In search of the miraculous

'It is only now that it is possible,' G. replied, 'and events are not against us at all. They are merely moving too quickly. This is the whole trouble. But wait five years and you will see for yourself how what hinders today will prove useful to us.'

I did not understand what G. meant by this. Neither after five years nor after fifteen years did this become any clearer. Looked at from the point of view of 'facts,' it was difficult to imagine in what way we could be helped by events in the nature of 'civil war,' 'murder,' epidemics, hunger, the whole of Russia becoming savage, and then the endless lying of European politics and the general crisis which was undoubtedly the result of this lying.

But if looked at, not from the point of view of 'facts,' but from the point of view of esoteric principles, then what G. meant becomes more comprehensible.

Why were there not these ideas earlier? Why did we not have them when Russia existed and when Europe was a comfortable and pleasant place 'abroad'? It was here probably that lay the solution to G.'s enigmatic remark. Why were there not these ideas? Probably precisely because these ideas could come only in such a time when the attention of the majority is distracted in some other direction and when these ideas can reach only those who look for them. I was right from the point of view of 'facts.' Nothing could have hindered us more than 'events.' At the same time it is probable that precisely the 'events' made it possible for us to receive what we had.

There remains in my memory one other conversation during this journey. Once when the train was standing a long time in some station and our fellow travelers were walking on the platform, I put one question to G. which I could not answer for myself. This was, in the division of oneself into 'I' and 'Ouspensky,' how can one strengthen the feeling of 'I' and strengthen the activity of 'I'?

'You cannot do anything about it,' said G. 'This should come as a result of all your efforts' (he emphasized the word 'all'). 'Take for example yourself. By now you should have felt your 'I' differently. Try to ask yourself whether you notice the difference or not.'

I tried to 'feel myself' as G. had shown us, but I must say that I did not notice any difference from the way I felt before.

'That will come,' said G. 'And when it does come you will know. No doubt whatever is possible. It is quite a different feeling.'

Later I understood about what he was speaking, that is, about which kind of feeling and which kind of change. But I began to notice this only two years after this conversation.

On the third day of our journey from Tiflis, while the train was waiting at Mozdok, G. said to us (there were four of us) that I was to go alone to Petersburg while he and the others would stop at Mineralni Vodi and go to Kislovodsk.

'You will stop at Moscow and go to Petersburg afterwards,' he said to me, 'and tell them in Moscow and Petersburg that I am beginning

new work here. Those who want to work with me can come. And I advise you not to stay there long.'

I said good-by to G. and his companions at Mineralni Vodi and traveled on alone.

It was clear that nothing remained of my plans for going abroad. But now this no longer troubled me. I did not doubt that we should have to live through a very difficult time but now it hardly mattered to me. I realized what I had been afraid of. I was not afraid of actual dangers, I was afraid of acting stupidly, that is, of not going away in time when I knew perfectly well what must be expected. Now all responsibility towards myself seemed to have been taken from me. I had not altered my opinions; I could say as before, that to stay in Russia was madness. But my attitude towards this was quite indifferent. It was not my decision.

I traveled still in the old way, alone in a first-class compartment, and near Moscow they charged me excess fare on my ticket because the reservation was issued for one direction and the ticket for another. In other words everything was as it ought to be. But the papers which I got on the way were full of news about shooting in the streets of Petersburg. Moreover it was now the bolsheviks who were shooting into the crowd; they were trying their strength.

The situation at this time was beginning to become defined. On the one side were the bolsheviks, as yet not fully realizing the incredible success which was awaiting them, but already beginning to feel the absence of resistance and to act more and more insolently. On the other side was the 'second provisional government' with many serious people who understood the situation in the minor posts and with altogether insignificant babblers and theorists in the major posts; then there was the intelligentsia greatly decimated by the war; then the remains of former parties and the military circles. All these taken together were divided in their turn into two groups, one who, in the face of all the facts and common sense, accepted the possibility of peace parleys with the bolsheviks who very cleverly made use of this while gradually occupying one position after another; and the other who, while realizing the impossibility of any negotiations whatever with the bolsheviks, were at the same time not united and did not come out actively into the open.

The people were silent, although never perhaps in history has the will of the people been so clearly expressed—and that will was to stop the war!

Who could stop the war? This was the chief question of the moment. The provisional government did not dare. Naturally it could not come from the military circles. And yet power was bound to pass to whoever should be the first to pronounce the word: 'Peace.' And as often happens in such cases the right word came from the wrong side. The bolsheviks pronounced the word 'peace.' First of all because it was a matter of complete indifference to them what they said. They had no intention of meeting their promissory notes, therefore they could issue as many of them as they liked. This was their chief advantage and chief strength.

There was something else here besides this. Destruction is always far easier than construction. How much easier it is to bum a house than to build one.

The bolsheviks were the agents of destruction. Neither then nor since could they or can they be anything else notwithstanding all their boasting and notwithstanding all the support of their open and their hidden friends. But they could and they can destroy very well, not so much by their own activity as by their very existence which corrupts and disintegrates everything around them. This special property of theirs explained their approaching victory and all that happened much later.

We who were looking at things from the point of view of the system could see not only the fact that everything happens but even how it happens, that is, how easily everything goes downhill and breaks up once a single impulse is given to it.

I did not stay in Moscow but I managed to see a few people while waiting for the evening train to Petersburg, and I passed on to them what G. had said. Then I went to Petersburg and passed on the same message to the members of our groups.

In twelve days time I was again in the Caucasus. In Pyatigorsk I learned that G. was not living at Kislovodsk but at Essentuki and in two hours time I was with him in a small country villa in Panteleimon Street.

G. asked me in detail about everyone I had seen, what each had said, who was going to come and who not, and so on. Next day three more people followed me from Petersburg, then two more, and so on. In all, excluding G. and myself, there forgathered twelve people.

Chapter Seventeen

I ALWAYS have a very strange feeling when I remember this period. On this occasion we spent about six weeks in Essentuki. But this now seems to be altogether incredible. Whenever I chance to speak with any one of those who were there they can hardly believe that it lasted only six weeks. It would be difficult even in six years to find room for everything that was connected with this time, to such an extent was it filled.

Half of our number, myself among them, lived throughout this period with G. in a small house on the outskirts of the village; the others came in in the morning and stayed late into the night. We went to bed very late and got up very early. We slept for four hours, at the most, five. We did all the housework; and the rest of the time was occupied with exercises of which I will speak later. G. several times arranged excursions to Kislovodsk, Jeleznovodsk, Pyatigorsk, Beshtau, and so on.

G. superintended the kitchen, and often prepared dinner himself. He proved to be a wonderful cook and knew hundreds of remarkable eastern dishes. Every day we had dinner in the style of some eastern country; we ate Tibetan, Persian, and other dishes.

I am not attempting to describe everything that took place in Essentuki; a whole book would have to be written in order to do this. G. led us at a fast pace without losing a single minute. He explained many things during our walks, while music was being played in the Essentuki park, and in the midst of housework.

In general, during the short period of our stay at Essentuki, G. unfolded to us the plan of the whole work. We