WITH LOW AND NEVER LIFTED HEAD
VI.
⸻
At 8 in the evening Blavatsky’s party, taking advantage of the fine weather and the short distance, set off on foot through the picturesque streets beyond Kensington Gardens, where every house was built like a villa, and covered with creepers and colorful flowers. Bert Keightley, secretary of the Theosophical Society, led the way. “Arch returned from France,” Bert related to Blavatsky as they strolled slowly. “The troubles in the Isis Lodge (Paris Branch) appear to have quietly settled down in favor of the new President Monsieur Gaboriau.”
A. Blavatsky (17 Lansdowne) B. Mull (39 Colville Terrace) C. Russell (10 Chepstow Place)
Before they knew it, they had reached Colville Terrace, a small street where the trees of the front gardens stretched out on both sides of identical houses, with identical porches, and identical columns. Such streets were common in London.
“These monotonous buildings stretch like links in a chain,” Blavatsky explained to Vera Petrovna, “so you need to remember the numbers of houses that are difficult to distinguish by their appearance.”
Colville Terrace.
They went up to the columns of the mosaic porch, where double doors stretched away from them in both directions.
Bert rang the bell.
The door opened almost immediately. They were greeted by Sara Ann Mull, the lady of the house who was advanced in years, but still adorned herself with pink bows. She was assisted by her son, W. Mull, the courteous manager Hendon branch of the London and South Western Bank.
“Please come in,” said Sara.
“All is not well.”
“As you can hear,” said Sara. “Mr. Mull is entertaining our guests.”
There was a sliver of a hallway with stairs that lead down to the kitchen below, and a door on the left which opened to the dining room, the only room of the first floor. The narrow (and quite steep staircase) before them led to the second floor—a drawing room. The two floors above the second floor was where the bedrooms and bathrooms were located. As they climbed the stairs they could hear the mock solemnity of Mull’s recitation of Hamlet more clearly.
“Foul deeds will rise,
Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes!”
“Mr. Mull’s book is undoubtedly one of the greatest additions to Shakespearean study which recent years have seen,” said Blavatsky. “It is characterized by the most thorough scholarship, the most cautious and yet daring criticism.”
Through the wide-open door of the drawing-room, the visitors saw Mull standing, facing them under the bright light of a wall lamp. His head was thrown back, his eyes were closed, and his foot was extended forward. In his outstretched hand was a copy of Hamlet with graffiti-ed annotations of his own commentary. His attentive audience lined the walls with their backs to the newcomers who voluntarily stopped, afraid to interrupt the reading.
Vera Petrovna initially believed the living room to be full of bas bleu ladies, and only upon closer scrutiny did she realize that the bright velvet shawls, embroidered with gold, belonged to men. The decorated headwear were not scarves at all, but rather multi-colored turbans of the different Provinces of India. “My God,” Vera Petrovna whispered to Verochka, “what a motley!
Mull lowered his hand with the book, slowly opened his eyes and, seeing Blavatsky, rushed towards her with a friendly smile. Everyone in the drawing room rose and stirred.
“No,” said Blavatsky, “please, continue reading.”
Mull shook his head and waved his hands. “I only suggested reading Hamlet just now while we waited for your arrival. We did not want you to miss any of the interesting entertainment which our guests have prepared for us.”
“It is true,” said Edmund Russell, who shuffled his way to the back of the room to meet the newcomers.
As they entered the drawing room, Mull began taking his Indian guests, one by one, to meet Vera Petrovna and Verochka.
Rather than introducing each Indian by name, however, he simply announced, poorly, the Russian women’s names. “Gentlemen,” said Mull, “Mrs. Vera Petrovna Jellhovsky and Ms. Vera Vladmeewich Jellhovsky.”
Vera Petrovna surmised that he did so in consideration of the “unflattering opinion about the insignificance of women in the East in the homeland of most of his guests.”
This was not entirely correct, though.
There were few Indian students in England at this time. It was a practice among them to “affect the bachelor” even though, in many instances, they might be married. College students in England were all bachelors, as studies were regarded as being incompatible with married life. The Indians had a similar tradition in the old times, when students were known as a “brahmachari.” But in 1888 they had child marriages, a concept that was practically unfathomable to the British. Indian youths in England, therefore, felt ashamed to confess their marital status. There was also another reason for discretion, namely that if knowledge of their marriage was known, it became impossible for the boys to flirt with the young girls of the family in which they boarded. This type of flirting was more or less encouraged by the parents—if the boy was English. This type of association between young men and young women was regarded as a necessity there, “in view of the fact that every young man has to choose his mate.” However, if Indian youths in England indulged in such relations, the result was likely to be disastrous, as had often been the case. It was far wiser to err on the side of caution, and keep one’s distance.
