MEMORIES OF BLAVATSKY BY GEORGE MEAD

  

George Robert Stow Mead was Blavatsky's last secretary, and when she died in 1891, he wrote the following text as a posthumous tribute to her.

THE LAST TWO YEARS

I had previously stayed at 17, Lansdowne Road [the house where Blavatsky was staying], during my vacations, but it was not until the beginning of August, 1889, that I came to work permanently with H.P.B. She was away in Jersey then, and the copy and proofs of Lucifer were being busily transmitted backwards and forwards to the accompaniment of an infinity of characteristic notes and telegrams.

I had only time to review two books before a pressing telegram came from H.P.B., and I started for Jersey. What a warm greeting there was in the porch of that honeysuckle-covered house, and what a fuss to have everything comfortable for the new comer!

It has often been a surprise to me that the chief of the accusations and slanders brought against H.P.B. have been those of fraud and concealment, and I can only account for it by the fact that those who make such accusations (save the Coulomb woman), have never known her.

According to my experience, she was ever over-trustful of others and quite prodigal in her frankness. As an instance, no sooner had I arrived than she gave me the run of all her papers, and set me to work on a pile of correspondence that would otherwise have remained unanswered till doomsday; for if she detested anything, it was answering letters.

I then was initiated into the mysteries of Lucifer, and soon had my hands full with transmission of directions, alterations, and counter-directions to Bertram Keightley, who was then Sub-editor, for in those days H.P.B. would not let one word go into Lucifer until she had seen and re-seen it, and she added to and cut up the proofs until the last moment.

One day, shortly after my arrival, H.P.B. came into my room unexpectedly with a manuscript and handed it to me, saying, “Read that, old man, and tell me what you think of it”. It was the MS. of the third part of The Voice of the Silence, and while I read she sat and smoked her cigarettes, tapping her foot on the floor, as was often her habit.

I read on, forgetting her presence in the beauty and sublimity of the theme until she broke in upon my silence with, “Well?”.

I told her it was the grandest thing in all our theosophical literature, and tried, contrary to my habit, to convey in words some of the enthusiasm that I felt. But even then H.P.B. was not content with her work, and expressed the greatest apprehension that she had failed to do justice to the original in her translation, and could hardly be persuaded that she had done well.

This was one of her chief characteristics. Never was she confident of her own literary work, and cheerfully listened to all criticisms, even from persons who should have remained silent. Strangely enough she was always most timorous of her best articles and works and most confident of her polemical writings.

When we returned to Lansdowne Road, one of those changes, so familiar to those who have worked with H.P.B., occurred, and both Dr. Archibald Keightley and Bertram Keightley left for abroad, the former on a voyage round the world, the latter to lecture in the United States. And so their duties came mostly to me, and I gradually began to see a great deal of her alone at her work owing to the necessity of the case.

Let me see if I can give some idea of how the work was done. To begin with there was Lucifer, of which she was then sole editor. In the first place H.P.B. never read an MS., she required to see it in proof and then mostly “averaged” its contents.

What she was particular about was the length of the copy, and she used to laboriously count the number of words in each paper, and would never be persuaded of the accuracy of my count when I in my turn “averaged” the length.

If I suggested that mine was the most expeditious method, she would proceed to t ill me some home truths about Oxford and Cambridge education, and I often thought she used to continue her primitive methods of arithmetical computation on purpose to cure me of my impatience and my confidence in ray own superiority.

Another great thin was the arranging of the different articles. In those days she would never entrust this to any other hand, and the measuring of everything was a painful operation.

Getting Lucifer through the press was invariably a rush, for she generally wrote her leader the last thing and, having been used to it, considered the printers, if anybody, were to blame if it did not appear in time. But all that was soon changed when Annie Besant became co-editor and H.P.B. found that it was not necessary to do everything herself.

Then there was the correspondence, voluminous enough in all conscience, from all parts of the world and from “all sorts and conditions of men” and women truly.

H.P.B. was very laconic, sometimes even epigrammatic, in her directions as to answering it, and gradually became even more silent, so that I had often to risk her displeasure in pressing for a reply or in trying to persuade her to answer some letter of great importance herself.

It was comparatively easy to get the morning mail in safe keeping, but letters arriving by later posts were a difficulty; for H.P.B. sternly refused all access to her room and, to make up for this, used to carefully put away the important letters in hiding places so as to give them to me later, while she left the rest to their fate.

The plan was not a good one; for she mostly forgot her hiding-place and I often could not rescue the rest of the waifs and strays from among her MS. at all, for she would let no one touch the work she was actually engaged upon, and so they had to go, to be answered when finally unearthed at some distant date. But gradually too we found out better methods, and latterly I have not had to play so many games of hide and seek.

