The original thinker, the Russian mystic Georgy Ivanovich Gurdjieff, widely known in the West and practically forgotten until recently in Russia, is truly considered one of the most unusual and mysterious figures of the 20th century. An unusually gifted and talented person, a tireless explorer of the field of the miraculous, a brilliant orator who blows up the audience with the power of his words, an amazingly subtle psychologist, a great mystifier - these are just some of the facets of his nature. Gurdjieff died in 1949, but left behind such a deep and strong impression that he still attracts the attention of sociologists, historians, religious scholars, not to mention his followers and admirers scattered all over the world. The wave of publications, books and articles about him and his teachings does not subside.
Gurdjieff's legacy is as multifaceted as his mysterious personality. In addition to literary and musical works, it includes sacred dances and exercises developed by Gurdjieff himself and collected by him in the East.
The realm of the miraculous, the inexplicable, the mysterious, irresistibly attracted Gurdjieff. He completely focused on the study of unusual phenomena, undertaking an intensive search for fragments of ancient esoteric (secret) knowledge and people who have this knowledge.
In 1895, Gurdjieff became one of the leader of the Truth Seekers group, whose goal was to explore the supernatural.
In search of ancient knowledge, seekers of Truth (among them there were women), one or two, went to the most remote corners of Asia. They traveled like pilgrims, getting acquainted with ancient written sources and oral tradition, underwent training in monasteries, entered into secret brotherhoods, collecting ancient knowledge bit by bit. During such expeditions, which are unsafe even in our time, some members of the group faced great difficulties. Some of them died, others refused to work.
GI Gurdjieff traveled in the East for about ten years and went through many severe trials and tribulations. From his subsequent lectures and books, from the stories of his students, it is known that he visited Afghanistan, Persia, Turkestan, India, Tibet, Egypt and other countries of the Middle and Far East. “About schools, about where he found knowledge, which, no doubt, he himself possessed, he spoke little and always somehow casually,” one of Gurdjieff's followers wrote later. "He mentioned Tibetan monasteries … Mount Athos, Sufi schools in Persia, Bukhara and East Turkestan, as well as dervishes of various orders."
From long years of study and wanderings, Gurdjieff brought out an integral system of ideas about the true purpose of man, the deep laws of being and the sphere of the miraculous, acquired an excellent knowledge of human nature. He not only learned a lot during these years of searching, but also learned a lot. Thinly feeling the experiences of people, he easily penetrated their thoughts, developed his healing gift, was able to cope with any work. George Ivanovich Gurdjieff could, for example, fix any thing, knew how to weave carpets, tune musical instruments, restore paintings, and embroider. This helped out more than once during his wanderings: when Gurdjieff was in need, he opened his "universal mobile workshop" - and there was no end of customers.
In 2005, the Moscow book publishing house "AST - PRESS KNIGA" published a book by the Russian writer, journalist, screenwriter and translator Igor Alexandrovich Minutko (1931 - 2017) entitled "Georgy Gurdjieff. Russian Lama "in the Historical Investigation series. In it, the author tells about a completely fantastic story, referring to the diary entries of Georgy Ivanovich Gurdjieff himself, who at one time visited the mysterious and mysterious Shambhala and from there took out a stone from the throne of Genghis Khan to Comrade Stalin, thereby making J. V. Stalin the leader of all times and peoples without any exaggeration.
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Among the followers of Gurdjieff, the existence of the diary of GI Gurdjieff as such is denied. All as one agreed that after himself Gurdjieff left no diary entries. However, when you read his autobiographical book "Meetings with Remarkable People", one gets the impression that he wrote it all the same on the basis of some kind of diary or diary material (entries). In 2007, a documentary film by director and screenwriter Martiros Fanosyan entitled “I am Gurdjieff. I - I will not die ", where at the end of the film, where the death of Gurdjieff is discussed, in the postscript, before the final credits, it is said that:" The intelligence agencies of the major powers have begun a bloody hunt for the last diaries of Georgy Ivanovich. How did it end?.. Did it end?.."
In any case, there is every reason to believe that Gurdjieff's diary could exist in reality, which his students and people close to him might not even know about. In May 2017, Igor Minutko died, who could have shed light on Gurdjieff's diary, but alas, he took this secret with him to the grave. Nevertheless, let's give the floor to Maestro Gurdjieff himself, and the reader himself will figure out how true this whole story is and how much it took place in reality.
“I remember exactly when THIS happened to me. Rather, the place on earth where IT happened. And what about age?.. Now it seems to me that at that time childhood was already left behind. I'm a teenager, I'm thirteen or fourteen years old. We lived in Alexandropol, in Armenia, which gained a short independence thanks to the last great Russian-Turkish war, finally separating from the hated Turkey. The Turkish city of Gyumri was renamed to Alexandropol. I was born there in 1879.
