Gods, Furniture, Apes and Magic Globes Going at a Dollar a Ticket to Enrich the Arya-Samaj.
It has long been an open secret that the author of “Isis Unveiled,” the dauntless heathen of Eighth avenue, and the spicy controversialist whose letters from time to time adorn the columns of the New York press, is going back to the East. Chafing as she does at a civilization with which she is not in accord, she has always declared that as soon as her work here was accomplished she would return to India, the land of her choice. The time for her return to her Ceylonese bungalow is now close at hand, and the venerable President and Hierophant of the Theosophical Society, Col. Olcott; the soldier, lawyer, diplomatist, occultist, journalist and farmer, is looking for other apartments. It has therefore been resolved to dispose of all the curios that gave so mysterious an air to the spacious French flat at Eighth avenue and Forty-seventh street, which has been the headquarters of the society for so long. The manner of disposing of them was for a time the subject of much debate, but finally it was decided to make a grand lottery in which there should be a great number of prizes.
“But the police!” exclaimed an English artist, a newly-initiated member of the society, when the project was broached, over a midnight cup of tea. “Won’t the police stop it?”
Then the polyglot lady of the house swore fluently in Hindustanee.
“Do the police suppose that I want this money for myself? Am I a dealer in second-hand furniture? It is for the Arya-Samaj that we will get the money. It is a religious object that I have.”
The English artist said no more, and that point was considered settled.
Mme. Blavatsky, or, as she prefers to be called, H. P. B.—she having sent the title of “Madame” to look for that of “Countess,” which she threw away before—was enraptured with the idea.
“I will fill my little temple with dollars,” she cried, “and I will not be ashamed to take it to India.”
The temple she referred to is a small, but intricate structure, with an entrance, but no exit, for money contributed to the Arya-Samaj. It is boldly constructed of cast iron, and is surmounted by a small “dev.” H. P. B. kindly explained to the reporter that “dev” was a Sanskrit word, differently interpreted as god, or devil, or genie by different nations of the East. The casual visitor to the Lamasery is frequently invited to place a small coin on the top of the temple, and to turn a crank. The result is invariably the great glee of the Theosophs, the discomfiture of the casual visitor, and the enrichment of the Arya-Samaj, for the coin disappears in the process.
The Lamasery is not now as curious a place as it was formerly, for very many of the mirrors, ornaments, and luxurious divans that then bewildered the eye have been sold or given away, preparatory to the final breaking up. The birds and stuffed beasts have mostly disappeared, though two or three specimens remain. Formerly the place was like a boudoir and study combined, built in and of a tropical jungle. Over an elegant French mirror a lioness’ head peered through a thick net of palm leaves. A huge stuffed ape, suspected of magical powers, and disreputably half-clad, stood guard over a library table and a shelf of heretical literature.
“It is only Prof. Fiske,” said the Hierophant, soothingly, when the ape startled a worthy clergyman one night by shouting “It’s a lie,” in his ear. And, indeed, there was under the ape’s arm the manuscript of a lecture on Darwinism. He was never known to speak, however, but twice.
It was only one of scores of strange things, “and there is hardly a thing in the room,” said the Hierophant, “that has not been used in or produced by some feat of magic done for instruction or for fun.
“There is that picture of John King,” he continued, pointing over his shoulder, “the so-called ‘Spirit’ that occasioned so many medium rows. You see, it is a painting on satin. There were seven or eight of us in the room one day, in broad daylight, and one of the party happened to be looking at the frame, which then contained the photograph of H. P. B.’s friends. Suddenly he exclaimed in astonishment, and pointed at the frame. We all looked, and a mist was floating away from it. When that cleared up, the photograph was gone and the painting on satin was there. H. P. B. put it there by will power. You can see it’s a beautiful thing.”
The reporter looked, and did not see. “There is no painting there,” he said.
Col. Olcott looked around in amazement. “I have taken it out and put it away,” said H. P. B., and the Colonel looked relieved.
“Do you really expect people to believe this account?” asked the reporter.
“There is the frame; don’t you see it?” said the Colonel calmly, stroking his great beard.
“Then there are those Turkish pipes,” he added, pointing to two velvet and gilt pipes on a curious tray. “H. P. B. and I were talking one evening with one of the Indian brothers who came in his astral body to visit us, and he objected strongly to the pipe I was smoking.”
“Lord, how he did sniff!” said H. P. B., laughing.
“And he pulled these two pipes out of space,” continued the Hierophant, waving his left hand vaguely. “Then he said that while he was about it, we might as well have some coffee, and he pulled out that coffee-set.” And the speaker pointed to a beautiful Turkish coffee-pot and tray in gilt filagree.
“The coffee was bitter, black stuff,” he continued, disparagingly, and he made a wry face.
“Don’t be an idiot,” said H. P. B. in a sudden fury. Her pronunciation is somewhat peculiar at times, but is always forcible and clear.
The reporter looked surprised, but the Colonel smiled serenely. “It is only one of her repartees,” said he.