The first hour in the morning after breakfast during those two years will ever remain with me a pleasant recollection. Everything was so unconventional. I used to sit on the arm of her great armchair and obediently smoke the cigarette she offered, while she opened the letters, told me what she wanted done and signed diplomas and certificates, the latter under great pressure, however, for she detested such mechanical work.

It was exciting and instructive too, for in our large Society there were always crises of more or less gravity. The many disputes came to her for settlement, and the many attacks had to be met and counteracted by her. So it was that I learnt much of human character and of the inner working of the Society and how the life of it depended upon her.

Many an evidence too had I of her prodigal generosity, and many a gift did I transmit to a poor Theosophist or employ for theosophical purposes under strict promise of secrecy, although she thereby frequently came to the bottom of her “stocking".

Though H.P.B. left much of her correspondence to me, still it was not without a distinct supervision, for she would suddenly call for a reply that had not yet gone out or for the copy of an old letter, without any warning, and if there were any mistakes, the lecture I received was not reassuring to my discomforture. One thing she was always impressing upon me, and this was to develope a sense of the “fitness of things”, and she was merciless if this law of harmony were broken, leaving no loop-hole of escape, and listening to no excuse, with her over-powering reason and knowledge, which in spite of its apparently disconnected expression, always went home; although, indeed, the minute afterward, she was again the affectionate friend and elder brother, shall I even say, comrade, as she alone knew how to be.

One of the greatest proofs to me of H.P.B.’s extraordinary gifts and ability, if proof were needed in the face of the manifest sincerity of her life-work, was the way in which she wrote her articles and books.

I knew every book she had in her small library, and yet day after day she would produce quantities of MS. abounding in quotations, which were seldom inaccurate.

I remember almost the last day she sat at her desk, going into her room to query two Greek words in a quotation, and telling her they were inaccurate. Now though H.P.B. cculd in her early years speak modern Greek and had been taught ancient Greek by her grandmother, she had long forgotten it for all purposes of accuracy, and the correction of the words I objected to required precise scholarship.

“Where did you get it from, H.P.B.?” I asked.

“I’m sure I don’t know, my dear”, was her somewhat discouraging rejoinder, “I saw it!” adding that she was certain that she was right, for now she remembered when she wrote the particular passage referred to.

However, I persuaded her that there was some mistake, and finally she said, “Well, of course you are a great Greek pundit, I know, but you’re not going to sit upon me always. I’ll try if I can see it again, and now get out”, meaning that she wanted to go on with her work, or at any rate had had enough of me.

About two minutes afterwards, she called me in again and presented me with a scrap of paper on which she had written the two words quite correctly, saying, “ Well, I suppose you’ll be a greater pundit than ever after this I”.

The above is one instance out of many, but it will little profit to narrate them, for they mean nothing to anyone but the eye-witness, and the public is quite content with its own infallibility of judgment and prefers to remain myopic.

In the evenings, H.P.B. liked to have the household round her, and tried her best to force us to abandon work for a couple of hours. She herself played her eternal game of solitaire, which she very occasionally varied with a game of dummy whist.

Many have questioned why H.P.B. always “made her cards” in the evening, and those of us who have learned by experience that H.P.B. did nothing without a reason, deduced logically that there was also reason in the cards. The evening was the time for anecdotes, for hints on occultism, for an infinity of useful information.

There was, however, no order about it, and no one could count on hearing this or that, or getting an answer to a question. We had to wait for the opportunity, and never regretted the waiting when the opportunity came.

When we moved to our present Headquarters, many things were changed. Looking back it now seems almost as if H.P.B. had got things in training for leaving us at any moment, though apparently preparations were being made in which she herself and her continued residence with us were the principal factors.

Ever since she went to Brighton in the early part of last year she has suffered most cruelly in her physical body, and been unable to work as she used to. But we always lived in great expectations of restitution to at any rate her normal state of health.

At Lansdowne Road she used always to be pleased to receive visitors, and nearly every evening they came in to see her. But in Avenue Road she gradually began to isolate herself more and more, so that often she would not receive even the members of the household in the evening unless she especially sent for them.

Then again, she was strangely quiet latterly, rarely showing the great energy that was her peculiar characteristic. Still the same indomitable will was there, though her body was worn out, for she worked on at her desk even when she ought to have been in bed, or in her coffin.

The very night before she left us, she insisted on going into her working room and playing her cards. It was indeed a last and supreme effort of will, for she was so weak that she could hardly speak or hold up her head. And thus the influenza claimed its greatest victim. Such at least is the opinion of one who regards it as his chiefest honour to have been the last of H.P.B.’s Private Secretaries.

