In Search of the Miraculous

immediately to become connected. I felt that I saw the outline of the "majestic

building" which was spoken of in the "Glimpses of Truth." My bad mood vanished, I did not even notice when.

G. sat there smiling.

"You see how easy it is to turn you; but perhaps I was merely romancing to you, perhaps there is no recurrence at all. What pleasure is it when a sulky Ouspensky sits

there, does not eat, does not drink. 'Let us try to cheer him up,' I think to myself. And how is one to cheer a person up? One likes funny stories. For another you must find

his hobby. And I know that Ouspensky has this hobby—'eternal recurrence.' So I

offered to answer any question of his. I knew what he would ask."

But G.'s chaff did not affect me. He had given me something very substantial and

could not take it back. I did not believe his jokes and did not believe that he could

have invented what he had said about recurrence. I also learned to understand his

intonations. The future showed that I was right, for although G. did not introduce the

idea of recurrence into his exposition of the system, he referred several times to the

idea of recurrence, chiefly in speaking of the lost possibilities of people who had

approached the system and then had drawn away from it.

Conversations in groups continued as usual. Once G. said that he wanted to carry

out an experiment on the separation of personality from essence. We were all very

interested because he had promised "experiments" for a long time but till then we had seen nothing. I will not describe his methods, I will merely describe the people whom

he chose that first evening for the experiment. One was no longer young and was a

man who occupied a fairly prominent position in society. At our meetings he spoke

much and often about himself, his family, about Christianity, and about the events of

the moment connected with the war and with all possible kinds of "scandal" that had very much disgusted

him. The other was younger. Many of us did not consider him to be a serious person.

Very often he played what is called the fool; or, on the other hand, entered into

endless formal arguments about some or other details of the system without any

relation whatever to the whole. It was very difficult to understand him. He spoke in a

confused and intricate manner even of the most simple things, mixing up in a most

impossible way different points of view and words belonging to different categories

and levels.

I pass over the beginning of the experiment.

We were sitting in the big drawing room.

The conversation went on as usual.

"Now observe," G. whispered to us.

The older of the two who was speaking heatedly about something suddenly became

silent in the middle of a sentence and seemed to sink into his chair looking straight in

front of him. At a sign from G. we continued to talk without looking at him. The

younger one began to listen to the talk and then spoke himself. All of us looked at one

another. His voice had become different. He told us some observations about himself

in a clear, simple, and intelligible manner without superfluous words, without

extravagances, and without buffoonery. Then he became silent; he smoked a cigarette

and was obviously thinking of something. The first one sat still without moving, as

though shrunken into a ball.

"Ask him what he is thinking about," said G. quietly.

"I?" He lifted his head as though waking up when he was questioned. "About nothing." He smiled weakly as though apologizing or as though he were surprised at

anyone asking him what he was thinking about.

"Well, you were talking about the war just now," said one of us, "about what would happen if we made peace with the Germans; do you still think as you did then?"

"I don't know really," he said in an uncertain voice. "Did I say that?"

"Yes, certainly, you just said that everyone was obliged to think about it, that no

one had the right not to think about it, and that no one had the right to forget the war; everyone ought to have a definite opinion; yes or no—for or against the war."

He listened as though he did not grasp what the questioner was saying.

"Yes?" he said. "How odd. I do not remember anything about it."

"But aren't you interested in it?"

"No, it does not interest me at all."

"Are you not thinking of the consequences of all that is now taking place, of the

results for Russia, for the whole of civilization?"

He shook his head as though with regret.

"I do not understand what you are talking about," he said, "it does not interest me at all and I know nothing about it."

"Well then, you spoke before of your family. Would it not be very

much easier for you if they became interested in our ideas and joined the work?"

"Yes, perhaps," again in an uncertain voice. "But why should I think about it?"

"Well, you said you were afraid of the gulf, as you expressed it, which was growing

between you and them."

No reply.

"But what do you think about it now?"

"I am not thinking about it at all."

"If you were asked what you would like, what would you say?"