After everyone took their places, there was a rather long silence and immobility. This was interrupted, at last, with the appearance of a servant carrying a tray of tea and cakes. Vera Petrovna refused both, preferring, instead, to observe.
There were about ten Hindus and two Muslims; all in different dress in varying degrees of vibrancy. Almost all turbans were made of pink, yellow, or golden gauze, and richly embroidered with golden fringes. This was not their ordinary dress. Typically they wore white turbans, and Western jackets made of Scottish fabrics (even in the summer months.)
After the tea was finished, and the cups were given back to the servant, Mull cleared his throat and raised voice. “Would the respected gentlemen wish to give the assembled society an opportunity to enjoy the arts of their homeland? Won’t they sing us the songs of their beautiful homeland? Won’t they amuse their compatriots with music and dances?”
The students looked at each other, smiled, stirred.
“Mr. Dharma Chandra Bagaruswami promised me to sing a song about a brother who was looking for his missing brother in the forest!” said Russell.
“Oh, yes! Yes!” said Mull. “We hope that Mr. Bagaruswami will give us this high pleasure today! But serious enjoyment should be left for the end. Now let’s start with light instrumental music. What does my friend Mr. Girdhari Lal Jayasuriya think about it?”
Girdhari Lal Jayasuriya, a rotund man in a red turban, stood up and bowed.
“I’m ready!” he said. “But my instrument is so imperfect that I would ask my friend, Mr. Nanda, with the consent of the highly respected assembly, to accompany me.”
Everyone was quick to agree.
The very large Jayasuriya and very wiry Nanda presented a comical-looking pair as they moved to the center of the audience. Nanda held a stringed instrument with a very long throat and a deep, humped bottom. He fluently touched the strings as he tuned it.
“Lelya, what is this Indian balalaika called?”
“It looks like a choghur, mom.”
“It’s called a sitar,” said Blavatsky.
“It looks very very similar to our Georgian chogur,” said Vera Petrovna.
“I just said that, mom,” said Verochka, rolling her eyes.
Sitar.
Once the sitar was in tune, Nanda nodded his head to Jayasuriya, who pulled out a small pipe from his pocket and put it to his mouth. The concert has begun.
At first, Vera Petrovna and Verochka were afraid to raise their eyes and look at each other, fearing they would laugh at the musicians which, to their sensibilities, seemed so comically paired. But that changed as they more clearly heard the boldness and originality of the mournful melody.
“You can hear affection and lamentation and the quiet sadness of a broken, hopeless heart in it,” whispered Verochka.
Everything grew quieter…and quieter…and quieter, until the sound was barely audible.
Pungi/Jinagovi.
Suddenly, without any transition, without giving the audience time to think or move, the musicians changed the tempo and manner of playing. It was perky, mocking even; the notes of the flute grew serious; the seasick sitar ransomed peace with its jerky chords. The instruments were then wed in a cheerful, dashing union that made everyone involuntarily smile and tap along approvingly. When they fell silent, smiling themselves, a thunder of applause rained down on them.
“Play again!” the audience shouted. “Play some more songs!”
Jayasuriya and Nanda cheerfully obliged.
Then a small, frail man in a green velvet kaftan and a pink turban stepped forward. He sang several songs, accompanying himself on the sitar. One of the songs was very original in execution, a “call-and-response” type song, a solitary duet like a comical prayer.
“What does the song mean?” asked Vera Petrovna.
The singer, and others, rushed to explain.
“It is about a clumsy sweetheart, Mem-Sahib—”
“We don’t say ‘Mem-Sahib’ in England, Ajit,” his companion quickly corrected.
“It is a comical song about a young man in love,” said the pink-turbaned singer. “Who finds his sweetheart in the arms of his handsome friend”
Sitar.
A few minutes later, when the singer sat down, everyone was quiet again. Mull spoke again, louder than usual.
“Will my respected friend Mr. Chauhan be so kind as to show Europeans who are not familiar with the arts of India what beautiful dances exist in his homeland, and how artistically he performs them?”
There was a slight disturbance among the Mull’s Indian guests. Some were converged in a close group, while others separated from them, smiling ironically. Everyone was whispering animatedly.