(Lucifer, June 1891, pp. 295-299; In Memory of HPB, pp. 31-35)

MEMORIES OF BLAVATSKY BY HERBERT BURROWS

 

Herbert Burrows  was one of Blavatsky's students, and when she died in 1891 he wrote the following text as a posthumous tribute to her; I added subtitles in green.

WHAT SHE IS TO ME

Two years ago Annie Besant and I saw H.P.B. for the first time, and now it is not many days since I stood by her lily-covered coffin and took my last lingering look at the personality of the marvellous woman who had revolutionised the lives of my colleague and myself. Two years are but little as men count time, but these two have been so pregnant with soullife that the old days before them seem ages away.

If it be true that life should be counted by epochs of the mind, then life, from the day that I first clasped H.P.B.’s hand to the moment when, majestic in her death sleep, I helped to wreathe around her body the palms from that far-off East which she loved so well, was richer, fuller, longer to me than a generation of the outward turmoil which has its little day and then is gone.

His first encounter with Blavatsky

I went to her a materialist, she left me a Theosophist, and between these two there is a great gulf fixed. Over that gulf she bridged the way. She was my spiritual mother, and never had child a more loving, a more patient, a more tender guide.

It was in the old Lansdowne Road days. Beset with problems of life and mind that our materialism could not solve, dwelling intellectually on what are now to us the inhospitable shores of agnosticism.

Annie Besant and I ever craved more light. We had read the Occult World, and in bye-gone years we had heard —who had not ?— of the strange woman whose life seemed to be a contradiction of our most cherished theories, but as yet the philosophy of the book was to us but assertion, the life of the woman a career which we had no means of examining.

Sceptical, critical, trained by long years of public controversy to demand the most rigid scientific proof of things which were outside our experience, Theosophy was to us an unknown, and, as it then seemed, an impossible land.

And yet it fascinated, for it promised much, and with talking, with reading, the fascination grew. With the fascination also grew the desire to know, and so, on an ever-to-be remembered evening, with a letter of introduction from Mr. W.T. Stead, then editor of the Pall Mall Gazette, as our passport, we found ourselves face to face, in the drawing room of 17, Lansdowne Road, with the woman whom we afterwards learned to know and to love as the most wonderful woman of her time.

I was not foolish enough to look for miracles, I did not expect to see Madame Blavatsky float, nor did I crave for materialised teacups, but I did want to hear about Theosophy, and I did not hear much.

She whom we were there to see was a stout, unwieldy lady, playing Russian “Patience”, and keeping up a stream of conversation on nearly every subject except the one which was just then nearest our minds.

No attempt at proselyting, no attempt to “fix” us, (we were not hypnotised !) but all tiie while the wonderful eyes were flashing light, and, in spite of the bodily infirmity which was even then painfully apparent, there was a reserve of power which gave the impression that we were seeing, not the real woman, but only the surface character of some one who had endured much, and who knew much.

I tried to keep an open impartial mind, and I believe I succeeded. I was genuinely anxious to learn, but I was critical and on the watch for the slightest attempt at hoodwinking.

When I afterwards discovered something of H.P.B.’s extraordinary insight, I was not surprised to find that she had gauged accurately and unerringly my mental attitude on this my first visit, and it is an attitude which she never really discouraged.

If those who talk so foolishly about her magnetising people could but know how she continually impressed upon us the absolute duty of proving all things and holding fast only to that which is good!

Herbert becomes Blavatsky's student and describes his teacher

To go once was to go again, and so it came that after a few visits I began to see light. I caught glimpses of a lofty morality, of a selfsacrificing zeal, of a coherent philosophy of life, of a clear and definite science of man and his relation to a spiritual universe. These it was which attracted me — not phenomena, for I saw none.

For the first time in my mental history I had found a teacher who could pick up the loose threads of my thought and satisfactorily weave them together, and the unerring skill, the vast knowledge, the loving patience of that teacher grew on me hour by hour.

Quickly I learned that the so-called charlatan and trickster was a noble soul, whose every day was spent in unselfish work, whose whole life was pure and simple as a child's, who counted never the cost of pain or toil if these could advance the great cause to which her every energy was consecrated.

Open as the day to a certain point, she was the incarnation of kindness — silent as the grave if need be, she was sternness personified at the least sign of faithlessness to the work which was her life.

Grateful, so grateful for every affectionate attention, careless, so careless of all that concerned herself, she bound us to her, not simply as wise teacher, but as loving friend.

Once I was broken down through long bodily and mental strain and the wheels of my life ran so heavily that they nearly stopped. Through it all her solicitude was untiring and one special proof of it that she gave, too personal to mention here, would have been thought of, perhaps, but by one in a million.

