8 o'clock, all the invited guests of Blavatsky gathered at her place and, taking advantage of the fine weather and short distance, set off on foot along the pretty, flowering streets in the vicinity of Holland Park, behind Kensington Gardens, where every house is built in villa style and wholly covered with creepers and colourful flowers. We didn’t even notice our reaching a small alley where on both sides the trees of the front gardens stretched, shading at equal distances the same porches in front of exactly the same houses, interspersed with exactly the same columns. Such streets are common in London where monotonous buildings stretch like chain links, and so one has to memorize the numbers of houses that are difficult to distinguish from the outside. This, of course, concerns only the middle-class Londoners while the houses of wealthy owners, on the contrary, are distinguished by the greatest variety of architecture.
So, we went up to the columns of the mosaic porch, the doubles of which stretched in both directions from us, and rang the bell. The door opened almost instantly, and we saw a usual ground floor of an English middle-class house: a narrow hallway with a staircase leading down to the kitchen and a door to the left into the dining room, the only room on the ground floor; a narrow and rather steep staircase in front of us led to the first floor, the living room. Also, the house had, as we already knew, two more floors, i.e., two rooms, arranged one above the other, a bedroom and a cupboard, or a dressing room, depending on the taste and composition of the family.
At the top of the stairs appeared the mistress of the house, elderly, but still adorned with pink bows, Mrs. Mull, and a young man, her son. They came out to meet us, apologizing for the owner of the house who was busy with the guests. As we climbed the stairs, we heard his voice reciting with mock solemnity:
…Sit still, my soul. Foul deeds will rise, |
“Eyes-s-s!” he drawled the last word, closing his eyes and giving the most gloomy expression to his white-pink, good-natured old face, an expression that befitted the Prince of Denmark during his monologue about the ghost of his father...
Through the wide open door of the living room, we could clearly see the whole figure of Mr. Mull. He stood just facing us under the bright light of a wall lamp, putting his foot forward, throwing his head back with his eyes closed, and outstretching his hand that held a book of “Hamlet,” open and decorated with his own comments. Around, along the rest of the walls, his attentive listeners settled themselves with their backs to us, motionless.
We instinctively stopped fearing we might interrupt the recitation. Good gracious, what a variegation!.. At first, I thought the living room was full of elegant ladies, and only peering into the backs covered with bright shawls and velvets embroidered with gold, into the backs of the heads, decorated with multi-coloured turbans, I finally realized that these were all representatives of various provinces of India clad in their costumes.
Then the owner of the house lowered his hand holding a book of Shakespeare, slowly opened his eyes and, seeing us rushed to meet us with a friendly smile. Everything in the living room rose and stirred... We started to apologize for the break, persuading him to continue recitation, but Mr. Mull shook his head, waved his hands and began to assure us in a whisper that he suggested “reciting Hamlet just to fill the gap,” as they waited for us, because he didn't want us to miss anything of the interesting entertainment that his guests are preparing for us.
The same was confirmed by Russell, who following the owner of the house came out and greeted us cordially.
We entered the living room, which seemed to be crowded with actors clothed in rich costumes, and hurried to take the seats we were offered. Then something strange happened. The owner of the house began to take his guests by the hands and bring them to us, one by one. We thought he was going to introduce them to us. But he was not. Instead, he introduced us, the three newly arrived women, to each of them, mercilessly distorting my Russian name... I don't know what kind of social rules he was guided by when he announced our names to them while living us in the dark about the names of the “Hindu gentlemen”, as he referred to them. I think he was guided by the low social status of women in the East, including the homeland of most of his guests. I have grounds to suppose so, because those few of the latter whom our guide, Mr. Keightley[19], Secretary of the Theosophical Society, did not know, were duly introduced to him just as he himself was introduced to them... Whatever, we didn't miss much for it was positively impossible to remember their endless names...
When everyone had ceremoniously taken their places, there was a rather long silence and immobility, interrupted at last by the appearance of a servant carrying a tray of tea and cakes. I said no to both preferring to watch. There were about ten Hindus and two Muslims; all in different costumes varying in form, quality and colour. Most of the costumes were very rich and very flamboyant. The ordinary white turbans that one can often see in the streets of London — for the natives of India prefer to keep them even in the summer months wearing jackets and coats made of Scottish fabrics — were not seen here now. Almost all headdresses were made of pink, yellow, and golden cobwebs, richly embroidered, with gold fringes. One guest was wearing a sort of the Arabian aba[20] made of the wonderful Indian shawl while the rest were almost all dressed in brocade and velvet caftans embroidered with gold, like jackets or epanchas[21], rather short; in shirts or cassocks of a different colour and in straight trousers, from under which one could barely see shoes, backless and heelless, which they often dropped, remaining in socks. Socks were probably alien to the national costume and worn only for propriety…
When the tea was drunk and the cups returned to the servant, the master of the house cleared his throat and raised his voice.