My father came from a Greek family whose ancestors emigrated from Byzantium. Father … An unforgettable father, my first and Chief Teacher on the path that in the end I chose for myself. Over a fairly long life, he changed many different professions: he had to support a large family. But Ivan Gurdjieff (he received his name from the Russians after the Russian Empire swallowed up all the peoples of the Caucasus and Transcaucasia, including Armenia) another vocation on earth. I would venture to say now - a high vocation bestowed upon him by the Creator of all that exists: he was an ashug, that is, an oral poet and storyteller, and under the name of Adash his father was known to the inhabitants of many countries of the Caucasus and Asia Minor.
Storytellers and poets from different countries came to the contests of ashugs - during holidays or large bazaars, with huge crowds of people - from Persia, Turkey, from the Caucasus, from Turkestan (where they were called akyns). My father was a constant participant in these verbal fights. Three times he took me to these competitions, and I witnessed them in Turkey, in the city of Van, in the small town of Sabaton, not far from Kars, and in Karabakh, in the city of Khankendy.
This happened to me in Khankendy. There was some great holiday. I remember: summer, heat, dusty city square, surrounded by coffee shops, barbecue, tea houses; the tart smells of roasted lamb, tea and coffee mixed with the aromas of cut melons, roasted nuts, fresh herbs, pears, apples, overripe grapes - all this was sold in myriad quantities from the trays. The crowd, the multilingual dialect, the diversity of clothes, the screams of donkeys, the neighing of horses … I remember: a two-humped camel towered above the seething, seething marketplace, calmly, methodically chewing its cud, and something eternal, given to mankind forever, I see in its arrogant philosophical physiognomy.
Suddenly everything fell silent at once, and now all the heads were turned to the center, they were flattening, where two carts were moved close together, a large and bright carpet was laid on them - a competition of ashugs began, and my father steps on the carpet first … competition, because he was captured, shocked by what the ashugs competed in: it was the theme of life and death, the fate and meaning of our arrival in this wonderful, tragic, incomprehensible world.
It's strange … Now, after several decades, I remember what they sang and talked about - and argued! And the memory did not retain images, plots. But the shock of what I heard, the state of mind, I still seem to relive anew. Probably because for the first time in my life I thought about it, and most importantly, at night there was a continuation.
My father and I rented a room in an overnight house not in Khankendy itself, but in some mountain village, which seemed to hang over the city - however, maybe it was the outskirts, now I can't remember. Another thing is important … That night I could not sleep, new feelings, thoughts, experiences literally tore me apart, I was overwhelmed with them: what, Lord Almighty, what is the meaning of human life? Tormented by these sensations, I cautiously got out of bed, trying not to wake up my father, who was sleeping very lightly, went out onto the terrace and … I guess I won't find the exact words to convey what I saw and what was revealed to me.
The terrace just hung over the Khankends, the city, as if in a bowl, lay under me: rare lights flickered, the outlines of houses were vaguely, vaguely guessed, the outline of the temple was vaguely drawn (after all, in Karabakh, mostly Armenians professing Christianity lived), something flew towards me from there - maybe voices, music. Yes! Of course it was music! But I think now, it was not earthly music. Or - not only earthly … Above Karabakh, over the mountains, over the majestic Caucasus, an abyss of blue-black sky stretched (the southern night was moonless), strewn with myriads of twinkling living stars. And maybe from there, from heaven, this music of the higher spheres penetrated into my open soul and trembling heart. An incomprehensible sweet delight overwhelmed me, I heard the rustle of invisible wings all around, and in me it sounded, echoed repeatedly: yes,there is great meaning in every human life. You just need to find it.
“On the way, on the way! - Someone wise, all-knowing and full of love told me. - Go! Search! Only forward! "-" Yes! Yes! - every cell of my being responded. - I will go … I will search. " So over the night of Khankendy, THIS was revealed to me, which became the meaning of my future life: to find my own way to comprehend the meaning of human existence. And, as if pushing me to find my own path, after a trip with my father to Karabakh, two events happened one after the other. Here is a brief description of them.
My father and I returned to Alexandropol, where we lived. And one morning, when I woke up, I felt, heard this call in myself: “Let's go! Search! Only one thing was clear: I should leave my house, even if not for long. And the circumstances immediately went to meet me. There was a time of a religious holiday on Mount Jajur, which the Armenians called Amenamets, and pilgrims moved from all over Armenia to the mountain. I decided to go with them, and my parents easily let me go on this my first independent journey, from which my wanderings across the lands of Asia and the East, stretching for decades, began.
