Dear Friends,
Thank you for joining me for this next installment of Tenacious Magic, an emergent serial story. I’ve been offering a chapter every Friday for seven weeks now and I want to say a few words about the experience.
(If you’ve missed the previous chapters, you can find them here. Just look for anything titled “Tenacious Magic.”)
First of all, our “book club” on Wednesday evening was beautiful…absolutely fun, mutually supportive, exciting. We had a ball. If you are enjoying the story, I hope you’ll join us for the next one in a few weeks.
I was blown away by how well you *get* what I am trying to do here. Thank you. I felt the readiness for a new kind of communal storytelling that includes multiple perspectives and new ways of experiencing time and causality. We also talked about the communication between the living and the dead, how ready they are to help us. This story is essentially a collaboration between me and Katherine who lived 100 years ago, and YOU/US right now…I feel, sometimes, like my story is a continuation of hers, or a reverberation. I long to do her story justice and to understand why (if there is a why) we have become entwined this way. I long to create a story that is helpful and healing for many.
One of the suggestions I received was about encouraging more participation by including a few questions at the end of each installment. I have done that here tonight. Thank you, Chad, for that one. Writing can be a very solitary art. Bringing it into community is amazingly supportive.
The chapter you’ll read here was really FUN for me to write. I loved channeling Gurdjieff. I know there are some real Fourth Way experts out there (A Very Harry, I’m thinking of you) and I bow to your understanding of the work. I am a novice, but I do feel connected to this path and to G. I hope I did him justice, but feel free to call me out. I’d love to be sure his work is well-represented. It’s such a wild path…not so much a philosophy as a force of nature :)
I am also in a deeper acceptance that the real purpose of this story is to heal the archetypal relationship of the Hieros Gamos, the Sacred Marriage, the masculine and feminine. I knew it, but was in some denial about it. Now, I see the way more clearly and I offer it to you so you know what we’re doing here.
Thank you to all who have commented and to all who are reading quietly. I feel you. It’s a scary thing to post each week, very vulnerable. But, also just…nice. Let’s keep the story alive. I have more to say, but perhaps I will save it for now and let the story speak for itself. Enjoy this installment of Tenacious Magic.
Schuyler
“What I know for certain is that I truly began to recognize Mr. Gurdjieff when my eyes began to open. I saw him as he was to the extent I was able to see myself. From the moment when all my values—all inner facade and indeed also my outer one—began slowly and surely to be transformed, and another world, though still out of reach, began to appear in me, I knew it was he who was the cause.” ––Henriette Lannes
Fontainebleu, France ~ 1922
Katherine is perched on a stool in the corner of the large kitchen. She has been instructed by Gurdjieff to watch. Her dark eyes dart, following the action like a cat tracking a mouse. She is hunting for a new way of seeing.
Everyone is busier than usual as it is Saturday and tonight’s dinner will be a feast. The kitchen is run by Mme. Ostrowska, Gurdjieff’s wife. Katherine watches her search the recipe files and calmly give orders. About the same age as Katherine, Mme. Ostrowska possesses the self-assuredness of a mature woman. She is tall and strong with the body of a dancer; moving through the kitchen with the same poise she has on stage. It’s beautiful to behold.
Several Russian students speak to each other rapidly as they chop carrots and potatoes, knead dough, and stoke the fire. Katherine understands very little, but keeps a notebook handy to jot down words when she begins to recognize them…khleb, drova, golodnyy…But, she is not here to learn the language; she is here to work.
Right now, she reminds herself, the work is to observe—what’s happening, others and herself. She’s been at it for several days without much instruction or interaction with Gurdjieff, himself. The task came to her through his secretary, Olga. When she wonders aloud to Mme. Ostrowska if there is something she can do to help, she is told “no” in no uncertain terms. G. said watch and she will watch. Until her attention is trained, there is not much else that can be done.