“Wouldn't the honoured gentlemen wish to give the assembled society an opportunity to enjoy the arts of their country?” he asked. “Wouldn't they sing us the songs of their beautiful homeland? Wouldn't they treat us with the music and dances of their compatriots?
“The honoured gentlemen” looked at each other, grinned, and began to move.
“Mr. Diarma Chandra Bagaruswami promised me to sing a song about a boy who was looking for his missing brother in the forest!” Mr. Russell reminded.
“Oh yeah! Yes! We hope that Mr. Bagaruswami will give us this high pleasure today!” the host hastily interrupted him. “But serious pleasure must be left for the end... Now I would start with light instrumental music. What does my friend Mr. Girdhari Lall Jayasuriya think about it?”
Mr. Girdhari Lall Jayasuriya, a large, fat-lipped man wearing a red turban, stood up and bowed.
“I will do it with pleasure,” he said. “But my instrument is so imperfect that I would ask my friend, Mr. Ragoonath Row Nanda, to accompany me, with the consent of the highly respected assembly.”
Everyone hastened to agree.
Corpulent Jayasuriya and thin, tall Ragunat Row Nandu straightened up without getting up. The latter took a sort of balalaika or guitar lying near him with a very long neck and a deep, humped body, very similar to our Caucasian chonguri[22], and began to tune it, fluently touching the strings. Having tuned in, he nodded to his companion, they exchanged a few words in their mother tongue and prepared to play.
The giant, meanwhile, pulled out a small pipe from his pocket and put it to his huge mouth. The concert began.
At first we didn't venture to raise our eyes and look at each other for fear of laughing as these musicians seemed too comical to us; but the more clearly and boldly the original, mournful melody of the flute and guitar sounded caressing the ear with its cordiality, the more we liked it... You could hear affection and lamentation and the quiet sadness of a broken, hopeless heart in it... The melody flowed quieter and quieter, grew almost inaudible and then froze... And suddenly, without any transition, without giving us time to thank or move, the musicians changed the tempo and manner of playing. Something defiant, mocking sounded in the melodious notes of the flute; something serious, imperious was heard in the jerky chords of the guitar, and now both of them merged into a cheerful, dashing song, which involuntarily made everyone smile and approvingly clap to the rhythm of the musicians.
When they fell silent, smiling themselves, a thunder of applause and approval rained down on them.
They were asked to play more and more, and they played willingly. Then a small, frail man in a green velvet caftan and a pink turban stepped forward. He sang several songs, accompanying himself on the same humpbacked guitar. One of the songs was very original in performance; one could clearly hear the questions and answers of two persons... We asked the singer to explain its meaning, and he and others rushed to explain to us that a young but “clumsy sweetheart” — the betrothed, or rather “dear one” — asks his betrothed: why does she laugh when she looks at him? Why did she jump away from his friend, a handsome young man, so quickly when he entered? What made her look for support in this handsome man, clinging to his shoulder? To all these awkward questions, the girl answers smartly: “I laugh, looking at you, oh, my dear, because I love you and am not able, at the sight of your beauty, to restrain my joy. I leaned on your friend’s shoulder at the moment you entered, because, looking at you, I stumbled... I got away from him so quickly because every touch, except yours, is unpleasant for me, and therefore, having touched him, I pushed him away...” The stupid groom is very pleased, but suddenly he remembers:
“But why, upon stumbling, did you, my joy, lean on him and, after leaning on him, kiss him?..”
“It was,” the bride convincingly objects to him, “because when I saw your bright beauty, I forgot everything and was so happy that in oblivion I even kissed him, the hateful one!..”
“This is true love!” the groom is delighted. “Oh, my dear, truly, you are sent to me by the gods!”
Obviously, there are such common human traits where Paris and India adjoin!..
A few minutes later, when the singer sat down in his place and everyone was quiet again, Mr. Mull again spoke, louder than usual.
“Will my esteemed friend (a long, ornate name followed here again) be so kind as to show Europeans who are not familiar with the arts of India what beautiful dances exist in his homeland and how artistically he performs them?”