Along the rocky road, first among vineyards and fields sown with wheat and barley, then among the low mountains, which gradually became steeper and steeper, stretched a line of carts drawn by horses, wagons drawn by black oxen, carts - they were harnessed to donkeys … The sick, cripples, paralytics were taken to the top of Mount Jajur, where the miraculous tomb of the saint was located in a small church, hoping for their miraculous healing. I found myself next to a wagon where two old men were carrying a paralyzed young guy. Gradually, I got into conversation with them and soon learned the sad story of this man. I forgot his name, but I remember his appearance well. He was a thirty-year-old handsome man, somewhat similar to Christ, as the painters depict Him. Misfortune struck suddenly: the young man was a soldier, and then he returned home - he was to get married. And suddenly one morning he could not get out of bed - while sleeping, his entire left side of his body was paralyzed. It happened six years ago
Finally we reached the foot of the holy mountain. Here the pilgrims left their carts - they had to travel on foot, almost a quarter of a mile. Those who could not walk were carried on stretchers. Everyone, according to custom, went up to the church barefoot, many crawled up on their knees. When the paralytic was lifted from the cart to be placed on a stretcher, he resisted.
“I myself,” he said.
Persuasion did not help: the young man crawled up on his right healthy side. This difficult, painful ascent lasted more than three hours. It was unbearable to look at him … But finally the goal was achieved - he was at the door of the church. Suddenly, complete silence fell in the church, the service was interrupted. People parted, and the one whom in those moments I loved with all my being, crawled along the living corridor, leaving bloody spots on the stone floor. He achieved his goal - with his last strength he reached out to the tomb of the saint, kissed it and lost consciousness.
The priest, the crippled parents and I - we all tried to revive him: we poured water on his head and mouth, rubbed his chest. Finally he opened his eyes. And a miracle happened: the young man got to his feet. He was perfectly healthy. At first he did not believe in what had happened to him, then he timidly took a few steps and suddenly began a frantic dance, and everyone who was in the church clapped to him. But then the healed one fell on his face and began to pray earnestly. All the pilgrims, along with the priest, also knelt down. We selflessly prayed to our Savior and His messengers on earth. Many cried, and among them I was. These were blissful tears. And today I testify: I saw all this with my own eyes.
The next year, at the end of May, I went to the vicinity of Kars - my parents released me again. The reason for the new trip was the arrival of the Patriarch's messenger from Greece with the miraculous icon to Russia. Now I don't remember exactly whose image it was. Most likely, St. Nicholas the Wonderworker. The aim of the patriarch's messenger was specific: he collected donations to help the Greeks who suffered during the Cretan uprising. Therefore, the archimandrite, traveling across Russia, strove to get to those places where the Greek population predominated. So he ended up in Kara.
In that year, in the entire Kara region, starting from February, there was an incredible heat, which led to a terrible drought, the crops burned out, the rivers dried up, the loss of livestock began - in a word, people were threatened with hunger. The local population was terrified: what to do? How to be saved from death? And then it was announced that the high envoy of the Greek Christian Church outside the city among the dried up fields, who had arrived in Kars, would serve a prayer service to the miraculous icon - "for the salvation of those who suffer and hunger for rain."
From all the surrounding churches, processions of priests with icons went there, and many people followed. The field where the prayer began was surrounded by a dense crowd. I was in it in the back rows, and there was no way to push forward to see everything with my own eyes. What happens to the miraculous icon? I didn’t hear anything, although everyone around me stood silently, holding their breath, but only someone's deep voice reached us. The words were impossible to make out.
But I saw … Everyone saw. How can I describe this? Poor, poor human language!
Verse voice. The service ended, during which a whitish, red-hot sky stood over a dry field, over our heads, over the entire Kara region. Not a single breath of wind, heat, nothing to breathe - people were drenched in sweat. And suddenly … Suddenly a fresh, sharp wind blew. The most incredible thing was that he blew from all sides at once. Cumulus clouds that appeared before our eyes were huddled into dark clouds, which were thickening, becoming denser. The sky was in motion, in a kind of primordial chaos, in which, however, a single Plan was felt. It got dark, as if suddenly evening had come. And an unprecedented downpour collapsed, in the victorious roar of which the enthusiastic cries of the crowd were lost and dissolved … All this happened literally in a matter of minutes, right according to the Bible: "The heavenly abyss opened up." Something from the first days of creation was present in that picture,which was revealed to us. I was filled with glee and mystical terror at the same time.
Soon the downpour turned into an even thick rain, which rained continuously for three days and three nights. The fields revived, the water seethed in the dried-up river beds. The crops and livestock were saved.
"An accidental coincidence," perhaps, say atheist skeptics. Well, let them talk.
Now, in the declining years, approaching the mysterious line beyond which our present existence ends and something New is coming, I am convinced: on the earthly path of meeting people who become your Teachers, mentors or like-minded people, faithful companions (though they are not always go with you to the end) - they are all sent to us from above. Everything is predetermined by fate and is only corrected depending on our actions.