Perfect —no; faults— yes; the one thing she would hate most of all would be the indiscriminate praise of her personality. But when I have said that she was sometimes impetuous as a whirlwind, a very cyclone when she was really roused, I have told nearly all. And I have often thought it was more than possible that some of these outbursts were assumed for a special object. Lately they had almost vanished.

Her enemies sometimes said she was rough and rude. We who knew her, knew that a more unconventional woman, in the very realest sense of the word, never lived. Her absolute indifference to all outward forms was a true indifference based upon her inner spiritual knowledge of the verities of the universe.

Sitting by her when strangers came, as they did come from every corner of the earth, I have often watched with the keenest amusement their wonder at seeing a woman who always said what she thought.

Given a prince and she would probably shock him, given a poor man and he would have her last shilling and her kindliest word.

How meagre all this is I know full well. Of the real H.P.B. we only caught occasional glimpses, and so necessarily we are thrown back on that human side of her life which appeals most to the human in us. Of her vast and profound knowledge this is not the time to speak, and if it were, how could one speak?

Only its ripples ever reached us, but those would make an ordinary ocean. Probably we shall never know all the why and the wherefore of her recent incarnation.

In 1889 Annie Besant and I were with her in France at the Forest of Fontainebleau, and while there she went over with us in manuscript part of the Voice of the Silence. Looking back on that time, I remember that the passages over which she was most impressive were those which describe the toilsome ascent of the pilgrimsoul.

In the copy of the book which she gave me and which will never eave me, she has written, “To Herbert Burrows, my old friend in another and better incarnation, from his ever-loving H.P.B.”

It may be that in those words lie part of the key to the life that we knew.

Be that as it may, the real key for us is to be found in the example of her self-sacrificing devotion to her work. This is the note which was struck in the hearts of the hushed crowd who but yesterday gathered for the last time round the body of their loved teacher.

That body has vanished from our sight, but the work remains. No great thought can ever die, no great effort for humanity can ever cease, but thought and effort can be accelerated by faithful service for mankind.

More than ever now is that service needed, and they who would read aright the lesson of H.P.B.’s life will give that service unstintingly, ungrudgingly, if need be to the bitter end.

(Lucifer, June 1891, pp. 299-302; In Memory of HPB, pp. 35-38)

MEMORIES OF BLAVATSKY BY WALTER OLD

 

Walter Richard Old was one of Blavatsky's disciples who was part of her inner circle, and when she died in 1891 he wrote the following text as a posthumous tribute to her; I added subtitles in green.

TEACHER AND FRIEND

His first encounter with Blavatsky

My first acquaintance with Madame Blavatsky was in correspondence upon the subject of western occultism, during the year 1887.

I had often wished to see her, and had proposed to myself a way by which I could satisfy this desire, without in any way trespassing upon the slight acquaintance I had with the famous authoress [Blavatsly] of “Isis Unveiled”.

Some months passed, and, for reasons in which a reclusive disposition found some sort of consolation, I had not yet seen Madame Blavatsky. I was in daily correspondence with members of the Theosophical Society, and others interested in the special subjects of its investigation, and every day the fact of my not having seen the chief mover in the occult renaissance of the 19th century, was growing more and more a source of annoyance to me.

Quite unexpectedly, and to my intense satisfaction, the matter shaped itself. A letter from a London friend informed me that he had arranged for a few friends to meet at his house to discuss some of the problems in which we were mutually interested, and that if I would go up to town that evening, he would take me round to see “H.P.B.” on the morrow'.

I went —not to see my friends, nor to discuss problems, but— with the sole idea and purpose of seeing “H.P.B.” That evening it seemed that Time stood still for the special purpose of laughing at my impatience.

At last, however, the morning dawned and grew into a fine summer day, and towards noon I found myself with my friend at the house in Notting Hill, whence, he informed me, all the life of the Theosophical Society came.

Entered, we were shown into the drawing-room, at least I presumed that was its appellation, though I have never seen, nor ever expect to see, another room like it. No, I was mistaken, for a few seconds later, in response to a familiar greeting from my friend, H.P.B. rose from her desk, where she had been hidden from view by an unusually large arm-chair, and came forward to receive us.

The largest and brightest blue eyes I have ever seen opened widely upon me as she took my hand and gave me welcome. All the confusion I had secretly predicted for myself fled from me on her first words. I felt at home and at ease with H.P.B. at once.

“No, I will not be called ‘Madame’, not by my best friend, there was nothing said of that when I was christened, and if you please I will be simply H.P.B. Have a seat there; you smoke of course; I’ll make you a cigarette. E., you flapdoodle, (this to my friend), if you can find my tobacco box on the place there, I’ll mistake you for a gentleman.”