There was a little commotion among the bronze, yellow and black (one of the Muslims was almost black) guests of Mr. Mull. Some converged in a close group, others separated from them, smiling ironically; everyone was whispering... We were waiting. I peered into the only beautiful face, of the Arab type, of one of the guests, who did not take part in the general animation. I knew that this was Diarma Chandra, about whom I often heard from Madame Blavatsky as a remarkably learned, intelligent person, a great patriot and a talented singer. He spent the evening sitting in a corner at the piano, silent and almost motionless. His light yellow turban of transparent gauze with silk fringes fell in soft folds to half of his back, mingling with long, curly blue-black hair; while his small beard and a long silky moustache set off his bronzed face, which stood out spectacularly in profile against the crimson curtain. He was silent, his eyes half closed, but the nervous twitching of his eyebrows and his hand, restlessly fiddling with his moustache and beard, proved that he was listening and worried.
A young duck-nosed Hindu wearing a very rich dress, who was invited to show his dancing art, finally stepped out of the group of his companions surrounding him and embarrassedly declared that he would be glad to amuse society, but the person who had usually played for him was not present here. “You can't dance without music,” he said, “while no one here knows how to play dances...”
“Really no one?.. How can it be? ... It's such a pity!” there came shouts.
“Could it possibly be that Mr. Ragunath Row, or Mr. Suba Sastria Anantaramir, or Mr. Lalabhai Patta Gopa Lakhariar are unable to play their national dances?” the host addressed everyone separately.
We were beginning to think that we might never see dances. One young woman, standing near Diarma Chandra, laughed, without looking at him, and incautiously, rather loudly, told me in English that they probably did not want to dance for fear that their wild dances might seem funny to us. Her neighbour looked up at her, and immediately got up.
“I can play whatever you want, Ratna Mung Dakshineswara,” he said loudly. “What kind of dance do you like? I know everything.”
There was a determination and irritation in his voice, which seemed to be caused by nothing; but it was clear to me that the remark of my interlocutor struck him to the quick.
All the guests brightened up. The dancer approached Bagaruswami and they entered into lively negotiations, in a low voice. Having decided the matter by choosing one motive from several played on the guitar by the volunteered musician, Ratna Mung went to the middle of the room. Everyone hurried to take their places along the walls. The musician and the dancer concentrated... A dead silence and immobility reigned in the room.
There was a light blow on the strings and, in accordance with it, the whole body of the dancer perked up. Then there came another blow, stronger and longer, and the arms of Ratna Munga Dakshineswara rose in both directions, at shoulder level, with his purple aba hanging in heavy, rich folds to the floor. His entire flexible body trembled and writhed under them, following the melody played by Chandra, as if invisible electrical threads connected the strings of the instrument and the nerves of the dancer. There came another strong chord and the loose aba fell at the feet of Ratna Mung ... He threw it away with a deft movement, and remained in a narrow blue caftan and wide trousers, not tied at his feet, but reaching straight to the floor. His small feet, in his socks, flickered from under them, as if from under a skirt... What he was doing with them is hard to imagine! In a word, his original dance defies description. It was not a dance, but, rather, a series of special body movements, amazing in dexterity, in slow grace, turning now into complete stupor, now into amazing speed. The small figure of the duck-nosed and large-mouthed performer seemed to have changed — there was dignity about it, majesty and grace!.. Everyone watched him with obvious delight, and this mute approval inspired him even more…
The black, shining eyes of Diarma Chandra were no longer covered by lowered eyelashes, but looked around the company with a triumphant expression and affectionately stopped at the skilful dancer. Their eyes occasionally met and they exchanged involuntary smiles... Positively, a magnetic sympathy has been established between the musician and the dancer. When the final chords of the guitar froze in the air and all the excitement of the dancer disappeared with them, his head and arms slowly lowered and he himself froze, as if the last vitality left him with the last sound. We still continued to look and listen and did not move for a long time, as if we ourselves were under some kind of unconscious charm. Finally, when Ratna Mung left his seat and, smiling, looked around at those present, we came to our senses and everyone rushed to thank him.
My neighbour, who had upset Diarma Chandra with her imprudent remark, could not find words to thank the dancer for admiring us. It was only now that she seemed to perceive the musician she had not noticed before. While he was playing, she leaned over to me many times, pulled my hand and repeated over and over again:
“You just look at him! Look how handsome this musician is!.. Very handsome!.. How could we fail to notice him before?”