I was lucky to have Teachers and like-minded people. “Lucky” - what an inaccurate word! In my youth, my first fellow traveler and brother in spirit was Sarkis Poghosyan, my age. He was born in the Turkish city of Erzurum; when Sarkis was still an infant, his parents moved to Kars. Sarkis's father was a dyer, "poyadzhi" in Armenian; a person of this profession is easily recognized by his hands - blue to the elbows from paint, which cannot be washed off. Poghosyan's mother embroidered with gold - a very honorable occupation in Armenia at the end of the last century. She was considered an unsurpassed master of bibs and belts for women from wealthy Armenian families.
The parents were quite successful and they decided to give their eldest son Sarkis a spiritual education; we met when he was finishing the seminary in Etchmiadzin and was preparing to become a priest. Another journey across the Caucasus led me to Echmiadzin. At that time I was looking for an answer to the innermost question: "What is the meaning of life?"
So, the parents of Sarkis Poghosyan, like mine, lived at that time in Kars in the neighborhood, their son was rarely at home (“Because of the severity in the seminary,” he said), and upon learning that I was going to Echmiadzin, Poghosyan - the elder and his wife passed a parcel with me to their son. So we "accidentally" met. And a day later we were friends and like-minded people: we were attracted by the same thing - everything mysterious, supernatural in our life - and tormented by the same question: "Why and by whom were we sent to this world full of mysteries?" Another all-consuming passion united me and my new friend: an insatiable thirst for knowledge and a passion for ancient Armenian literature. Sarkis looked for old books wherever he could - in the library of the seminary, from his teachers, from sellers in bazaars. We read voraciously, and, analyzing what we read, both came to the conclusion:there is in these folios, which store centuries-old wisdom, some secret knowledge about the universe and the purpose of mankind, which are completely forgotten, lost.
Once in a book, the first pages of which were missing, we came across the word "Shambhala". And then in the ancient Armenian language - we understood it with great difficulty, deciphering literally every word - there followed a description of this underground country inaccessible to mere mortals, it was said about seven towers on earth that lead to it. The text was long, and we decided to retire - Sarkis had three free months before the ordination - so that we could read this book without haste and prying eyes.
At first we chose Alexandropol, but the town seemed to us too crowded and noisy. Finally, what we were looking for was found. The ruins of the ancient Armenian capital Ani were located thirty versts from Alexandropol. We ended up there in the evening; it was a dry, sultry August, the sun was setting behind the scorched mountains. Among the ancient ruins, we built a hut, which was very much like a hermit's dwelling: it was deserted all around, silence, only the crackling of grasshoppers from all sides, at night the scream of invisible birds, shrill and frightening. It was about seven miles to the nearest village, in a day or two we went there for water and provisions.
We enjoyed our solitude and read an unnamed ancient book, or rather, we analyzed every phrase, every word, translating the hard-read into modern Armenian. Gradually, one of the variations of the narratives about Shambhala and its inhabitants arose. In the future, I met similar stories in ancient books written in many oriental languages. But then it was our first comprehension of Shambhala, and it was stunning …
We rested in a peculiar way. Wandering around the ruins of Ani, we often came across blocked passages, which, in our opinion, led to the underground premises of the ancient city, turned into stone dust by time and people. Having found such a supposed entrance, we undertook excavations. All of them did not give any results - we were amateur archaeologists. The passages found either ended in dead ends, or there was no end to the blockage, and we abandoned the work we had begun.
But one day … I remember that a strong fresh wind blew on that August morning, the sky was clouded over, the heat subsided. I cooked a simple breakfast on the fire, and Sarkis went in search of another underground passage.
- Goga! - Poghosyan's voice brought me out of my reverie. - Hurry here! I found…
In a few moments I was already at the ruins. The most surprising thing was that Sarkis's find was very close to our hut, about thirty meters away.
- Look!..- whispered Sarkis.
He stood in front of the blockage, which consisted of large blocks of dense shell rock, and behind these stones one could feel emptiness: she looked at us with black stripes of cracks in the wall, and a barely perceptible otherworldly chill blew from them. With difficulty we pushed aside several stones, and a narrow corridor opened up in front of us. We slipped in there. Soon the corridor led us to the steps descending into the unknown, and a stone staircase rested against a new blockage. Daylight barely penetrated here.
“We need candles,” I said.
Sarkis rushed to the exit and a few minutes later returned with two tallow candles and matches. We fixed the candles to the floor, and the hard work began: the boulders that blocked the doorway were incredibly heavy, and we had to carry them for several hours, using several thicker sticks as levers - for this we had to dismantle our hut. Finally the passage was opened. We took candles and, experiencing an involuntary thrill - but not fear! - barely squeezed into a small room with vaulted ceilings - in cracks, with barely noticeable remnants of painting. Shards of clay pots, fragments of rotten wood …
- It looks like a monastic cell, - whispered Sarkis.