While they were waiting, Vera Petrovna locked eyes on a handsome Indian man, one of the guests who did not partake in the general animation. He wore a light yellow turban of transparent gauze with silk fringes that fell in soft folds to the middle of his back. His blue-black hair was long and curly, and he wore a small beard with a long silky mustache. She knew that this was Dharma Chandra, about whom she already heard much about. Blavatsky told her that he was a remarkable scholar, a great patriot, and a talented singer. He sat all evening in a corner in almost motionless silence, his eyes half closed. He was now restlessly fiddling with his mustache, indicating that he was indeed listening, and presumably anxious.
Ratna Mung Dakshineswar, a young, richly-dressed, Hindu with a “duck nose,” finally stepped out of the group of friends that surrounded him.
“I would be glad to amuse the the assembly,” he said embarrassedly, “but the musician who usually plays the accompaniment to my dances is absent. No one here knows how to play dances, and one can’t dance without music.”
“Really, Mr. Dakshineswar?” said Mull, “No one?”
“No one, sir.”
“Can it be?” said Mull, with obvious disappointment. “It’s such a pity!” Mull looked around the room imploringly. “Mr. Anantaramir? Mr. Lakhariar? Could you not play the national dances?”
“They probably do not want to dance for fear that their wild dances will be mocked,” said Vittoria Cremers, rather loudly.
Dharma Chandra, who sat next to her unnoticed, looked up at her .
“I can play whatever you want, Ratna Mung Dakshineswar,” said Dharma Chandra, standing, now, with irritated determination. “What kind of dance do you like? I know everything!”
Dakshineswar approached Dharma Chandra. Together they entered into an animated negotiation in an undertone, until they finally agreed on a song to perform. Dakshineswar went to the middle of the room. Everyone in the audience hurried to find a place along the walls. A dead silence reigned as Dakshineswar and Dharma Chandra wore faces of meditative concentration. Dharma Chandra swiftly struck a light blow on the sitar. The sound, like the string of a marionette, lifted the body of Dakshineswar. Dharma Chandra struck a harder blow. The louder and longer sound made Dakshineswar’s arms rise to shoulder level; his heavy purple turban hung in rich folds to the floor. The entirety of Dakshineswar’s lithe body began to tremble and writhe, as if the aeolian dominant were threaded through the dancer’s very nerves. Another chord was struck. Dakshineswar’s turban fell to his feet (which he tossed aside in a deft movement.) His feet barely flashed beneath his wide jubba, as he twirled in his narrow blue kaftan. The spectacle was an unpredictable syncopation of sound and body; a lantern show of slow grace, and exhilarating speed; a marigold in a monsoon.
Svaramandala.
It was as if the audience, too, were under some kind of spell.
Vera Petrovna turned to Verochka. “Where did this majesty come from!?
Vittoria, who paid no mind to Dharma Chandra before, caught on to Vera Petrovna’s enthusiasm, and mimed enthrallment. “Look at him! Look how handsome this musician is!” she said, grabbing Vera Petrovna’s hand. “How did we not notice him before!” she said.
Verochka, successfully concealing her true feelings about Vittoria’s commentary, also performed a kind of magic.
Everyone watched in obvious delight, a muted approval which served as fuel for Dakshineswar. His eyes displayed a triumphant expression as he looked around the assembly. Then Dakshineswar locked eyes with Dharma Chandra, and the two exchanged involuntary smiles, for, indeed, a magnetic sympathy was now firmly established between the musician and the dancer. When Dharma Chandra struck the final chords of the sitar, the sound froze in the air, and Dakshineswar ceased dancing. Dakshineswar returned to his seat and, smiling, looked around the audience. It was only then when the “spell” was broken (though the air remained thick with the residue of enchantment for some time.) Vittoria asked more kindly and convincingly than anyone else; a saccharine encouragement that made everyone near her feel uncomfortably sticky.
And so Dharma Chandra sang his song (accompanying himself on sitar.) It was about a young, orphaned brahmin in search of his little brother in the wide expanse of the jungles. The hero of the song asks the forest, and the swamps to return his brother to him; he implores the radiant sun, the pensive month, and quivering starlight to show him where he is. He then asks the wind blowing through the swinging vines, and the roaring tiger in the darkness of the caves, to respond to his bitter plea. In the end, the young orphan abandons his search, and prays that he might meet his brother again, in either their future incarnation on earth, or in the enchanted abodes of Devachan.