When everybody began to ask Bagaruswami to sing, she seemed to be more enthusiastic and convincing than everyone else, and, positively she admired his singing too intensely. Although the song he sang really touched the soul and his voice was very good, but, of course, both would have been best off if sung outside the walls of the city house — in the wide expanse of forests and jungles, where, according to the song, a young orphaned Brahmin was looking for his young brother. He asks the wilds of the forest, swamps and bottomless abysses to return the brother to him; he asks the bright Sun, the pensive Moon and the quivering rays of the stars to show him the road to the place where he is. He prays the wind, softly singing in thick lianas, and the tiger, roaring in the darkness of the caves to respond to his bitter plea and tell where the young man has disappeared!.. The song ends with a desperate cry, where its hero finally realizes the irretrievability of his loss, and with a sigh of divine consolation — the hope of meeting his brother in their future incarnation on earth or in the enchanted abodes of Devakan[23].
Diarma Chandra finished the song, which he sang and played, very impressively. If he were not so handsome himself, perhaps his art would not have caused such enthusiastic praise, but, thanks to my neighbour, a real ovation was given to the Hindu.
No less ovation, however, was given that evening to a European: Mr. Russell recited Joaquin Miller’s magnificent poem “Mother Egypt” where, exhausted by the sufferings of his motherland, a son of the country of pyramids torn to pieces by the British bitterly asks the latter what else they need from her. They had destroyed everything and taken everything she had: her centuries-old sphinxes, her royal mummies and majestic obelisks with the inscriptions of the deeds of the heroes whose tombs they had ruined!.. What else did they want?.. There are no more riches left in Egypt for them! If they don’t have enough iron and bronze for cannons and cannonballs at home, let them tear crosses and crucifixes from their own temples and turn them into instruments of destruction and death…
Beware young Albion! Beware! |
He threatens the eternal conquerors and “attackers”:
Then back, brave England! Back in peace |
“Lest the Nile itself rose from its banks against you, leave the grey-haired country that named the stars for you and nurtured your Moses — leave it weeping, sleeping or dead, among the ruins of centuries...”
With low and never lifted head. |
Despite the presence of many Englishmen, it never occurred to any of them to protest against the “insinuations” of the Egyptian and the audacity of the poet... Everyone was delighted with the poem so beautifully recited by the American artist, while the Hindus, of course, sympathized with the Egyptian most of all ...
The “party with the Hindus” ended in an even more severe defeat for British prestige. Russell took it into his head to address the Hindus with a farewell speech in which he thanked them, extolled their country, the high degree of its ancient civilization, its arts and knowledge, its beauty and wealth. At the same time, he severely reproached her “ungrateful sons”, represented by this evening's guests, who valued the good deeds and advantages of their homeland so little and were so inclined to forget her and exchange them for the customs of young, windy Europe. In particular, he reproached them for the fact that, when coming to London, they would dress up in European suits, which completely disfigure them, while their own clothes are incomparably more beautiful, incomparably more comfortable. It would only be enough, he said, for the first two or three of them to have enough civic courage to ignore the surprise of the stupid crowd — and the rest would not attract anyone's attention...
To everyone’s surprise, the same Diarma Chandra Bagaruswami rose to answer to this, and he answered intelligently and even very eloquently.
He fully agreed that there was some truth in the instructions of “the respected speaker, our honourable friend, Mr. Edmond Russell”. Only he did not take upon himself and his compatriots the responsibility for his and their ingratitude and unreason, but placed it on the “highly respected patrons of India” — the government of their “adored Empress” and representatives of her country, the cream of British intellectuals, who come to India to rule them, poor ignoramuses, and teach them how to be good and reasonable...
“It is not the ignorant crowd that we, the children of old India, pay attention to! It is not the ridicule of the gazers that we are afraid of and renounce all our traditions in Europe. It's but the instructions and suggestions coming from our highly intelligent leaders,” he said. “Who, if not your advanced people, educated Englishmen, taught us, as far back as we can recall, to look at everything that is our own, dear, with distrust, even with contempt? Who, if not they teach us to feel repugnance towards obsolete, fallen India and bow down before everything — I will not say European, no! — their own, British?.. We are required to feel reverent respect, boundless devotion while we are shown only contempt, one hostile disdain... Why? — we ask. Because, they say, you are slaves! Ignorant, savage nation not worthy of anything else!.. Moreover, you must thank us for our merciful patronage, without which you would perish... Bow and revere!.. So we treat your word as sufficient security. Do we dare distrust the “nation of nations”, the advanced, most educated, most powerful people in the world?.. We trust you, and revere, and, slavishly, try to imitate you and adopt everything from you, without understanding, — not daring even to argue whether this is good or bad!.. But you, English gentlemen, do not blame us for what you yourselves demand, what you teach us! If your shortcomings and your vices are instilled in us, at least have the generosity to accept the answer for them yourselves... Our poor homeland has a plenty of its original sins: do not lay on it your own, forcibly instilled sins… Indeed, India is the cradle of nations! The land of Zoroaster, Buddha and the wise Vedas, she is even older than Egypt! And I will cite the words of your poet, so masterfully conveyed to us by our highly gifted friend, who accused us Hindus of ungrateful frivolity: “Leave our Mother India alone!.. If she be sleeping — let her sleep! If she be weeping — let her weep! If she is dead, — respect the dead!..”