Then amid some laughter, as playful and buoyant as that of a child, she explained to me that E. and she were “old friends” and that she was very fond of him, but that he often “took advantage of her old age and innocence”, and amid some repartee the tobacco was produced, and H.P.B. made cigarettes for each of us.

Then we settled down to more serious talk, H.P.B. asking me about my studies in Theosophy and western occultism, and telling me of the success of the Theosophical movement, and how the people said this and that, and how the papers said much more, and that all were wrong because they did not understand, and had forgotten their history books and could not see where the movement was going to.

And then she asked me to tell her about myself, and gave me some practical advice, and soon afterwards I had taken leave of the most interesting person that I had ever seen.

Such were the circumstances which led to my personal acquaintance with my beloved and revered teacher and friend. I was most pleasurably impressed with all that I had heard and seen during my brief visit to the home of the Theosophists, and the impression I most vividly recollect of H.P.B. herself, was of her surpassing kindliness of manner, her fearless candour, her remarkable vivacity, and above all the enthusiasm with which she spoke of the work which lay before the Theosophical Society.

Walter goes to live with Blavatsky

When, many months later, it was suggested that I should go to live at the London Headquarters, then in Lansdowne Road, I was only too glad to do so; indeed I would have gone anywhere in order to have cotne more directly under the pure strong influence of H .P.B.’s example and teaching.

The impressions I had first formed of her character remained unchanged during all my intimate association with her, until her passing away. In all my difficulties, whether in study or work, I have ever found her a wise counsellor and a strong guide.

In sickness or sorrow she has always been kind, gentle, helpful and reassuring; in short, no one has ever filled my life in the double capacity of friend and teacher as she has done, and there is none to whom my gratitude so willingly flows.

Blavatsky worked immensely

I have said that H.P.B. was enthusiastic in her devotion to the cause which she had the honour of representing to the world. None who has had the privilege of working with H.P.B. could make any doubt upon this point.

One of her first letters to me, phrased in her peculiar foreign way, informed me that “the first volume of my book (The Secret Doctrine) is from the press, and I am up since five o’clock these days".

Her powers of endurance were equal in every respect to her great sense of devotion.

She was an incessant worker. I have seen her at her desk as early as six o’clock in the morning, and often in the coldest days of the winter months, several sheets had passed under her pen before she took breakfast.

Her application and tenacity were oftentimes a source of wonderment to. me, especially when I considered that a great part of her life had been spent in the restless excitement of travel and adventure.

Whatever may be the respective merits of the many Causes for which men and women have worked and died, certain it is that none have served them more fervently, persistently and painfully, than H.P.B. has served that of Theosophy.

Walter was with Blavatsky when she died

The night before her departure she was at her desk for a few minutes, effecting the last disposition of her papers; an editorial lay half completed upon her desk, when for the last time she laid her pen aside to go to her passing rest.

I was present at her departure, her right hand grew cold in mine. I will not attempt to describe my feelings when the consciousness of our loss, temporary though it may be, first dawned upon my mind.

These moments of exquisite pain, when self-compassion, and a joy for the rest that had come to one I loved, tore my being in twain with their wild contest, will ever remain among the sacred memories of my life.

The last words from her pen were in defence of the truth for which she had lived; her dying lips framed words of encouragement to those upon whom the chief work would fall by her departure.

His defense of Blavatsky

What though many in the outside world have denied to her that honesty of purpose which they would be the first to claim for themselves, what though her untiring efforts in the cause of the Truth were repaid by the slanders and scoffs and sneers of the superficial crowd, and though her friendship was betrayed by the wounded vanity of a few fading personalities.

Yet she was unchecked in her purpose, and beyond the belief and desire of all her opponents, successful in the task she had undertaken in the face of such enormous discouragement.

Those at least who lived with her, and best knew her, can tell how pure and unselfish was her whole nature, and how inspiring her teaching and her example. Nothing that I can say could add anything to the inherent beauty and purity of her character, and it is only with a feeling of grateful devotion and duty that I pen this feeble tribute to tha memory of my greatest friend.

(Lucifer, June 1891, p.302-4; In Memory of HPB, p.39-40)

THE CREMATION OF BLAVATSKY'S CORPSE

THE TESTIMONY OF WILLIAM ROSS

William Stewart Ross was a Scottish writer and publisher. He was a noted secularist thinker, and used the pseudonym "Saladin". Between 1888 and 1906 he was the editor of the Agnostic Journal, successor to the Secular Review; and when Blavatsky died he wrote the folowing article about her.