The sitting becomes tedious and she wishes she had someone to talk to, but she is recognizing a new happiness. She realizes she is not lonely for the first time in her adult life. She also feels liberated from some kind of imprisonment. Upon closer inspection, it feels like it is her impulse to narrate situations and turn people into characters. She can see how it has put a wall between herself and everyone else; allowing her to stand just slightly apart—moralizing, criticizing, controlling. This has been her protection. Now, in the seeing, she can feel it slipping away—a useless habit from the past.
As she sits there, her attention wanders and her mind takes an accounting…Nothing to write. Nothing to judge. No one to please. Nothing to protect. No treatments. No doctors. Sometimes, she even forgets her condition…no illness.
Olga de Hartmann, appears in the doorway and Katherine snaps back to attention. She is the wife of the composer and one of G.’s early students. She spots Katherine sitting there,
“Katya, come with me. Mr. Gurdjieff has instructed me to move you into one of the guest rooms on the second floor. This will be yours, alone. He believes it will be warmer and the view will be…” she looks for the word in English, “salubrious. I’ll take you up there now and you can settle in. I’ll have one of the boys bring your bags from the cottage.”
Katherine feels relief. She has been sharing a room in the British cottage, which is a short distance from the chateau and somewhat run down. She had resigned herself to the accommodation, but privacy and proximity feel deeply restful.
The women walk slowly through the chateau to the grand staircase. As they go, they pass the library. Katherine catches a glimpse of Gurdjieff through the doorway. He is sitting with several men, including an architect who has come to help with the building of the new Study House. Gurdjieff is waving off the plans they are trying to offer. The smell of dark Turkish coffee and cigars wafts into the hallway.
The new room is at the top of the stairs. The door is large and sticks. Olga gives it a shove and they stand looking at a magnificent, if sparse, room. The ceilings are high, the light is abundant through the windows. She takes note of a large, four-poster bed, a wardrobe standing against the far wall, a small writing desk, and a couple of chairs and a table in front of the fireplace. The fire is burning brightly and the sun shining through the windows. On the wall there is a coat of arms and a framed etching of…she peers at it…who is that chained to the rock? Andromeda?
Olga snickers, “They are calling these rooms ‘The Ritz.’”
Katherine goes to the window, which looks over the gardens at the back of the house, “Oh, it’s lovely. But, it seems so extravagant compared to how the others are living.”
Olga is cool, “Yes, I won’t lie. There was some contention about your staying here, but G. insisted and there is nothing more to say when he insists.” She considers for a moment, “I tell you this not to make you feel badly, but because it will effect the way some of the others treat you for a while.” She smiles and shrugs, “they will get used to it.”
“Do you feel upset, Olga? You’ve been so kind. I’d hate for you to feel resentful about it. I can stay where I am.”
“No, no, my dear. Mr. Gurdjieff was very clear. Besides, winter is coming and you need a fireplace. We don’t want you to get a chill. We want you to recover. I want you to recover. I hope you’ll have me up for tea?”
“Of course!” Katherine says with enthusiasm.
“I’ll leave you to settle in. Get some rest. Dinner starts at ten and we’ll be up very late. Mr Gurdjieff will probably give a talk or play music. It’s our reward for the hard work and everyone needs the fun. Will it be the first time you’re hearing him speak?”
“Yes, I’m very much looking forward to it.”
Olga gives an enigmatic grin. Katherine can’t quite interpret the expression. “I don’t know if ‘looking forward’ is the right phrase, but you will see.”
Hours later, she wakes from a nap thinking of her old friend. Dear L.M. Loyal L.M. She misses her. On Sunday, their goodbye was as tearful as any they’d had since their boarding school days. L.M. has cared for her most of her life and she sensed a kind of finality in the handing over of that duty to G. Katherine sits on the edge of the bed and feels a slight melancholy set in. She notices her bags have been placed just inside the door, so she busies herself with unpacking.