Dharma Chandra finished his beautiful song. Thanks to Vittoria, he was given a real ovation, a praise which, if one were being honest, would have been far more conservative (outwardly at least) had he not been beautiful.
Russell then read Joachim Miller’s “Mother Egypt.” This poem was popular with Blavatsky. Russell was often forced to repeat Miller’s poem, as well as Rosetti’s ballads “Body’s Beauty,” and “Eden Bower,” both of which concerned Lilith, the pre-Edenic wife of Adam. With his careful movements, Russell recited a poem of elegiac nostalgia:
Dark-browed, she broods with weary lids
Beside her Sphynx and Pyramids,
With low and never-lifted head.
If she be dead, respect the dead;
If she be weeping, let her weep;
If she be sleeping, let her sleep;
For lo, this woman named the stars!
She suckled at her tawny dugs
Your Moses while you reeked in wars
And prowled your woods, nude, painted thugs.
Then back, brave England; back in peace
To Christian isles of fat increase!
Go back! Else bid your high priests, mold
Their meek bronze Christs to cannon bold;
Take down their cross from proud St. Paul’s
And coin it into cannon-balls!
You tent not far from Nazareth;
Your camps trench where his childfeet strayed.
If Christ had seen this work of death!
If Christ had seen these ships invade!
Russell then took it into his head to address the Indian students of with a farewell speech in which he thanked them and extolled their homeland. “You sons of India have taught me the great beauty in the art behind the art,” said Russell. At the same time, he severely reproached the “ungrateful sons,”in the audience who valued “the good deeds and advantages of their homeland so little,” and who adopted “the customs of young, windy Europe,” at the forfeiture of their own.
Edmund Russell in Hamlet.
“So overpowering is England’s influence,” said Russell, “that there is every indication that the wonders of India’s literary past will soon be relegated to museum shelves as curiosities of a heathen people. England has revolutionized the numerical and linguistic India. In practically less than a century, every native—except the lowest classes, and the very old—speak the Anglo-Saxon tongue. English is the language of the schools, public and private, save the primary grades. English is rapidly becoming the Indian standard in all things. The English living in India have no love for the native. So strong is the antipathy, that rarely, or ever, is Indian art or decoration to be met in English homes. English women in India wear jewelry made at Birmingham in preference to the artistic work of the native Indian jeweller. But when the high caste Indian is in London it is quite another story—they come to London, they dress up in European costumes which completely degrades them, while their own are incomparably more beautiful, incomparably more comfortable. All it would take is for two or three of them to have enough civic courage to neglect the wonder of the ignorant crowd.”
To everyone’s surprise, Dharma Chandra rose is response to Russell’s speech.
“I fully agree with the fair instructions of the respected orator, our honorable friend, Mr. Edmund Russell. Only I do not believe it the responsibility of either myself, or my compatriots, to apologize for our so-called ‘ungrateful sons.’ No, friends, I lay that responsibility before our highly esteemed patrons of India—on the government of our adored empress and representatives of her country—the flower of the British intelligentsia—who rule over us ‘poor ignoramuses,’ and teach us ‘reason.’ We, the children of old India, do not pay attention to the ignorant crowd! We are not afraid of the ridicule of the mouth-waterers that renounce our Indian art in Europe. As for the instructions and suggestions of our highly intelligent leaders, who, if not your ‘advanced,’ educated, Englishmen, who teach us from childhood to be ashamed of everything that is our own, and that we once held dear? The British demand unquestioning respect and boundless devotion from us, in return we are shown treated with contempt and hostile disdain. ‘Why?’ we ask. We are told that we are servants, ignorant savages, worthless.
The English demand that we thank them for their ‘merciful patronage,’ without which we would surely would perish. ‘Bow in reverence to the most advanced, most educated, and most powerful people in the world,’ they tell us. So, we believed you. We revere you as you demand. We slavishly imitate you, adopt everything from you, never daring to argue—never questioning whether your progress is good or bad! So, I ask you, my dear English gentlemen, do not blame us for dutifully performing what you yourself demanded from us. Your shortcomings and your vices are instilled in us, at least have the grace to admit it. The ‘original sin’ of Mother India was forcibly instilled in her by the English. India is the cradle of peoples! The land of Zoroaster, Buddha and the Vedas! She is even older than Egypt. Perhaps it is fitting that I close with the words so masterfully conveyed by my highly gifted friend who reproached us Hindus for our ‘ungrateful frivolity.’ Leave our mother India! If she be sleeping, let her sleep! If she be weeping, let her weep! If she dies completely, spare her in her mortal rest!” With that, Dharma Chandra Bagaruswami ended his speech. [Note 1.]