 

 «

HOW AN AGNOSTIC SAW HER

 

From stale, grey London we were whirled out among the green fields and through masses of fruit trees white as the vesture of Soracte's hill (Vide Hor., Ode ix), that day we followed to the furnace the mortal remains of Helena Petrovna Blavatsky. Away we were whirled through plains grazed by fat oxen that would have made a holocaust worthy to have celebrated the victory of Plataea, and through a gloomy plantation of resinous pine that would have made a funeral pyre for Patroclus. And, from among the bushes, the birds sang as merrily as they did erst in Eden, and the primroses prinkt the green slopes as fragrantly and daintily as in the old romantic days, when they bore up the dancing feet of Titania and Oberon beneath the light of the moon.

 

And on we sped with our dead through that blue-skied afternoon in the month of May. We bore no warrior to the pyre. We needed no oxen and resinous pine. We hasted to a mortuary furnace more intense than ever reddened the heavens round Ilium, or rendered Gehenna hideous with unctuous smoke and the odor of smoldering bones.

 

We were accompanying to the flames an oracle, a sphinx, or a sibyl, rather than anything that the world commonly produces in its ordinary villages and towns. We accompanied the remains of what erst was the madcap girl of Ekaterinoslow, who, with nuptial withes, had, as a freak, tied her wild and impetuous young heart to that of tame and frosty age; and had since, in every realm of this planet of ours, thought and toiled and suffered, and had been misunderstood and calumniated. ... with the remains of whom we travel on to the furnace at Woking. Such was the tenor of my contemplations by the way.

 

One in a wagon-load of uncraped mourners, I reached the crematorium. It is a red-brick building, which, in appearance, seems a mongrel between a chapel, a-tile-kiln and a factory chimney. You enter by a mortuary chapel, passing through which you emerge through heavy folding doors of oak, and find yourself in an apartment, in the middle of the floor of which, and end to you, there is a great iron object like the boiler of a locomotive, but supported by and embedded in masonry.

The Theosophists crowd round this boiler-looking object with anxious but decorous curiosity, to gratify which one of the attendants turned, on the end of the object, an iron snib which left a circular orifice about the size of a crown piece. Those present looked in succession into this opening; most, I noticed, gave one quick glance, and turned away with an involuntary shudder.

When it came to my turn to peep in I wondered not that my predecessors had shuddered. If Virgil or Milton or Dante had ever seen such an Inferno, they would never have written about the Inferno at all, relinquishing the theme as utterly ineffable.

Inside that furnace was filled with towels of fire whisked by the arm of the very devil himself. I can look on a common furnace; but I shall never again peep through that iron eye-let into the viscera of hell.

 

As I was so contemplating, the hearse arrived and drew up on the gravel in front of the door of the mortuary chapel. Into the chapel the coffin was borne and laid upon an oaken tressel, and we all stood up and uncovered.

The coffin was literally laden with and hidden in flowers, and a heavy perfume pervaded the air. Under those flowers lay the mortal remains of her who was dear to all of us, and had wielded a personal influence such as mere mediocrity, however amiable, could never have exercised.

. . .

Mr. G.R.S. Mead, a young gentleman of refined features and much spirituelle of expression, stepped forward to the head of the coffin of her to whom he had been private secretary and attached friend. There, in the most solemn hush, he read an impressive address impressively. As his silvery voice rose and fell in melancholy cadence, I was wafted away as

in a vision to the glen where:

 

"In accents soft and calm,

Kilmahoe gave out the psalm,"

 

among the heathery hills of my own loved land, to sterner and less literate heretics who were persecuted with fire and steel, even as the heretics among whom I now stood were persecuted with sneering and calumny.

 

But, while thus musing, the door from the crematorium into the chapel opened, and four employees, who did not look exactly like either stokers or butchers, but had some resemblance to each, entered, and, in a business-like manner, went two to each end of the tressel, and, raising it by its four handles, moved off with it through the doorway. Four Theosophists who had known and loved Madame Blavatsky, and had, like myself, found the grandest and the worst-abused woman in the world identical, followed her remains through that wide doorway down to the furnace. The mass of flowers wafted us another wealth of fragrance as they disappeared, and the great doorway was slammed and bolted with a decisive mastery suggestive of the fall of the portcullis in Hades.

 

Tressel, coffin, and flowers had gone. They were now behind that inexorable door, as also the mortal remains of the strongest, bravest, and noblest woman that shall ever grasp this poor trembling hand, all too mean and weak to write her obsequies. . . . »

 

(Lucifer, June 1891, p.311-316; In Memory of HPB, p.47-52)

THE TESTIMONY OF GEORGE MEAD

George Robert Stow Mead was Blavatsky's personal secretary, and he wrote the following article recounting how the cremation took place:

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CREMATION

The quiet of Headquarters early on Monday morning, May 11th, was remarkable. There was no hurry, nothing to show that anything unusual was to take place, except the serious faces of the residents and the constant receipts of telegrams.