The sunlight streams in the windows—lower, more golden in the late afternoon. She takes a look at the activity outside. Mrs. Merston is fussing with frames and bulbs in the garden while the men work to clear the site for the Study House. Katherine watches them and basks in a kind of satisfaction she has seldom felt. She laughs at the absurdity of deriving satisfaction from a job well done…by someone else!
The communal aspect of this place reminds her of some of the spas she has visited in her years on the Continent, but there is something different about the work of a group of people dedicated to a common cause. These are not guests and staff, but compatriots, allies. Every stroke of the hammer, every shovel of dirt feels like progress for all of them.
She decides to write to L.M. Taking her seat at the desk, she finds paper and pens in the drawer.
Dear L.M.,
What a strange sensation! I’ve come all this way searching for something — I hardly know what — and yet certain I’ll find it. I am reminded of that statement about pilgrims… “Unless the pilgrim carries with him the thing he seeks, he will not find it when he arrives.” I know this to be true: what I seek is within me. But, I need help finding it under the layers of sediment. I think Mr. Gurdjieff is the archaeologist I seek. He can teach me to dig around and find a gem. I truly believe he can. I wonder, will I be up to the task…and is there time?
Don’t think of coming here, L.M., to rescue me as you often have. I’ll be alright without Murry and without you (Please don’t take that the wrong way, you know I love you dearly). I want so desperately to root in with my new…family. There, I’ve said it. Family. The word has such a nice ring to it.
They call it “the work” and here I am doing nothing. Maybe it’s because of my condition. I long to be useful! Even here, I am catered to: “How will K do? Is it too draughty for her in this room? How is the climate this time of year? K can’t stand too much cold…nor, heat. Will K be able to manage the stairs?” It’s like being an old maid! I long to seize life again, L.M., and to be seized by it! It’s something physical I long for—like wrestling with the angel. I want to be tumbled, tousled. Playfully, of course. I want to prove to them and to myself that this body still has life in it. I can still take a few knocks. Oh, to run! To be tired at he end of the day, rosy-cheeked from physical exertion. My stamina is invisible to everyone but me. No one understands what strength it requires to be an invalid.
Please look in on Murry. When I left, he was characteristically grim and probably resentful that I’ve placed my faith in G. He doesn’t have the slightest interest in this stuff, L.M. He was angry when I quit the medical doctors. I can see it in his eyes —when he looks at me at all — he’s thinking, “Oh, here Katherine goes again with her flights of fancy. What rot and nonsense.” Sometimes, I think he stands in that camp of people who consider all of it witchcraft. I don’t mean to be unkind. He is really, down deep, afraid. I know he loves me and senses he’s losing me—twice over. Once to the philosophers and once more to the disease.
What about my writing? I can hear you ask the question. I simply haven’t been doing it. Nothing seems worth recording at the moment…I feel so in between worlds. The old stories simply won’t do anymore and I haven’t yet reached a new state of being. The old way of seeing is already gone, but I can’t yet see with my new eyes. I don’t know what the landscape will look like when I arrive or what I’ll care enough about to record. I continue to journal and keep my scrapbooks and I write letters, of course. But, stories…I can’t imagine writing the same stories. All of this waiting for the new Katya would be fine except for the ever-present panic; the urgency I feel to leave a mark. Oh, the tyranny of time!”
She hears a light knock at the door. Orage calls her name from the other side. Her heart leaps and she crosses to the door.
“I’ll turn the knob and you push,” she says. Together, they unstick the door and laugh. Orage stands there looking at her with exhausted eyes. His clothes are filthy with dirt, his face smeared.
“Dolly, you look a mess! Come in. Sit down,” she gushes. He makes his way to the chair near the fire, which has burned down almost to embers but is still giving warmth.
Nodding towards the fire he asks, “Do you want me to build it up?”
“I couldn’t ask you to do another ounce of work. Sit. We’ll see to it in a bit…” She takes the other chair and looks at her friend with gentle eyes, “What was your work today?”