And then I noticed a niche in the wall. It contained a pile of parchments. The upper leaves turned to dust, but beneath them were guessed the survivors. We began to very carefully remove our precious find from under the ancient ashes. Beneath the surviving sheets was a thickly bound book with frayed edges. We hastily erected our hut again, because, judging by the frowning sky, the long-awaited rain was going, and we carried our find there.
And indeed, a monotonous rain soon began, under the rustle of which, hiding in a hut, we began to examine the surviving parchment sheets. We delved deeper into their study, and it soon became clear to us that we were holding letters from one monk to another, to some father Arem. The translation from ancient Armenian into modern Armenian, which we did with Sarkis Poghosyan, I have preserved. Here is an excerpt from one letter that amazed us then:
“I am telling you, Father Arem, the most important news. Our venerable Father Telwant has finally begun to study the truth about the Brotherhood of Sermung. Their ernos currently exists near the city of Siranush. Fifty years later, shortly after the migration of peoples, they also ended up in the Izrumin Valley, three days' journey from Nyess …"
Sermung! Ten days ago, Sarkis and I came across this word in an ancient treatise called "Merkhavat": it is rather vague, allegorically said that sermung is the name of an esoteric sect, which, according to legend, was founded in Babylon in 2500 BC and was located somewhere in Mesopotamia before the 6th or 7th century AD. This sect possessed secret knowledge containing the key to magical mysteries that opened the doors to the other world. There was no information about the further fate of the Sermung sect … The letter to Father Arem could have been written in the late 18th or early 19th centuries. And if the Sermung sect existed at the time when the text was written on this parchment, it means that it is quite possible that now it exists somewhere.
- We have to find Sermung! - whispered Sarkis.
But then the next incredible discovery happened. I automatically opened the book I found under the parchment. It was called in an approximate translation from the ancient Armenian as follows: "Purpose". The author's name was missing on the title page. I carefully turned over several shabby pages and was dumbfounded. In my hands was the same book, for the study of which we retired among the ruins of Ani. The same story about Shambhala, only with the first seven pages that were missing in the copy that Poghosyan acquired at the bazaar in Kars. And with the title page "Destiny" … But the incredible discoveries did not end there: between the twelfth and thirteenth pages we found a map drawn on a sheet of parchment, or rather, a fragment of a map with uneven edges.
Without breathing - it seemed that from the lightest touch the precious find would crumble to dust - we bent over it …
The dotted line, faded with time, clearly marked the route and ended in the upper right corner, resting on a cruciform sign, next to which stood the Roman numeral V. If you determine the cardinal points, the dotted line went from southwest to northeast. And only one word was read at the top: "Tibet".
- This dotted line, - suggested Sarkis, - leads to Shambhala.
- No, - I objected. - Do you see the cross and the Roman numeral "five"? Yes, most likely this is the road to Shambhala, but not a straight one. The dotted line leads to one of the towers, in which the descent to Shambhala begins. Maybe her number is number five?
- I have more than two months … - Sarkis Poghosyan said quietly. - We can make it.
“But besides the fact that the dotted line passes through Tibet,” I doubted, “there are no more markings on this piece of the map.
“Someone or something will help us on the way or on the spot,” said my friend.
I agreed with him, I was already seized with a fever of impatience: “Forward! On the road! " The Sermung Brotherhood was forgotten. "For a while! "- we reassured ourselves.
A week later, having made all the necessary preparations and with the blessing of our parents, we hit the road. My first long journey. A naive, still youthful dream of finding a way to Shambhala …
At that time I did not suspect that for every person who made THIS decision, the road to Shambhala passes not only through the earthly firmament, but also through his own soul and heart.
Looking ahead, I must say the following. We made this long, dangerous, in many ways exhausting journey, we reached Tibet. And this was my only journey with Sarkis Poghosyan - our life paths diverged at the end of the expedition. The parting took place in India, in Bombay - we returned home by different routes. However, to say "home" is to sin against the truth. I returned home. And Sarkis from Bombay went to England on the ship "St. Augustine", hiring a simple fireman in the crew. He decided not to accept holy orders: “To be a priest,” Poghosyan said at parting, “is not my calling. I was born for the sea. " I did not judge or condemn my friend. I noticed this and understood immediately: he is the son of the sea, ocean, sea element.
We found ourselves in the Bombay port - in front of us in the water area of the bay were ships, loading was going on at the berths; the port was seething with its motley, seemingly chaotic life … I looked at my friend - his eyes glowed, he leaned forward all over, breathing quickened. He, like me, for the first time in his life saw the ocean and ships on it.
- Sorry, Goga, - whispered Sarkis. - But I will not leave here. I'll stay.
Now, as I write these lines, my old friend Poghosyan is alive and well. Now he is sometimes called "Mr. X". He is the owner of several ocean steamers. One of them, making flights to his favorite places, between Sudan and the Solomon Islands, Sarkis Poghosyan, aka "Mr. X", is in command himself.