Shortly before 10 a number of Theosophists arrived, and together with those of the staff who had not the immediate direction of affairs, stood waiting in a double line in the hall and covered way.

With quiet order the transfer was duly effected and the simple hearse started for Waterloo Station, accompanied by three members, the others finding their way to the station as they pleased, it being the repeatedly expressed wish of H.P.B. that no show or parade of any kind should be made over her body.

At Waterloo were many familiar faces, though not so many as there would have been had the notice been longer, as the many letters of regret for enforced absence testified.

To an outsider who did not understand the spirit that animated the assembled Theosophists, and who had never regarded death as a mere change and the body as simply a garment, the absence of all mourning and the usual funeral paraphernalia must have caused some surprise. But to all of us present there seemed an appropri ateness in making the last act in the drama of so unconventional a life in harmony with the rest.

The way from the Woking station to the Crematorium led through a length of pleasant sunlit lanes, arched over with new-born leaves, and the beauty of a glorious May morning brightened the grief which even the calmest-minded felt, for it takes many incarnations to “kill the heart” and lose all preference for the personality.

Indeed on that particular morning nature showed herself in one of her happiest moods and seemed to smile a joyous farewell to the body of one of her dearest and most wondrously endowed children.

The Officers of the Society and the Headquarters Staff surrounded the flower-decked bier, and all remained in deepest silence while G.R.S. Mead, the General Secretary of the European Section, and Private Secretary to H.P.B. for the past two years, standing at the head, read the following address:

« Friends and Brother Theosophists,

H.P. Blavatsky is dead, but H.P.B., our teacher and friend, is alive, and will live forever in our hearts and memories. In our present sorrow, it is this thought especially that we should keep ever before our minds.

It is true that the personality we know as H.P. Blavatsky will be with us no longer; but it is equally true that the grand and noble individuality, the great soul that has taught all of us men and women to live purer and more unselfish lives, is still active.

The Theosophical Society, which was her great work in this incarnation, still continues under the care and direction of those great living Masters and Teachers whose messenger she was, and whose work she will resume amongst us at no distant period.

Dear as the personality of H.P.B. is to us, to many of whom she took the place of a dearly loved and reverenced mother, still we must remember that, as she has so often taught us, the personality is the impermanent part of man’s nature and the mere outer dress of the real individuality.

The real H.P.B. does not lie here before us. The true self that inspired so many men and women in every quarter of the earth with a noble enthusiasm for suffering humanity and the true progress of the race, combined with a lofty ideal of individual life and conduct, can in the mind of no Theosophist be confounded with the mere physical instrument which served it for one brief incarnation.

Fellow Theosophists, the duty that lies before us, her pupils and friends, is plain and simple. As we all know so well, the one great purpose of our teacher’s life in this her present incarnation, a purpose which she pursued with such complete unselfishness and singleness of motive, was to restore to mankind the knowledge of those great spiritual truths we to-day call Theosophy.

Her unvarying fidelity to her great mission, from which neither contumely nor misrepresentation ever made her swerve, was the key-note of her strong and fearless nature. To her who knew so well its true and inner meaning, Theosophy was an ever-present power in her life, and she was ceaseless in her endeavours to spread the knowledge of the living truths of which she had such full assurance, so that by their ever-widening influence the wave of materiality in Science and Religion might be checked, and a real and lasting spiritual foundation laid for the true progress and brotherhood of mankind.

With such an example before us, then, our duty as Theosophists is clear. We must continue the work that H.P.B. has so nobly commenced, if not with her power—which to us is as yet impossible—at least with an enthusiasm, self-sacrifice and determination such as alone can show our gratitude to her and our appreciation of the great task she has committed to us.

We must, therefore, each individually take up our share of that task. Theosophy is not dead because to-day we stand by H.P.B.’s dead body. It lives and must live, because Truth can never die; but on us, the up holders of this Truth, must ever rest the heaviest of all responsibilities, the effort so to shape our own characters and lives that that truth may be there by commended to others.

Most fortunately for all of us, H.P.B. leaves the work on a firm foun dation and fully organized. In spite of failing health and bodily pain, our beloved leader to the very last moments of her life continued her unceasing exertions for the cause we all love so well. Never did she relax one moment from her vigilance over its interests, and she repeatedly impressed upon those who surrounded her the principles and methods by which the work was to be carried on, never contemplating for one instant that the death of her body could be any real hindrance to the performance of the duty which would then more than ever be incumbent on every earnest member of the Society.