“Same as yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. Dig, dig, dig. He has me dig a trench two feet wide, four feet long, and three feet deep and then when I’m nearly finished, he comes around and tells me to fill it up again and dig somewhere else.”
Her eyes are wide with wonder, “You’re a regular Milarepa,” she says referring to the legendary yogi. With her Kiwi accent, she pronounces it Mila-reepa.
Orage laughs and rubs his biceps, “I haven’t felt these muscles in years,” he says. “To be honest, Katie, it feels marvelous. I think I might have died if I’d stayed in the city. I’ve lost weight. I’m sleeping better than I have in years…granted only for five hours a night before the bastard wakes me to dig again!” They laugh.
She has to agree that under the exhaustion there is a new man emerging. The Orage she knew from London was consumed by the energy and activity of the city. A busy man. An important man. A depressed man. “Now,” she thinks with amusement, “he is a man who has devoted himself to the digging and filling of trenches. No, to self-mastery.”
“I can’t tell you how happy I am that you came, that you are here with me and we’re together in this. I couldn’t do it without you.”
“Likewise,” he says with fondness. He looks at her closely and then looks around the grand room, “How did you get the royal treatment?”
“It’s a mystery to me,” her voice is weak, but sweet. He melts to hear it. She’s never been pretentious. “This is one of her best traits,” he thinks.
“Ask me how to make borscht,” she jokes. “I’ve seen it made now ten or twelve times. But, as Jeanne keeps reminding me: understanding something without doing it is nearly useless and doing without understanding is dangerous.”
Orage laughs and nods. Then he gets thoughtful, “How are you, my dear?”
“Never better. I feel as if I’ve come to boarding school with the most fascinating classmates and a truly great headmaster. I love it here, Orage. I feel like I’ve finally found my people. And you know, I feel as if I’m changing too. Not biceps for me, but my attitude is changing. I find myself more tolerant, even patient. I’ve always been interested in the human condition, but mostly as a cynic. It amused me. I found in people much to be satirized and criticized. Only children have avoided the sharpness of my pen. Adults always felt to me like they ought to know better. But I can see now that they’re trying. And most of the time that’s precisely the problem.” She pauses to see that her friend is with her. He is.
“I can now see the facade in people and instead of mocking it, I want to cry. What’s underneath is so raw, so vulnerable and actually…loveable. I love them, Orage. When I’m sitting in that kitchen watching them cook I see a bunch of children and I see how they’ve lived and who they’ve become and all the scars they carry. I can see through them, through time. And I feel them, too. Sometimes, I actually forget I don’t speak Russian, I am following the meaning so closely. Just through watching.”
“And do you feel this way also towards yourself? Are you seeing yourself more clearly? With more kindness?”
“Yes, that’s the most tender part. I can see that Katya has loathed herself for a long, long time. Or at least the facade was a puffed up version that hid the loathing. Now I’m beneath the loathing to a layer of allowing. I’m allowing so much in myself that I’d almost forgotten. And the more I allow it, the more of me comes forward. The real me.”
“I think I know what you mean. The trying to please, to get ahead, to…matter in the eyes of others. It’s all so much work.”
“Yes…This one trying to please the part of that one that’s trying to please. What if we just put away our doubts? What if we learned to trust each other again. I can see it happening in the kitchen, in these…tasks. There’s a kind of teamwork we’ve forgotten. I love the audacity of this whole project. To be a part of it…it’s what I’ve dreamed of.”
He laughs and then closes his eyes as the exhaustion set in again. “I must rest and bathe before dinner. Tonight you will be initiated into one of Gs wild fetes. Talk about unmasking. I feel like a Russian doll. Every time I see him another layer gets revealed. There’s a new me underneath and there seems to be no end to the process. Each one gets more essential, though. It’s true.” He stands, “Any news from London? From Murry?”
“Where? Who?” She jokes. “I haven’t had a letter yet. I think he’s still angry I’ve come. But he’ll get over it and I expect he’ll come to see what we’re up to when the time is right.”
