Meetings With Remarkable Men

by G. I. Gurdjieff

  Between the sailors of different nationalities sitting at separate tables, squabbles arose from time to time, which were at first confined to an interchange of noisy epithets in a peculiar jargon, mostly a mixture of Greek, Italian and Turkish—and then suddenly, without warning, an explosion occurred.

  I do not know how the gunpowder was ignited, but all at once a rather large group of sailors sprang up in a body and, with threatening gestures and shouts, threw themselves upon some other sailors sitting not far from us. The latter also sprang up and in the twinkling of an eye a free fight was in full swing.

  Pogossian and I, also somewhat excited by the fumes of the douziko, rushed to help the smaller group of sailors. We had no idea what it was all about—or even who was getting the best and who the worst of it.

  When the other people in the restaurant and the military patrol, which happened to be passing, had separated us, scarcely a single one of those in the fight had come out unscathed: one had a broken nose, another was spitting blood, and so on, while I stood in the middle of them decorated with an enormous black left eye, and Pogossian, cursing all the time in Armenian, groaned and gasped, complaining of an unbearable pain under the fifth rib.

  When, as the sailors would have said, the storm abated, Pogossian and I, finding that we had had enough for one evening and had been sufficiently diverted by these good people—and not even by request—dragged ourselves home to sleep.

  It cannot be said that we were very talkative on the way home; my eye kept shutting involuntarily and Pogossian was groaning and cursing himself for not minding his own business.

  The next morning at breakfast, reviewing our physical condition and our rather idiotic behaviour of the previous evening, we decided not to postpone the trip to Egypt we had planned, as we calculated that the long voyage on the boat and the pure sea air would cure our wounds of battle completely by the time we arrived there. So we went at once to the port to find out if there were a ship to suit our pockets which would soon be going to Alexandria.

  We discovered that there was a Greek sailing-vessel in the harbour about to leave for Alexandria, and we hurried off to the office of the steamship company to which this ship belonged to get the necessary information. Just at the door of this office a sailor ran up to us and, jabbering something or other in broken Turkish, began warmly and excitedly shaking hands with both of us.

  At first we did not understand anything, but it soon became clear that he was an English sailor, one of the group in whose defence we had fought the previous evening. Gesturing to us to wait, he hurried off and a few minutes later returned accompanied by three comrades, one of whom, as we afterwards learned, was an officer. All of them thanked us warmly for what we had done the day before and insisted that we go to a Greek restaurant near by to have a glass of douziko with them.

  After three rounds of the miraculous douziko—that worthy offspring of the beneficent mastikhe of the ancient Greeks—we began to talk more and more noisily and freely, of course thanks to the ability we had all inherited of making ourselves understood by ‘ancient Greek mimicry’ and ‘ancient Roman gesticulation’, as well as with the help of words taken from all the seaport languages on earth. When they learned that we wished to get somehow or other to Alexandria, then the beneficent effect of that worthy offspring of the invention of the ancient Greeks did not fail to make itself manifest in a most striking manner.

  The sailors, as though they had forgotten our existence, began talking among themselves, and whether they were quarrelling or joking we could not tell. Suddenly two of them, finishing their drinks in one gulp, went off in a great hurry, while the two who were left vied with each other, in a tone of benevolent concern, to assure and reassure us of something or other.

  At last we began to guess what it was all about and, as it afterwards turned out, our guess was almost correct: those two comrades of theirs who had suddenly left had gone to put in a word for us in the proper quarter, so that we might go on their ship, which was sailing the next day for Piraeus, from there to Sicily, and from Sicily to Alexandria, where it would stop for about two weeks before sailing to Bombay.

  The sailors took a long time to come back, and while waiting for them we did justice to the magnificent offspring of mastikhe, to the accompaniment of strong words from all languages.

  In spite of this pleasant way of passing the time waiting for favourable news, Pogossian, evidently remembering his fifth rib, suddenly lost patience and started to insist that we should not wait any longer but should return home at once; moreover, he assured me with great earnestness that my other eye was also beginning to look black.

  Considering that Pogossian had not entirely recovered from the phalanga bite, I could not refuse and, without going into any explanations with our chance companions in the consumption of douziko, I obediently got up and went off after him.

  Astonished by the unexpected and silent departure of their defenders of the day before, the sailors got up too and came along after us. We had rather a long way to go. Each of us entertained himself in his own way; one sang, another gesticulated, as if to prove something to somebody, another was whistling some military march....

  As soon as we arrived Pogossian lay down at once, without even undressing, and I, giving up my bed to the elder sailor, simply stretched out on the floor, making a sign to the other to do the same.

  Waking up in the night with a terrible headache and recalling in snatches everything that had happened the day before, I remembered, among other things, the sailors who had come home with us; but when I looked round the room I discovered that they had gone.

