Meetings With Remarkable Men

by G. I. Gurdjieff

  All of a sudden there was a sound from near by—the kind that makes a man shiver from head to foot. The old man calmly turned his head, and with his old voice called out in a special way. Then, out of the bushes, in all its beauty and strength, emerged a huge grey bear, carrying something in its mouth. As it came nearer to us, the old man called out again, and the bear, looking at us with glittering eyes, moved slowly towards him and laid the thing it was carrying at his feet—then turned round and lumbered back into the bushes.

  We were, in the full sense of the word, stupefied, and the trembling which took possession of our bodies was so strong that our teeth were chattering.

  The old man explained to us in a kindly voice that the bear was a good friend of his who sometimes brought him djungari.14 And it was this that the bear had laid at his feet.

  Even after these reassuring words we were unable to fully recover our composure and looked at each other in deep silence, our faces revealing utter bewilderment. The old man, rising heavily from his seat, aroused us out of our stupor and said that it was the hour for his customary walk and if we wished he could accompany us to the dell where the cherry-trees grew.

  Then he uttered a prayer and went on ahead, all of us with his pupils following behind. At the dell we did indeed see many clumps of this cherry, and then and there everyone, even including the old man himself, began cutting down the trees we needed, choosing the biggest.

  When we had cut two good loads, considering this to be enough, we asked the old man whether he would consent to come with us to our camp, which was not far off, and permit one of our friends to make an exact portrait of him there, which could be done quickly by means of a special small machine he had. At first the old man refused, but his pupils helped us to persuade him, so, taking our loads, we went back to the banks of the stream where we had left the rest of our company at work. On reaching them we quickly explained everything, and Professor Skridlov took the old man’s picture with his camera and immediately began developing it.

  While he was doing this we all gathered round the old man, under the shade of a fig-tree. Among us was Vitvitskaia, who had her neck bound up, as she had been suffering for some months from a painful affection of the throat, fairly common in the mountains, which had the appearance of a goitre.

  Seeing her bandage, the old man asked what the trouble was. We explained and, calling her to him, the old man closely examined the swelling. He told Vitvitskaia to lie on her back, and he then began to massage the swelling in various ways, at the same time whispering certain words.

  We were all indescribably amazed when, after twenty minutes of massage, Vitvitskaïa’s enormous swelling began to disappear before everyone’s eyes, and after a further twenty minutes absolutely nothing remained of it.

  Just then Professor Skridlov came back, having finished developing and printing the old man’s photograph. He too was greatly astonished and, bowing deeply before the old man, humbly entreated him to relieve him of an attack, from which he had been suffering acutely the last few days, of his long established kidney trouble.

  The e-eounavouran asked him for various details of his illness, and immediately sent off one of his pupils, who soon returned with the root of a certain small shrub. Giving this root to the professor, the old man said: ‘You must take one part of this root with two parts of the bark of the fig-tree, which you can find almost everywhere; boil them well together and, every other day for two months, drink a glassful of this liquid before going to sleep.’

  Then he and his pupils looked at his photograph which the professor had brought and which astounded them all, particularly the pupils. We invited the old man to share our meal of fresh goat kovurma with pokhand15cakes, which he did not refuse.

  In the course of the conversation we learned that he had formerly been a top-bashi, or chief of artillery, of the Emir of Afghanistan, the grandfather of the then reigning Emir, and that, when he was sixty years old, he was wounded in a rebellion of Afghans and Baluchis against some European power, after which he returned to his native Khorasan. When he had completely recovered from his wounds, he no longer wished to return to his post as he was getting on in years, but decided to devote the rest of his life to the salvation of his soul.

  First he got into touch with Persian dervishes; later, although not for long, he was a Baptist; and still later, returning to Afghanistan, he entered a monastery in the environs of Kabul. When he had understood everything he needed and was convinced that people were no longer necessary to him, he began to look for an isolated spot far from human habitation. Having found this place, he had settled here in the company of a few persons who wished to live according to his indications, and was awaiting his death—as he was already ninety-eight years old, and it is rare nowadays for anyone to pass a hundred.

  As the old man prepared to leave, Yelov also addressed him, asking whether he would be good enough to advise him what to do about his eyes. Several years before in the Transcaspian region, he had contracted trachoma and, in spite of all kinds of treatments, the malady had not been cured but had become chronic. ‘Although my eyes,’ he said, ‘do not bother me all the time, nevertheless in the mornings they are always closed up with excretions, and a change of climate or a sand-storm makes them rather painful.’

  The old ez-ezounavouran advised him to grind some copper sulphate very fine and, every evening before going to sleep, to moisten a needle with his own saliva, dip it into the ground sulphate and draw it between the eyelids; and to continue this treatment for a certain period of time.

  After he had given Yelov this advice, the venerable man rose and, making to each of us the gesture which in those regions signifies what we call a blessing, went towards his dwelling-place; and all of us, even our dogs, accompanied him.