As he leaves, Orage fusses with the door. Katherine says, “Oh don’t bother to close it. I have nothing to hide!”
At ten o’clock they gather in the dining room. Once grand, it became mostly functional during the years the Prieuré served as a monastery. The table seats 16 and is almost full. Soon, the place will be overflowing with new residents and the Russians will voluntarily move to take their meals in the small servant’s dining hall off of the kitchen. But, tonight everyone is together and the atmosphere is…festive.
They stand around the table at their seats with heads bowed. Gurdjieff asks Mme. Ostrowska to lead the prayer, which she does quietly and efficiently. Then, she describes the various dishes which are Russian and Turkish-inspired, along with a special dish of beef bourguignon to honor their new home in France. They take their seats and the the happy chatter in the dining room escalates.
Gurdjieff is seated in the center of the long table facing the windows. The kitchen staff chat about which vegetables they will plant in the spring and what they will be able to harvest come summer and fall. Gurdjieff listens attentively. He has a great interest in the growing and production of food and is quite a good cook, himself. He offers suggestions that are well-received.
Katherine is seated almost directly across from Gurdjieff between Orage and a young woman called Olgivanna, who has been looking after her like a mother. She feels cozy, though the nearness of G. is electrifying. She is able to study him closely as they dine.
“He is like you imagined?” Olgivanna asks discreetly.
“Oh,” Katherine realizes she’s been caught staring. “In some ways, yes. He is strange, foreign-looking, eastern…definitely. I had imagined that. I think I expected him to be more fearsome. I’d heard about his piercing eyes, but they’re actually quite warm. Alert, but warm. And the moustache makes him look like a pasha,” she pauses and considers. Olgivanna is nodding gently as she speaks, which encourages her. “He’s quite graceful, isn’t he? I mean, he doesn’t waste a movement. Everything is…precise.”
“Svetlana likes his head,” Olgivanna says, referring to her young daughter. The two women laugh. His bald head is quite a distinctive feature. It seems to house a huge mind.
“How old do you think he is? It’s impossible to tell,” Katherine wonders.
Olgivanna reaches for some more kasha and shrugs, “No one really knows. Maybe 50?”
The food is exotic tonight compared to the very spare, peasant fare they have eaten all week. Fresh herbs are placed like floral bouquets down the length of the table. The Russians pull off sprigs by hand to add to their dishes. Katherine is enjoying the flavors and realizes she hasn’t had an appetite in years. She hasn’t enjoyed food like this in as long as she can remember. Wine flows and soon the vodka bottles appear on the table along with small glasses. Gurdjieff is served first. Katherine tries to refuse the drink she is offered, but Olgivanna takes the little glass on her behalf.
“You must drink. Or at least pretend. It’s important to Gurdjieff. For as long as I have been with him, we have the vodka and we have toasts. The toasts will begin soon.”
Katherine takes the small glass and hesitates. She hasn’t had a drink in years, not since her treatments began. The doctors all recommended she quit drinking and smoking, which she did. It had improved her health somewhat, but the restraint had also made her a little sad; a constant reminder of her condition. Feeling free tonight, she joins Olgivanna in taking the shot. The warmth of the liquid spreads through her chest and she smiles with the pleasure of it. She notices that Gurdjieff is watching with satisfaction. He is drinking an enormous glass himself.
When everyone has eaten their fill, Gurdjieff taps his glass with a fork. The table quiets and all attention is drawn towards him. He motions to one of the young Russians to fill glasses again and then he begins the toasts.
The toasts are in Russian. Olgivanna translates for Katherine. Most of them concern a class of people Gurdjieff seems to admire, but calls “idiots.” Katherine wonders if something is being lost in translation.