This duty, which lies so clearly before us, and of which H.P.B. has set us so striking an example, is to spread the know ledge of Theosophy by every means in our power, especially by the influence of our own lives.

Much as we love and reverence our leader, our devotion to the work must not rest on the transient basis of affection for a personality, but on the solid foundation of a conviction that in Theosophy itself, and in it alone, are to be found those eternal spiritual principles of right thought, right speech and right action, which are essential to the progress and harmony of mankind.

We believe that if H.P.B. could stand here in the body and speak to us now, this would be her message to all the members of the Theosophical Society, not simply to those who are present, but to all who without distinction of race, creed, or sex, are with us in heart and sympathy to-day.

She would tell us as she has told many of us already, that a “ clean life, an open mind, a pure heart, an eager intellect, an unveiled spiritual percep tion, a brotherliness for all, a readiness to give and receive advice and in struction, a courageous endurance of personal injustice, a brave declaration of piinciples, a valiant defencc of those who are unjustly attacked, and a constant eye to the ideal of human progression and perfection which the Sacred Science depicts — these are the golden stairs up the steps of which the learner may climb to the Temple of Divine Wisdom."

And now in silence we leave the body of our teacher and go back to the every-day world. In our hearts we shall ever carry with us her memory, her example, her life. Every Theosophical truth that we utter, every Theosophical effort that we make, is one more evidence of our love for her, and what should be greater even than that, of our devotion to the cause for which she lived. To that cause she was ever true — to that truth let none of us be ever false. »

A brief silence succeeded, and then the vehicle that bore the body of the greatest of the Theosophists passed through the folding doors of the Crematorium. Nothing could have been simpler. No ceremony, no pomp or pageantry, no distressing signs of emotion or useless mourning; and yet the last act of honour to our great leader’s body was far from being without its impressiveness.

The scene at Woking will ever live in the memories of the spectators, who could not fail to sense the grave seriousness of the occasion, the deep and suppressed feelings of the mourners, and the determination shown in the set faces of those who work for Theosophy.

Two hours afterwards the urn containing the ashes of our beloved teacher’s body was reverently received, and carried back to Headquarters and placed in her own rooms, thus terminating a very eventful day for the Theosophic world.

Yes; that last farewell to H.P.B.’s recent garment of flesh marks an important epoch in the annals of the Theosophical Society, and a new point of departure for increased effort and exertion.

In the hearts of those who are endeavouring to make Theosophy a real factor in their lives, there must remain an overwhelming sense of gratitude to her who has inspired them with the will to do so; and this sense of gratitude, love and respect will never be content until it can find fit expression.

No material memorial, nothing that money can purchase, will ever be judged a sufficient tribute to her memory. There is but one way in which the debt can be paid, and that is by making the Theosophical Society a world-wide success and Theosophy known throughout the whole globe.

The work to be done is one not only of head and hands but also of heart, the well-spring of all right actions and the real magnet-point of our humanity. The tremendous burden of responsibility that lay so heavily on H.P.B., but which she so gladly bore for the Society, must now be shared among ourselves. No longer can H.P.B. stand as a “ buffer ”, as she herself phrased it, to the Society and be the scape-goat of all its short comings.

While she lived, every mistake and wrong-doing of those who surrounded her were set down to H.P.B. and she had to bear the blame for all. This is now no longer possible. The Theosophical Society and each of its members must stand upon their own merits, and the day of vicarious atonement is past.

If the world is to respect Theosophy, we must make it first of all respect the Theosophical Society, both for its labours for others and for the immediate good it does to those who come within its pale. We must teach and exemplify: teach’ what Theosophy is in plain and simple words, and exemplify its redeeming power by our right conduct in all the affairs of life.

He alone is a true Theosophist who develops all his higher faculties and learns to sense the “ fitness of things ”, their underlying harmony, on all occasions. Right thought, right feeling, right speech, right judgment and right action are the signs of such an one, and will indubitably lead to that consummation of brotherhood which we have before us as our ideal.

Let us, then, who would fairly earn the title of Theosophist, see well to this and follow the example of H.P.B. in sacrificing ourselves for the good of others.

“As a mother, even at the risk of her own life, protects her son, her only son: so let there be goodwill without measure among all beings. Let goodwill without measure prevail in the whole world, above, below, around, unstinted, unmixed with any feeling of differing or opposing interests. If a man remain steadfastly in this state of mind all the while he is awake, whether he be standing, walking, sitting, or lying down, then is come to pass the saying 'even in this world happiness has been found'." »

(Lucifer, June 1891, pp. 271-275;  In Memory of HPB, pp. 47-52)