  On the way we resumed our conversation with the old man. Suddenly, Karpenko, without consulting any of us, addressed him in the Uzbek language and said:

  ‘Holy Father! As by the will of fate we have met you in such unusual surroundings, a man great in knowledge and rich in experience of ordinary life as well as on the level of self-preparation for the being after death, we are all convinced beyond doubt that you will not refuse to give us your advice, of course so far as this is possible, on the life we should live and the ideals that we should hold before us, in order that we may ultimately be able to live as designed from Above and as is worthy of man.’

  Before replying to this strange question of Karpenko’s, the old man began to look round as if he were searching for something, and then went towards the trunk of a fallen tree.

  He sat down on it, and when we had seated ourselves, some on the tree and others simply on the ground, he turned to all of us and slowly began to speak. His reply to Karpenko’s question developed into a kind of lengthy sermon, of profound interest and significance.

  The words then spoken by this old ez-ezounavouran I will also record, but only in the third series of my writings, in a chapter entitled ‘The astral body of man, its needs and possibilities of manifestation according to law’. Here, I will merely touch upon the results of the healing by this venerable man, which I verified by inquiries over many years.

  From that time on Vitvitskaia never had a recurrence or even any of the symptoms of the malady from which she had been suffering. Professor Skridlov did not know how to express his gratitude towards the old man who had cured him, probably for ever, of the sufferings which had tortured him for twelve years. And as for Yelov, a month later his trachoma was gone.

  After this event, significant for all of us, we stayed there another three days, during which we split the wood, made the raft and prepared everything we had planned. Early in the morning of the fourth day the improvised raft was launched into the river and, boarding it, we began to move downstream.

  At first our peculiar craft could not always move with the current alone, and at some places we had to push it, and at others even carry it, but the deeper the river became, the easier it was for the raft to move b
y itself, and at times, in spite of its load, it would fly along like one possessed.

  We could not say that we felt completely secure, particularly when the raft passed through narrow places and collided against rocks, but later, when we were convinced of its sturdiness and of the efficacy of the device thought out by the engineer Samsanov, we were quite at ease and even began to crack jokes. This ingenious device of the engineer Samsanov was to attach two bourdiouks to the front and also to each side of the raft, to serve as buffers whenever it should strike boulders.

  The second day of our trip down the river, we exchanged shots with a band of natives, who evidently belonged to one of the tribes living on the banks.

  During the firing Piotr Karpenko was seriously wounded, and died two years later, while still quite young, in one of the towns of Central Russia.

  Rest in peace, rare and sincere friend!

  X

  PROFESSOR SKRIDLOV

  FROM THE EARLY YEARS OF MY RESPONSIBLE LIFE, another essence-friend of mine, many years older than I, was Skridlov, professor of archaeology, who disappeared, leaving no trace, at the time of the great agitation of minds in Russia.

  I first met Professor Skridlov, as I have written in the chapter on Prince Yuri Lubovedsky, when he engaged me as his guide for the environs of Cairo.

  Soon after this I met him again in ancient Thebes, where I ended my first trip with Prince Yuri Lubovedsky and where the professor joined us to make some excavations.

  We lived there together for three weeks in one of the tombs, and during pauses in our work talked on all kinds of abstract themes. And in spite of the difference in our ages, we gradually became such intimate and good friends that when Prince Yuri left for Russia we did not part, but decided to undertake a long journey together.

  From Thebes we travelled up the Nile to its source, and went on into Abyssinia, where we stayed about three months; and then coming out to the Red Sea we passed through Syria, and finally reached the ruins of Babylon. We were there together for four months, after which Professor Skridlov stayed behind to continue his excavations, and I went off through Meshed to Ispahan in the company of two Persians, traders in rugs, whom I chanced to meet in a little village near Babylon and with whom I became great friends owing to our common interest in antique rugs.

  I next met Professor Skridlov two years later when he arrived with Prince Lubovedsky in the town of Orenburg, which was to be the starting-point of our big expedition across Siberia for a certain purpose connected with the programme drawn up by that same group of Seekers of Truth which I have already mentioned several times.

  After the Siberian trip we often met again for long and short journeys through various remote places, chiefly in Asia and Africa, as well as for brief exchanges of personal opinions when necessary, and we also met by chance.

  I will describe, in as much detail as possible, one meeting of ours and the ensuing long journey together, during which Professor Skridlov reached a turning-point in his general inner psyche in the sense that, from then on, it began to be activated not only by his thoughts but also by his feelings and his instinct. These latter even began to predominate or, as is said, to take the initiative.

  On this occasion I met him quite by chance, in Russia, very soon after the meeting I had had with Prince Lubovedsky in Constantinople. I was on my way to Transcaucasia, and in the buffet of one of the railway stations I was hurrying to finish one of the famous ‘beef’ cutlets made of horse-flesh, which the Kazanian Tartars supply to the Russian railway buffets, when all of a sudden someone standing behind me put his arms around me. I turned round and saw my old friend Skridlov.

  It turned out that he was going, on the same train as I, to see his daughter, who was then living at the health resort of Piatigorsk.