  I went back to sleep and it was already late when I was awakened by the clatter of dishes made by Pogossian preparing tea and by his singing, as he did every morning, the special Armenian morning prayer, ‘Lusatsavlusn pareen yes avadamzair ghentaneen’. Neither Pogossian nor I wanted tea that morning; we wanted something very sour. We drank only some cold water and, without exchanging a single word, went back to bed.

  We were both very depressed and felt wretched in every way. In addition, I had a sensation in my mouth as though at least a dozen cossacks, with their horses and harness, had spent the night there.

  While we were still lying in this condition, each of us thinking his own thoughts in silence, the door was suddenly pushed open and three English sailors burst into the room. Only one of them had been with us the day before; the other two we saw for the first time. Interrupting each other constantly, they tried to tell us something. By asking questions and racking our brains, we finally understood that they wanted us to get up, dress quickly and go with them to their ship, as they had received permission from the authorities to take us with them as extra ship’s hands.

  While we were dressing, the sailors continued talking among themselves gaily, as was clear from their faces; then suddenly, much to our astonishment, all of them jumped up together and began packing our belongings. By the time we had finished dressing, called the ustabash of the caravanserai and paid our bill, our things were already neatly packed and the sailors, dividing them among themselves, made signs to us to follow them.

  We all went out into the street and walked towards the harbour. When we got there, we saw a small boat at the wharf with two sailors in it who were evidently waiting for us. We stepped into the boat and after being rowed along for half an hour, with the English sailors singing all the time, we came alongside a fairly large warship.

  It was obvious that we were expected on board, for no sooner did we reach the deck than some sailors standing at the gangway quickly took our things and led us to a small cabin, which had been assigned to us and made ready beforehand in the hold near the galley.

  When we had somehow settled ourselves in this stuffy but, as it seemed to us, very cosy corner of the warship, we went out on the upper deck, accompanied by one of the sailors for whom we had fought in the restaurant. We sat down on some coils of rope and soon we were surrounded by almost all the crew—both ordinary sa
ilors and junior officers.

  All of them, irrespective of their rank, seemed to have a marked feeling of friendliness towards us. Every one of them felt obliged to shake hands with us and, taking our ignorance of English into account, tried, with the aid of gestures and what words they knew in various languages, to say something obviously pleasant.

  During this very original conversation in many languages, one of the sailors, who spoke tolerable Greek, suggested that during the voyage each one present should set himself the task of learning every day at least twenty words—we in English, they in Turkish.

  This proposal was approved by all with noisy applause, and two sailors, from among our friends of the day before, at once began choosing and writing down those English words which they thought we ought to learn first, and Pogossian and I made a list of Turkish words for them.

  When the launch with the senior officers came alongside and the hour of sailing drew near, all the crew went off to carry out their duties, and Pogossian and I at once set to work to memorize the first twenty English words, which were written phonetically in Greek characters.

  We were so absorbed in learning these twenty words and in trying to pronounce correctly the unaccustomed sounds, so foreign to our ear, that we did not notice that evening had come and the ship was under way. We broke off our occupation only when a sailor came towards us, swaying to the measured rolling of the ship, and, explaining with a very expressive gesture that it was time to eat, took us to our cabin near the galley.

  During the meal we discussed matters between ourselves and, after consulting the sailor who spoke tolerable Greek, we decided to ask permission—which was granted that very evening—for me to begin the next morning cleaning the metal-work on the ship and for Pogossian to work in some capacity or other in the engine-room.

  I will not dwell on the events during the remainder of our voyage on that warship.

  On arriving at Alexandria I warmly took leave of the hospitable sailors, and left the ship with the burning determination to reach Cairo as soon as possible. But Pogossian, who had become friends with several of the sailors during the voyage and was enthusiastic about his work in the engine-room, wished to stay on the ship and go further. We agreed to keep in touch with each other.

  As I later learned, Pogossian, after we had parted, continued to work in the engine-room of this English warship, acquired a passion for mechanics, and became very close friends with several of the sailors and younger officers.

  From Alexandria he went with this ship to Bombay, and then, after calling at various Australian ports, finally landed in England. There, in the city of Liverpool, persuaded by these new English friends of his and through their influence, he entered a technical institute of marine engineering where, along with intensive technical studies, he perfected himself in the English language. At the end of two years he became a qualified mechanical engineer.

  In concluding this chapter devoted to the first comrade and friend of my youth, Pogossian, I wish to mention a certain highly original feature of his general psyche which was apparent from his earliest years and was very characteristic of his individuality.

  Pogossian was always occupied; he was always working at something.

  He never sat, as is said, with folded arms, and one never saw him lying down, like his comrades, reading diverting books which give nothing real. If he had no definite work to do, he would either swing his arms in rhythm, mark time with his feet or make all kinds of manipulations with his fingers.

  I once asked him why he was such a fool as not to rest, since no one would pay him anything for these useless exercises. ‘Yes, indeed,’ he replied, ‘for the present no one will pay me for these foolish antics of mine—as you and all those pickled in the same barrel of brine think they are—but in the future either you yourself or your children will pay me for them. Joking apart, I do this because I like work, but I like it not with my nature, which is just as lazy as that of other people and never wishes to do anything useful. I like work with my common sense.