With this reference to the just recited poem, the beautiful Diarma Chandra Bagaruswami ended his speech — and our Hindu party in London.
Footnotes
- ↑ Mayflies.
- ↑ In close company (Fr.).
- ↑ Sandor Alexander Svoboda (1826–1896) was a Slovakian painter, orientalist and photographer.
- ↑ This highly poisonous gas came out of a fissure in the earth and was therefore named after Pluto, the ancient Greek god of the underworld and death (see hierapolis-info.ru.).
- ↑ Marianne Tricon (1848–1918) was the wife of Sandor A. Svoboda.
- ↑ The caves in Mount Elephanta (from the English elephant) are located on the island of Gharapuri near Mumbai (then Bombay), which H.P. Blavatsky described in her notes “From the Caves and Wilds of Hindustan.”
- ↑ William Gordon (1831–1909) was Major General in the Anglo-Indian Army, and his wife Alice were Theosophists.
- ↑ Matthias Mull (1820–1893) was an English journalist and editor of the newspaper Times of India.
- ↑ The initials of Helena Petrovna Blavatsky... In her close circle, she is referred to as H.P.B., while Mabel Collins, M.C., etc. — V.P. Zhelikhovsky.
- ↑ The cremation bonfire for H.P. Blavatsky has long been folded in the garden near her house in Adyar and is waiting for her. Wherever she dies, her body will be taken back to India and there it will be solemnly burned. — V.P. Zhelikhovsky.
- ↑ In Russian, the word speculation has a negative connotation.
- ↑ The Hindus of the Vedanta School only recognize one Great Spirit, Parabrahm. They have a sect called Adwaita, whose members often attain to the highest degree, that of Raj-Yoga — V.P. Zhelikhovsky.
- ↑ Rostislav Nikolaevich Yakhontov (1858–1924), son of V.P. Zhelikhovskaya, Major General (1917), adjutant of General A.A. Brusilov. In 1876-1904, he served in the 15th Tver Dragoon Regiment under the command of Lieutenant General Mirza Haji-bek Ali-bek ogli Novruzov, an Azerbaijani by origin and Muslim by faith.
- ↑ I am extremely sorry that I have not kept the issue of the newspaper, where this story was described in detail, so I cannot give the name of the newspaper and that of the trading company which used the Buddha image for their seal. This happened in August this year — V.P. Zhelikhovsky.
- ↑ The time-honoured custom (a law in England) requires that every lawyer, before entering the service, eat a certain number of dinners at the Temple Bar restaurant in the City — V.P. Zhelikhovsky.
- ↑ The words of a raven in Edgar A. Poe's popular poem "The Raven", with which he answered a heartbroken young man who had lost his beloved, to all his questions, full of despair and hope.
- ↑ Crane Russell Henrietta Hovey (1849–1918).
- ↑ François Delsarte (1811-1871) was a French singer, vocal teacher and stage art theorist.
- ↑ Bertram Keighttley (1860–1945) was an English theosophist, one of the inner group of H.P. Blavatsky, a member of the Blavatsky Lodge and one of those who took part in the preparation of The Secret Doctrine for publication.
- ↑ Aba is a loose outer garment worn by the Arabs, a cape made of dark brown or dark blue material, sometimes decorated with stripes, worn over a belted shirt with wide sleeves.
- ↑ Epancha (Rus.) is a loose, sleeveless round cloak with a hood .
- ↑ Chonguri is a Georgian four-string plucked musical instrument.
- ↑ Devakan [devachan] among Buddhists is a place of afterlife delight, a reward for the righteous, but not paradise: this is a transitional state, temporary bliss, which does not exclude the possibility of new incarnations and the achievement of eternal peace - Nirvana. — V.P. Zhelikhovsky.