He achieved the goal that he set for himself in Bombay several decades ago …
And now about the main thing. I will not describe in detail our long journey to Tibet. There were enough adventures and dangers and surprises that we could not find an explanation for.
We have already been to Tibet. All our attempts to learn something about Shambhala, about the path to this country ended in failure: they either did not understand us, or pretended not to understand. We walked at random. One day, early in the morning, when the air is clean and not hot by the sun, and the mountains around me seem ghostly blue, I decided to show the guide, a thin, withered old man with a brown face, excised by wrinkles, a piece of a map on parchment. The guide stopped, looked at me intently with deep, motionless eyes and said in Turkic:
- Then go yourself. Turning, he walked slowly away.
And the three of us were left: me, Sarkis and the silent donkey, loaded with our travel belongings and water skins. The only road led to the unknown. We moved along it - we had no other choice. After all, it leads somewhere, this deserted road. By evening we reached a fork, from which three paths began at once. Which one to choose?
- Look! - exclaimed Sarkis.
A cross and a Roman numeral V were clearly visible on the ground. An arrow drawn nearby indicated the most inconspicuous path that turned to the right.
I remember, for the first time in my life, I experienced two feelings at once, seemingly incompatible - a mystical fear and an incomprehensible delight that completely captured me. I saw: Poghosyan was experiencing the same thing as me. We didn't talk about anything. With bustling haste we set off along the path to which the arrow pointed. We walked along this path, which eventually turned into a road packed with many carts, for two days. Strange … During all this time we have not met anyone. On the third day, the road led us to a large village, which suddenly opened behind a covered bend. This village - it was called Talim - lay at the foot of a low mountain, and behind it, they told us at the inn where we were staying, the way to Tibet opens.
THIS happened to me the very first night. If all that happened to be presented as a drama, then she had two actions.
First action. In the middle of the night I jumped out of bed as if from a jolt. In those years, I had a deep, deep sleep, I did not wake up until the morning. And I did not dream. They began to visit me after thirty years, turning into a special world that belonged only to me, in which I lived a second, surreal life.
Sarkis and I occupied a tiny room. The lodging house was a long one-story building made of large stones, and here it was cool even in the blazing heat. The corridor was lit with dim lights. So I woke up like a jolt. There was a full bright moon in the window, and it seemed to be glued to the slate-black sky.
"Go!" - the order sounded in my mind.
I quickly - now I understand that I was acting like a sleepwalker - got dressed, felt a precious piece of a map, neatly wrapped in thick paper (I kept it under the padding of a light travel jacket), and wanted to wake Sarkis.
"Go alone!" - sounded in me. I found myself in the hallway. The wicks in the bowls crackled softly; vague lazy shadows waved along the walls. Doors, doors, doors. I headed for the exit.
And then one of the doors opened. In her dimly lit doorway, I saw a female silhouette: a transparent light veil was draped over her naked body. I clearly saw strong wide hips, a thin waist; dark hair fell over his rounded shoulders. The features of the face are indistinguishable, only the flickering of the eyes … And I, I really don't know how, understood that in front of me was a very young, even a young woman, perhaps my age. Hands flew out from under the coverlet and reached out to me.
And then … No, first I must once again say something about my father, who, I repeat, was my first Teacher in this life, I adored him and loved him with all my heart. He had a very simple, clear and very definite view of the purpose of human life. On the threshold of early youth, when I already began to think about my purpose, my father told me:
- Remember, the main desire of every person should be the awareness of their inner freedom. This is the first thing. And secondly, you need to prepare yourself for a happy old age.
But this goal, said the father, can be achieved if a person from childhood to eighteen years old observes the four commandments. Here they are (if I could instill them in every young man entering an independent life!..):
The first commandment is to love your parents.
The second commandment is to be polite to everyone without distinction - rich, poor, friends and enemies, powerful and slaves, but at the same time remain free internally.
The third commandment is to love work for the sake of work, not for profit.
Finally, the fourth commandment: to remain chaste until the age of eighteen.
In my youth, I sacredly and adamantly followed these four fatherly commandments. A week before Sarkis and I arrived in the village of Talim, I turned eighteen. Now I had the right, I could … No longer need to restrain myself, by an effort of will to extinguish attraction to a woman, to overcome desire.
… Her hands were outstretched to me, and I stepped into this sweet abyss, felt myself in a hot embrace, not feeling any embarrassment because my rebellious flesh was torn to her, into her bosom quivering with passion. We didn't say a single word to each other. She carried me into her room, barely lit by a weak lamp, on a low bed of carpets, skillfully and quickly undressed and threw off the veil herself. Now I understand: she was a very experienced woman, maybe even a professional. And everything she did was oriental sophisticated. In a fiery delirium, I knew, losing my virginity, all the depths of voluptuousness, and after a few days, when I could soberly assess everything, I came, on reflection, to the only true understanding: that highest pleasure that a man and woman experience during the act intended to continue human race,- from God. Only from God.