After dinner, they retire to the salon for coffee. Several of the men and women are smoking. Conversation is languid and light. Katherine is astounded at the sincerity of the intimacy she senses here as compared to the sexual tension and angling that was present in her literary circle—power plays. Here the power dynamics are simple: G’s word is law, like the good father or benevolent dictator. As a “modern” she hates to admit it, but there is something comforting in it. It allows them to play like children. Physical, sexual, sensual, emotional, intellectual energies merge and dance through the room without weight or consequence. It is exhilarating. Or maybe it’s the vodka. She doesn’t care.
Gurdjieff is sitting cross-legged on a sofa. She smiles at him and he raises an eyebrow. Someone asks loudly when the teaching will begin. This quiets the room and G. calls for his harmonium and more vodka. It is relatively quiet while these items are being procured. The group is finally settling. This is the main event. This is what they are here for.
He plays. Several notes sound out through the room—discordant, but haunting. She is struck by the vibration, the resonance. The effect is unexpected. As the music fills the space it seems also to gather their attention, not just the attention of the mind, but the whole being. She feels something tug on her heartstrings as he plays more loudly. She feels…sadness, though she cannot say why. It is not accompanied by thought. Tears come to her eyes and there is a lump in her throat. She sits absolutely still as the music moves through her.
He mumbles as he plays, “This is a shepherd’s song. They sing to the sheep.” It is hard to know if the song has a structure to which he is adhering, whether he is making mistakes, or if he is making it up as he goes. It hardly matters. It holds them rapt.
The music draws slowly to a conclusion. G.’s fingers lift off the keys of the harmonium and he pushes it away. They sit in stillness and then he says, “Does somebody have a joke?” They all laugh.
He speaks that night in Russian. One of the men translates. She wishes she could understand him. His voice is unique, powerful. The translator tries to stay true to the meaning and the manner of what is said,
“The topic tonight is the birth of a new way…” he offers. “Western man exhausts himself in the name of progress, but has lost his connection to any kind of wisdom. Just look at the war—an enormous waste of resources. He has energy…plenty of energy, but no aim. There is no longer a way in the West. All of that has been extinguished. Like a…burnt match.”
Gurdjieff has lit a cigar and is holding the burnt match between his fingers. The translator waits while a cascade of Russian flows forth. The space hums with listening.
“It remains to be seen whether it can be reignited, the knowledge of this place. But, it’s not gone. It cannot go altogether. It has moved to the East. There is a great store of it in the East—vast libraries and monasteries and wise men are holding it like gold. When this knowledge is brought together with the energy of the West, then we can really do something. There is a real possibility in that union.”
A woman in the corner speaks up, “How can that union happen? Is it as simple as Western people learning from the Eastern schools or gurus installed at the Universities here? Do we take up robes? Must I go to a monastery in Kathmandu?”
The translator relays the question to G who listens and nods. He puffs on the cigar and then answers,
“That is what happens, certainly and more of it will happen. But this kind of union takes too long. It is a long path and we don’t have time. If we are to be efficient, we must be sly, crafty like a merchant. We must use the methods of the modern man to transport and disseminate the wisdom of the old world.
“In the marketplaces of the ancient world mankind mingled and knowledge mingled. Man was sufficiently awake in those times to know how to seek and what to seek. The exchange created great empires and evolution of mankind was possible. Now man has forgotten how to mingle and exchange. It’s all mechanical…impersonal. He mingles without exchanging essence. For real evolution to occur it must happen consciously and with an exchange of essence at the right moment. The essence of another, exchanged consciously, can provide a shock to the system that will lead to a higher octave of development.”
“Will the energy of the West provide a medium for the dissemination of the wisdom of the East?” asks another student. G shakes his head emphatically no even before the translator relays the question.
“It is not a matter of dissemination. It’s about a transfer of finer substances. In alchemy you would call it a stable solution; transforming both components into something altogether new and maybe unrecognizable. The problem right now is that the one does not recognize the value in the other. They are like…how do you say…oil and water. The oil of the East, the anointment, and the water of the West, the medium of movement and nourishment, are incompatible.