  ‘Please bear in mind,’ he added, ‘that when I use the word “I”, you must understand it not as the whole of me, but only as my mind. I love work and have set myself the task of being able, through persistence, to accustom my whole nature to love it and not my reason alone.

  ‘Further, I am really convinced that in the world no conscious work is ever wasted. Sooner or later someone must pay for it. Consequently, if I now work in this way, I achieve two of my aims. First, I shall perhaps teach my nature not to be lazy, and secondly, I will provide for my old age. As you know, I cannot expect that when my parents die they will leave me an ample inheritance to suffice for the time when I will no longer have the strength to earn a living. I also work because the only real satisfaction in life is to work not from compulsion but consciously; that is what distinguishes man from a Karabakh ass, which also works day and night.’

  This reasoning of his has been fully justified by facts. Although he spent his whole youth—the time most valuable to a man for securing his old age—in, as it were, useless wanderings and never concerned himself with making money for his later life, and although he did not go into a serious business until the year 1908, he is now one of the richest men on earth. As for his honesty in earning his wealth, that cannot be questioned.

  He was right when he said that no conscious labour is ever wasted. He did indeed work consciously and conscientiously, day and night, like an ox, all his life, in all circumstances and under all conditions.

  May God grant him now, at last, his well-earned rest.

  VI

  ABRAM YELOV

  AFTER POGOSSIAN, ABRAM YELOV WAS THE NEXT of those remarkable people whom I happened to meet during my preparatory age and who, voluntarily and involuntarily, served as ‘vivifying factors’ for the complete formation of one or another aspect of my individuality.

  I first met him a short time after I had lost all hope of discovering from contemporary people anything real concerning those questions in which I was wholly absorbed, and when, on returning from Echmiadzin to Tiflis, I had buried myself in the reading of ancient literature.

  I returned to Tiflis chiefly because I could obtain there any book I wanted. In this city, both then and the last time I stopped there, it was very easy to find any rare book in any language, especially in Armenian, Georgian and Arabic.

  When I arrived in Tiflis, I went to live in the district called Didoubay and from there I used to go nearly every day to the Soldiers’ Bazaar, to one of the streets along the west side of the Alexander Gardens, where most of the shops of the Tiflis booksellers were situated. On this same street in front of the permanent bookstores, small traders, or book pedlars, used to spread out their books and pictures on the ground, especially on market days.

  Among these small traders was a certain young Aisor who bought and sold or handled on commission all kinds of books. This was Abrashka Yelov, as he was called in his youth—an artful dodger if there ever was one, but for me an irreplaceable friend.

  He was even then a walking catalogue, for he knew innumerable titles of books in almost all languages, the names of the authors, and also the date and place of publication of any book, and where it could be obtained.

  In the beginning I bought books from him, and later I exchanged or returned those I had already read and he used to help me find whatever other books I needed. We soon became friends.

  At that time Abram Yelov was preparing himself to enter the Cadet School and spent almost all his free time cramming for this; but nevertheless, being much attracted to philosophy, he also managed to read a great many books on this subject.

  It was owing to his interest in philosophical questions that our close friendship began, and we often used to meet in the evening in the Alexander Gardens, or in the Moushtaid, and discuss philosophical themes. We often rummaged together through stacks of old books, and I even began helping him, on market days, in his trading.

  Our friendship was further strengthe
ned by the following occurrence:

  On market days, there was a certain Greek who used to set his stall next to where Yelov traded. This Greek traded in various plaster-of-Paris wares, such as statuettes, busts of famous people, figures of Cupid and Psyche, a shepherd and shepherdess, and all kinds of money-boxes of all sizes, in the form of cats, dogs, pigs, apples, pears, and so forth—in short, in all the rubbish with which it was at one time fashionable to decorate tables, chests of drawers and special what-nots.

  One day, during a lull in the trading, Yelov nodded in the direction of these wares and, in his singular way of expressing himself, said:

  ‘There’s someone making a pile of money, whoever it is that’s making that junk. They say it’s some dirty Italian, a newcomer that makes the trash in his dirty hovel; and those idiots, hawkers like that Greek, stuff his pockets full of the money laboriously earned by the fools who buy these horrors to decorate their idiotic homes. And here we stick all day on one spot, suffering in the cold, so that in the evening we can choke ourselves on a piece of stale maize bread to just barely keep body and soul together; and the next morning we come here again and go through the same cursed grind.’

  Soon after this I went up to the Greek hawker and learned from him that these wares were indeed made by an Italian, who guarded the secrets of his manufacture in every possible way.

  ‘And twelve of us hawkers,’ added the Greek, ‘are hardly enough to sell these wares all over Tiflis.’

  His story and Yelov’s indignation stirred me up, and then and there I thought of trying to steal a march on this Italian, the more so since at that time I had to consider beginning some business or other means of earning, as my money was already going like the exodus of the Israelites.