  The meeting was a happy one for us both. We decided to sit together for the rest of the journey, and the professor gladly changed from second class to third, in which of course I was travelling. We talked all the way.

  He told me how, after leaving the ruins of Babylon, he had returned to Thebes and had made some further excavations in the environs. During these two years he had made numerous interesting and valuable discoveries, but finally, becoming very homesick for Russia and his children, he had decided to take a vacation. On his return to Russia he had gone straight to St. Petersburg, and then to Yaroslavl to see his elder daughter, and he was now on his way to see the younger, who during his absence had ‘prepared’ two grandchildren for him. How long he would stay in Russia and what he would do next, he did not yet know.

  In my turn I told him how I had spent these last two years: how, soon after we had parted, I had become very interested in Islam, and after great difficulties and by much cunning had managed to get into Mecca and Medina, inaccessible to Christians, in the hope of penetrating into the secret heart of this religion and of perhaps finding answers there to certain questions I considered essential.

  But my labours had been in vain; I found nothing. I only made clear to myself that if there were anything in this religion it must be sought not there, as everyone says and believes, but in Bukhara, where from the beginning the secret knowledge of Islam has been concentrated, this place having become its very centre and source. And as I had not lost either my interest or hope, I had decided to go to Bukhara with a group of Sarts who, having come to Mecca and Medina as pilgrims, were returning home, and with whom I had intentionally established friendly relations.

  I further told him of the circumstances which had then prevented me from going straight to Bukhara, namely, that on arriving in Constantinople I had met Prince Lubovedsky, who had asked me to escort a certain person to his sister in the Tambov province, from which I was just returning; and I was now thinking of going for the time being to Transcaucasia to see my family and of then retracing my steps in the direction of Bukhara and going there ... ‘with your old friend Skridlov,’ he said, finishing my sentence.

  He then told me that often during the last three years he had dreamed of going to Bukhara and to the Samarkand region near by, for the purpose of verifying certain data connected with Tamerlane, which he needed in order to elucidate an archaeological question that greatly interested him. Only very recently he had again been thinking about this but had hesitated to undertake the journey alone; and now, hearing that I was going there, he would gladly join me if I had no objection.

  Two months later, as we had agreed, we met in Tiflis, and went from there to the Transcaspian region intending to go to Bukhara; but on reaching the ruins of Old Merv, we stayed there for about a year.

  First of all, to explain why this happened, it must be said that long before our decision to go to Bukhara together, the professor and I had had many talks and made many plans for somehow getting into Kafiristan, the very country which it was then quite impossible for a European to enter at will.

  We wished to go there chiefly because, according to all the information we obtained from conversations with various people, we had come to the conclusion that in that country we might find answers to a great many questions which interested us, both psychological and archaeological.

  In Tiflis, we had begun to supply ourselves with everything necessary for our journey to Bukhara, including letters of introduction, and we happened to meet and have conversations with various people who knew those regions. As a result of these conversations and our own discussions afterwards, our desire to enter Kafiristan, inaccessible as it was to Europeans, became so intense that we decided to do everything possible to go there immediately after Bukhara.

  All our previous interests seemed to disappear, and the whole way to Turkestan we thought and talked only about what measures we would have to take to carry out this daring project of ours. But a definite plan for getting into Kafiristan happened to take shape in the following circumstances:

  When our train stopped at the station of New Merv on the Central Asiatic Railway, I went to the buffet to get some hot water for tea, and as I was returning to our carriage
I was suddenly embraced by a man in Tekinian clothes.

  This man turned out to be my good old Greek friend Vasiliaki, a tailor by profession, who had been living in the town of Merv for a long time. On hearing that I was passing through on my way to Bukhara, he implored me to wait until the next day’s train and come to the big family festivities which were to take place that very evening on the occasion of the christening of his first child.

  His request was so sincere and touching that I could not flatly refuse him and I asked him to wait a moment. Certain that there was very little time left before the departure of the train, I ran off at full speed, spilling hot water all around me, to consult the professor.

  While I was squeezing my way with difficulty through the crowd of passengers getting in and out of the carriage, the professor, seeing me coming, waved his hand and shouted: ‘I’m already collecting our things; go back quickly and take them through the window.’

  He had evidently seen my chance meeting and had guessed the suggestion that had been made to me. When I went back no less hurriedly to the platform and began to take the things he handed me through the window, it turned out that our haste was quite unnecessary, as the train was to stay there for more than two hours, waiting for a connection from the Kushka branch which was late.

  At supper that evening, after the religious ceremony of the christening, there sat next to me an old Turkoman nomad, a friend of the host and owner of a large flock of caracul sheep. In the course of my conversation with him about the life of nomads in general and about the different tribes of Central Asia, we began talking about the various independent tribes inhabiting the region of Kafiristan.

  Continuing our conversation after supper, during which of course Russian vodka had not been economized, the old man, by the way and as though to himself, expressed an opinion which Professor Skridlov and I took as advice; and in accordance with it we drew up a definite plan for carrying out our intention.