“In the East, wisdom is so plentiful even the most simple-minded beggar is in possession of it. In every village the wisdom is woven into the rugs they make without even thinking. A merchant can gather and bring the rugs here for a pretty penny. He carries them across the mountains and sets up shop in the marketplace in Tiflis or Paris and we see if he can attract the attention of any man who is not completely hypnotized. He might sit for days without a bite, without an inquiry or even a glance. Here, even the concept of knowledge that can be woven into a rug is extinguished. Man here walks around his university claiming to want knowledge…claiming to have knowledge, but desperately ignorant. All the while, the merchant is sitting on a pile of rugs in the marketplace. Then one day an idiot finally gets curious and asks the price. They haggle without either of them knowing the true value of the thing. The merchant will make the idiot work for it, will make him pay. And this is right. One must struggle, work, for real knowledge in order to know something about its value. It is a rare commodity. It must cost him to possess it.”
“We have a wisdom that is also oil in the West, but it is nearly destroyed. Now we are always on the surface like the water. In the Great Pyramid…do you know they found an oil lamp still burning when they opened that tomb? It was burning for thousands of years. How? We cannot remember.”
The rooms is still. Someone says, “Oil and water always separate in the end.”
G. waits for the translation and then says with enthusiasm, “Ah! Yes, but there is something called an emulsifier,” the translator looks for the word with another Russian. “If you add egg yolk or soap, you can keep the two mixed longer, even indefinitely…at any rate both are transformed in the process by the introduction of the third.”
“What is the third in this case?” asks the same student.
“A state in man that can be achieved only through intense self-study and self-knowledge. He must know precisely what he does not know…and then he must know where to get it and how to recognize it when he finds it. This is not so easy. See that man there?” He points to a middle-aged man Katherine has not noticed until now. The man startles as if he was sleeping and has suddenly been awakened.
“He is invisible. He does not see himself so we cannot see him. One of his ‘I’s is very happy to be invisible but the other doesn’t know this. So, he goes through the world wondering why no one notices him or hears him when he speaks.” G imitates the man in a state of confusion. “Sir, you must come to see that part of you is hiding. When you do, then you can work. You must harmonize the inner “I”s that are currently unknown to you and to each other. Then we can become.”
G. looks like he might be finished for the evening. His eyes are mostly closed, like a cat’s.
Katherine is listening attentively, but not understanding much of the content. It seems to her that G. is the rug merchant and she understands that everyone here is an idiot, including herself. As she recognizes this—feels her proximity to some knowledge she has not until now been able to recognize, but has desperately yearned for—something in her heart breaks. Something that had been scaffolded to protect her from the pain of yearning, comes crashing down. It takes effort not to react.
She feels tears well up in her eyes. She is suddenly intensely aware of the atmosphere in the room. She senses that some are sleeping and some are awake. G is by far the most awake among them, like a rooster, trying to wake them, trying to get them to recognize the dawn…or the threat of coyotes at the edge of the woods. She hears him. She really hears him now and senses him.
Another question has been asked and the translator is busily trying to convey this to Gurdjieff. While he listens, G. looks at Katherine directly. His eyes penetrate. She hears his voice within her. “Allow this,” it says. Before she can wonder what he means, she feels an intense heat in her lower belly. It comes on so suddenly she is alarmed. But his eyes have locked her in place and are somehow calming the part of her that would run or cry out.
As she relaxes, she realizes the sensation is not altogether unpleasant. As the heat spreads through her belly it begins to feel soothing, touching parts of her that have not been touched before. This warmth seems to have sentience, passion…even, care.
G. is once again talking to the whole room. Katherine cannot listen. The heat within her is rising like a great serpent from the base of her belly. It is rising and now enveloping her heart. The heart warms and then expands and she feels the radiance of a sun in her chest. As the warmth moves towards her throat, she feels alarm like she might jump out of her seat or even scream. She stands suddenly and unsteadily.