I foresee objections. Yes, I agree: the fallen angels use this heavenly gift for other purposes. But this is a different topic. I don’t know how long my “fall” lasted. But when I found myself on the street, it was still night, only the moon, which had lost its fieryness, faded, tilted towards the distant horizon, and from behind the mountain at the foot of which the village of Talim lay, a bright lonely star emerged. It was Venus. The cicadas echoed furiously, ecstatically. I was different. I was a man. Powerful strength and thirst for life overwhelmed me. "Go!" - sounded in my inflamed mind. I answered the call.
Second action. I KNEW where I needed to go. Although it would be more accurate to say in a different way: I was BELIED. Left behind the house. Filled with pale moonlight, the road stretched before me, mica stones glittered on it. I was overwhelmed with glee, sweet yearning and anticipation, a presentiment that something fateful was about to happen. That my state was absolutely accurately conveyed by the great Russian poet, probably the Creator's messenger to our beautiful and sorrowful land:
I go out alone on the road.
Through the fog, the siliceous path glistens.
The night is quiet. The desert hears God
And a star with a star says …
Lord! How skillful the devil is! How he knows how to seduce the fragile human soul! Lovely! The beauty … To my right a wide path appeared, it led to a rocky hill - sharp ledges were dimly visible. And I knew that this path was intended for me. I walked forward swiftly, and my steps were light. The trail twisted among the rocky heaps, and, having passed one of them, I noticed the flame of a small fire ahead. The man was squatting in front of him. Coming closer, I saw that he was an old man, and immediately recognized him: it was our guide who refused to go further with us when I showed him a fragment of a map with a cross and a Roman numeral V. Strange, but I was not at all surprised.
- Hello, - I said in Turkic.
The old man raised his head and looked at me with the same look, deep and slow.
“Come on, lad,” he said, getting up.
Without looking back, the old man walked along the path into the depths of the stone chaos. I followed him. We walked for a long time. Ahead, an almost sheer rock was growing and growing, and soon we found ourselves at the entrance to a cave, near which we were met by a man in a long, to the ground, red robe, with a hood on his head that almost covered his face. He had two torches in his hands. One of them burned brightly and silently. Having bowed to us, the man set fire to the torch and handed it to the old man.
“Follow us,” the guide said.
And we ended up in a cave. In the wrong light of the torches, I saw the stone vaults, which either went into the darkness, then moved almost close. Sometimes the squeaky bats would rush past, almost touching my face, and I would quickly jump to the side.
We walked, walked … Suddenly the stone arches and walls disappeared, the darkness around seemed boundless, our steps were carried away by the echo. But then a light arose, it became brighter and brighter - we were approaching a large fire, around which sat several elders, all in white clothes. One of them, the oldest, with thick and completely gray hair, sat in an inlaid ebony chair. The rest - there were five or six of them - were located right on the ground, legs crossed in Turkish style. For all the time that this lasted, they did not utter a single word, did not move and seemed to be statues. My guides extinguished the torches, retreated into pitch darkness, disappeared into it. Now I think we were in a huge cave. The old man, who was sitting in an armchair, spoke to me:
“We are waiting for you.” His voice was calm, unhurried and full of strength. “You are George Gurdjieff, aren't you?
- Yes it's me.
“Here is your horoscope.” On a thick rug in front of the old man lay a large sheet of paper, dotted with lines, circles and triangles, Kabbalistic signs, illegible in the wrong light of the fire, writing. “You came exactly on the prescribed night. Listen to me carefully. First, I will tell you about an old event. There, on your land, it is called a myth. Or a legend.
The elder pondered, gazing intently at the flame of the fire. The thick dry trunks of the trees burned completely silently. I was so absorbed in waiting for the story that I did not attach any importance then to one amazing circumstance: the fire fluttering over the trunks did not give any heat, there was no coals in the fire.
The silence dragged on, and I decided to ask:
- And you?.. Who are you? - My heart was beating rapidly. - Are you from Shambhala?
The elder raised his head and looked at me. The look was dark, deep. A semblance of a smile slid across the elder's face.
- Yes, I am from there, - came the answer at last. - I am one of the Great Initiates. So … In 1162 according to your Christian chronology … After all, your God, George Gurdjieff, is Jesus Christ?
“Yes,” I whispered.
- So, in the middle of the twelfth century from the birth of Christ, a boy was born into the family of a Mongol warrior named Yesugei. They called him Temuchin. None of the tribesmen attached any importance to some of the features of this child: he could, by raising his hand, stop the wind. Or a herd of horses, which, frightened, rushes at a furious gallop. He understood the language of birds and wild animals. Once - by that time Temuchin was fourteen years old - he was sent by his parents to the mountains to look for the sheep that had strayed from the flock. Already returning home with them, among the stones, he found a huge creature, bleeding. It was a man and a monkey at the same time. Two arrows stuck in his body - one under his right shoulder blade, the other in his left shoulder. In those parts of these mountain inhabitants, which people very rarely manage to see, they are called Yeti …
- Snowman? - burst out from me.