It is considered quite certain that Col. Bob H. Ingersoll will buy tickets in the proposed lottery, for among the prizes are two genuine and first-class gods, both small but strong. One of them is a wooden Talapoin from Siam. He sits cross-legged with a superb indifference to the laws of anatomy expressed in the angles of his legs, and with bland benevolence looks straight ahead, out of twinkling brown eyes. His complexion is dark, and his form undeniably squatty, but he is carved with curious skill. The other god is a portable Buddha in a gilt shrine with folding-doors, small enough to be carried in the side-pocket of an ulster overcoat, on a perilous journey. He is elegant in appearance, but not specially remarkable for anything excepting his abstraction. He is said, however, to be, although small, a very powerful deity.
“Now, we have portraits here,” said H. P. B., throwing away her cigarette and opening a carved sandalwood box, “of people whom we venerate.”
And she took from the box a large handsome photograph album, and unlocked it with a little gold key. As she opened it it began to give forth music, and the reporter stared. At first he thought it magic, but afterward decided that it must be that the album was also a music-box. Inside were the photographs of some of the leading fellows of the Theosophical Society, many of whom are Indian noblemen. “Here is one of the greatest magicians of the East,” said H. P. B., and she pointed at the portrait of a man whom the reporter timidly ventured to call hideous. He was told, however, that the disfigurements of the countenance were caused by the terrible self-torture inflicted by the magician in acquiring his knowledge.
As the reporter gazed he grew faint. The small carte-de-visite grew larger and larger, until it looked life-size. A terrible smile spread all over it, and presently it winked one eye and seemed about to speak.
After drinking the glass of water that a servant brought, the reporter noticed that the window had been opened, and the tobacco-smoke, which had been thick in the room, was floating out in clouds. He looked for the album again, but it was gone. “How do you explain this?” he demanded.
“We don’t explain here,” said the Hierophant, gravely. “We rest on the facts, and let other people do the explaining.”
Presently a clock struck. Clocks seem to be striking nearly all the time at the Lamasery.
“Why is it?” was once asked.
“We have five clocks,” said H. P. B., “one for Europe, one for Asia, one for North America, one for South America and one for Oceanica. They all keep good time.”
This seems to be true, but there are curious results apparent to those who frequent the place. One result is that it is always tea-time, and tea, the only beverage that is ever drank on the premises, is continually being served, day and night strong, and very good, in huge cups. Another result is that it is never time to go home, and visitors stay on until all sorts of time o’night, deceived by the Asiatic time-piece, to the genuine satisfaction of their hosts, and to their own amazement when they do go.
“That chair will be one of the prizes,” said the Colonel, pointing to a very disreputable and very comfortable-looking arm-chair.
“It is the one H. P. B. has sat in for years. She would not part with it, only she has sent the astral copy of it over to her bungalow, and will materialize it when she gets there.”
And the Colonel never blushed nor faltered as he spoke, though the reporter looked at him very hard.
Perhaps one of the most remarkable things in all the collection of unique prizes is one which has no claim to be considered magical. It is a mural ornament, so elaborately beautiful and yet so simple that it seems strange that it is not fashionable. On one of the walls of the dining-room of the now famous flat is the representation of a tropical scene, in which appear an elephant, a tiger, a huge serpent, a palm tree, monkeys, birds and butterflies, and two or three small sheets of water. It is neither painted nor drawn, but the design was first cut out in paper and then autumn leaves of various hues were pasted on, while the water was represented by small pieces of broken mirror. The effect is remarkably beautiful, but the winner of the prize will probably need magical art to remove it in good condition, for it has been in its place so long that the leaves are dry and brittle.
All the articles mentioned are to be drawn in the lottery, as well as many others. There is a small polished glass globe, such a one as is used by Eastern magicians in conjuring up distant scenes which they wish to represent. In it certain devoted students among the Theosophists—for many of them are actually studying magic—declare that they have seen wonderful things transpiring.
“Are you really never coming back to America?” asked the reporter, when the conversation had turned from the lottery to the learned lady’s approaching departure.
“Coming back to America!” she exclaimed, with indescribable scorn in her voice. Then, as is characteristic in her, her mood changed instantly.
“Tell me, my friend,” she said, and she spoke with deep feeling; “why should I ever come back to America, or indeed to what you call civilization? I have lived in many lands, and with many people. I have grown old, and have seen much of this world, and I tell you I have never been so infamously treated as I have been in your Christian country. I have been slandered cruelly by those whom I have tried to serve. Ignorant fools, who could understand nothing about me, except that I am unlike the people here, have tried to satirize me, and have succeeded only in calumniating. I have found a few good friends, it is true—Oh, tell ’em to go to the devil!”
This was sufficiently startling, but was immediately explained. The servant had announced “a lady and gentleman who wanted to see Madame Blavatsky.”
“What are their names? I suppose they have names?” said H. P. B. fiercely. The names were learned, and the visitors proved to be strangers.
“Tell them I have broken my leg,” she said. “I am busy. I died last night. I can’t waste my time on strangers. They bother me all the time like that.”
Then she resumed her talk. “I shall go back to India and stay there. I cannot tell you how I love the Hindoos. My happiest years have been spent among them. They taught me all I know. I learned first from them even that I had a soul. They are my brothers, and I go back to live with them till I die.”
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[Caption under illustrations]
Madame Blavatsky’s lottery and auction, at which will be distributed a rare collection of deities, fetishes and miscellaneous Theosophical material, should on no account be missed.