Orage reaches out to steady her, but Katherine gestures that she is alright and mouths a quiet, “Excuse me.” She composes herself and walks out of the room into the hallway. In a dark corner of the library, she stands with her hands on the edge of a table and breathes while the heat circulates through her lungs, throat, and head. She has never felt anything like this. It is an exquisite mix of pain and pleasure, terrifying in its intensity—as if it would consume her. Outside the room, she can give herself over to it more and sighs audibly, moving slightly. This goes on for a few minutes. As the pressure passes through the crown of her head, she feels a release of warmth and tingling all over. Fear has passed and the intensity relents. She sits on the couch…marveling.
Olgivanna comes out to check on her, “How are you my dear? What happened? You’re trembling.”
Katherine looks at her new friend with shining eyes, “Oh, Olgivanna, a most extraordinary thing has happened. A most marvelous, miraculous thing…”
***
Questions to Readers:
What are your curiosities about the Prieuré and Gurdjieff’s teachings?
What more do you want or need to know about Katherine to feel sympathetic to her? Do we need more of her past? What brought her to this moment?
How do you feel about Gurdjieff after reading this? How is he coming across?
Another wonderful installment! Although I missed hearing about your NY days in this one, it was nice to spend more time with K and Gurdjieff. Regarding your third question, I think there will be two reactions to him: One from those who have gone through the experience of studying under a powerful teacher (me) and those who are just beginning to be curious about any sort of guru dynamic. I find myself both curious and skeptical about him and his overabundance of confidence. Of course part of that is the advantage of time and the fact that he did not succeed at his task. Or did he?
Regarding Katherine, I do think some brief sketches about her past that help us understand her predisposition to this life would help. I am also realizing that I may not have read her sections as carefully as yours in prior posts so I may have missed something.
Regarding the teachings, I am curious to know more about them, to contrast them with the other spiritual teachings of that time period, as well as those from the Yog-Vedantic tradition. But, of course, I am in grad school for philosophy, cosmology and consciousness so that is to be expected. Having said that, my curiosity about the teachings is tempered by the knowing that they are inherently incomplete and imperfect. So it's a muted curiosity. I am sympathetic to the challenge you face in conveying them to a diverse audience, although your execution has been fantastic so far.
1. About the Prieuré, it does give a Cult vibe. The piramudal structure, the lack of nuance or critical thinking about G.
Ofc, very elitist and it seems that only VIP and ultra rich can afford this. Somehow disconnected of reality while the rest of Europe is at war...
2. I have never heard of K before this novel. It can help to bring flashes, like in the previous chapter. For now, I am happy to be taken by your flow of things.
3. The of of G... Definitely full of himself and putting up a show. I would be there at that sort of evening and I would be having troubles containing my Trickster archetype. I have difficulties with people that take themselves too seriously and lack humility or willing to recognize how much there is still to learn and respect the Mystery.
Typical, was using his magic to go into someone and open up their energy centres without much consent, just an order...no matter how positive the experience may be. I remember even H earlier in a chapter said that wasn't cool to go into other people's body without consent. That's clearly a show of how unethical that cult leader can be.
But even when he jokes, going meta by asking if anyone knows a joke after the spooky piece he played, feels like check on people's attention in an ironic way.
So far it seems that this proto fascist atmosphere is meant to seduce, since it also provides protection, belonging, hope and mystery...
At least G allows questions from the audience, but I doubt it's the right framework for much push back. He still has all the charismatic power to answer in anyway he likes.
Anyway, I have my little cheat sheet from Jamie Wheal on unethical cult check list, so this helps me now to feel one tiny step safer...
https://uploads-ssl.webflow.com/5e74e8349194e2f76b9ffcd1/5e754938d25345a72291f0a3_Ethical%20Cult%20Checklist.pdf
Thank you again Schuyler, this two last chapters were real fun to read and feel now how much research and study of K world you have absorbed and tried to transmit here.