Russell turned to Verochka. “I have a feeling that I said something that upset Dharma Chandra.”
THE AGONISED WOMB OF CONSCIOUSNESS SECTIONS:
INTRO: CHARLEY.
I. WITCH TALES.
II. CARELESS WHENCE COMES YOUR GOLD.
III. THE TIMES ARE CHANGED.
IV. DENIZEN OF ETERNITY.
V. DOMOVOY.
VI. WITH LOW AND NEVER LIFTED HEAD.
VII. IMPERIAL GOTHIC.
VIII. THE SERVANT OF THE QUEEN.
IX. THE DWELLER ON THE THRESHOLD.
[APPENDICES]
SOURCES:
“Reviews: Emendations Of Hamlet.” Lucifer. Vol. III, No. 12 (August 15, 1888): 487-490.
“Literary Notes.” The Path. Vol. III, No. 7 (October 1888) 230-233.
“The President’s Tour.” Supplement To The Theosophist. Vol. X, No. 1 (October 1888): xvii-xviii.
“Reviews: Emendations Of Paradise Lost.” Lucifer. Vol. III, No. 14 (October 15, 1888): 152-156.
Day, Charles Russell. The Music and Musical Instruments of Southern India and the Deccan. Novello, Ewer & Company. London, England. (1891): 110, 116, 131, 133, 144, 147.
Gandhi, M.K. The Story Of My Experiments With Truth. Navajivan Press. Ahmedabad, India. (1927): 155-156.
Johnston, Vera Vladimirovna. “From the Letters of Vera Vladimirovna Johnston.” [October 25, 1891 entry.]
McCabe, Linda Rose. “Literary Life In India.” The Book Buyer. Vol. XXV, No. 2 (September 1902): 127-133.
Miller, Joaquin. The Complete Poetical Works Of Joaquin Miller. The Whitaker & Ray Company. San Francisco, California (1902): 225-227.
Mull, M. “The Emendations Of Hamlet.” Lucifer. Vol. III, No. 13 (September 15, 1888): 73-74.
Rossetti, Dante Gabriel. The Poetical Works Of Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Little, Brown, And Company. Boston, Massachusetts (1899): 31-40, 284.
Russell, Edmund. “Mme. Blavatsky.” The St. Louis Post-Dispatch. (St. Louis, Missouri) May 13, 1891.
Russell, Edmund. “As I Knew Her.” The Herald Of The Star. Vol. V, No. 5. (May 11, 1916): 197-205.
Russell, Edmund. “The Secret Doctrine: Personal Recollections Of Madame Blavatsky.” The Occult Review. Vol. XXXI, No. 6. (June 1920): 332-340.
Zhelikhovskaya, Vera Petrovna. “At The London Theosophical Circle.”
Zhelikhovskaya, Vera Petrovna. “Two Evenings With London Hindus: Pt. I.” Novosti I Birzhevaya Gazeta. No. 231 (August 23, 1889.)
Zhelikhovskaya, Vera Petrovna. “Two Evenings With London Hindus: Pt. II.” Novosti I Birzhevaya. No. 237 (August 29, 1889.)
Zhelikhovskaya, Vera Petrovna. “Two Evenings With London Hindus: Pt. III.” Novosti I Birzhevaya. No. 247 (September 3, 1889.)
[Mull’s House.] The National Archives of the UK (TNA); Kew, Surrey, England; Census Returns of England and Wales, 1891; Class: RG12; Piece: 25; Folio: 154; Page: 16; GSU roll: 6095135.
[Sarah Ann Mull] Ancestry.com. India, Select Births and Baptisms, 1786-1947 [database on-line]. Provo, UT, USA: Ancestry.com Operations, Inc., 2014.
NOTES:
[Note 1.] There does not appear to be any law student in the Inns of Court by the name that Vera Petrovna mentions [“Dharma Chandra Bagaruswami of Chandernagore.”] Given the physical descriptions she provides, and other clues, (“revolutionary,” “poet,” etc.) we can speculate on a possible identity. The philosopher, poet, and Indian nationalist, Sri Aurobindo Ghose was studying in England at this time. By 1888 he was living in South Kensington, not too far from Notting Hill.
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