- Yes, in Europe you call them that. The Yeti was approaching the threshold of death. Wounded by the hunters, he lost a lot of blood. Temuchin had one more quality: his hands were able to heal - from his one touch, the wounds healed. He carefully removed the arrows from the Yeti's body and began to drive over the wounds of the dying Yeti with his palms. This went on for several hours. Gradually, the wounds healed. Temuchin drove the sheep home and, without saying anything to anyone, returned to the Yeti with water and food. This went on for several days. He came out "Bigfoot", as you call him: the hour has come, and the Yeti rose from the ground; he was perfectly healthy. Now answer me, George, do you know who the yeti are? What is their purpose in our mountains?
“No, I don’t know,” I whispered.
- Yeti guard the towers through which you can get to Shambhala.
- Seven towers? - I asked. - Seven towers, which are the gates to Shambhala?
- Yes. But there are other ways that you can get to us. Yeti guards them too. So, that rescued "Bigfoot" in gratitude brought the boy to his masters.
- To Shambhala? - burst out from me. - To the Great Initiates?
- Yes. - The face of the elder tensed. - To us … To the Great Initiates. The Yeti guessed in the boy who we needed. Later he became a brave warrior and received a new name - Chingis.
The elder fell silent, motionless, staring intently at my horoscope, which lay at his feet. The silent cold flame above the logs in the fire illuminated the faces of the elders who were sitting around him; they were still motionless, frozen, and to me they no longer seemed like living people. One of them was sitting next to me, and I involuntarily looked into his face, it struck with unnaturalness: not a face - a mask on which expressive wrinkles were skillfully molded, a high forehead, deep eye sockets in which the eyes were not visible …
- Who was needed? - I broke the silence with my question.
“A savior of the world was needed,” the elder immediately responded and, looking directly at me, asked: “Tell me … Traveling with your friend, looking for that place in Tibet, which is indicated on your map, what did you see on the way?
- We saw a lot of things, Teacher. - I did not quite understand his question. - Different countries, cities, temples where people pray to their gods. We saw…
- Wait! - the elder interrupted me. - How do people live in those places through which you have passed?
“They live differently,” I replied, not understanding what answer was expected of me.
- Yes! Differently. Some live poorly, others are rich, some bathe in luxury, others do not have a piece of bread to feed hungry children. So?
“So,” I agreed bitterly.
- And between people there is discord, enmity, hatred, they kill each other, they are mired in sins … Do you agree with me, George?
- Yes, I agree with you, Master.
- Then it was the same! - exclaimed the old man. And he repeated, already in a whisper: - Then, in the twelfth century, there was also … The rulers of Shambhala were looking for a person endowed with a mighty occult power, who could be entrusted with saving the world from enmity, strife, hatred and vices. Such a person was brought to us by the rescued yeti. It was Genghis, the son of a warrior. He turned out to be a powerful medium. The throne was kept in the fifth tower of our state …
I could not resist the exclamation and interrupted the elder:
- At tower number five?
“That's right, my young friend. In the throne that Genghis received from the Great Initiates, an unprecedented power, cosmic, was concentrated. The holder of the throne could save humanity, lead it to the path of prosperity, universal equality, to the path of creating a society where only the law reigns, before which everyone is equal. And in this society a harmonious human personality develops. Having become the owner of the throne, Chinggis received instructions from the rulers of Shambhala: the strength and authority given to him to save the human race. The elder again plunged into silence and thought.
- And what about Chinggis? - I could not stand it.
- Genghis? - The narrator's face became mournful. - For more than twenty years he did what was prescribed for him. But … Probably, something happened that should have happened. Genghis tasted the beauty of the first victories, the smell of the blood of defeated enemies touched his nostrils. He gained secular power, becoming a khan … He turned into Genghis Khan and conceived his campaigns of conquest. Everything further is generally known. 1211: Conquest of North China - it lasted until 1216. Further, Genghis Khan in merciless battles subjugates the peoples who then inhabited the Aral Sea basin. Genghis Khan's son Tulei triumphantly passes through the states of the Caucasus, taxing them with tribute, finds himself in the Scythian steppe and on the Kalka River inflicts a heavy defeat on the Russian princes. Begins what in Russia, a citizen of which you, George, are now, will be called an almost three-century Mongol-Tatar yoke. Genghis Khan conquers Afghanistan, Khorezm - and this is already 1224. Intoxicated by his successes, the protege of Shambhala begins to prepare a campaign to India. "The Elder sighed heavily." The patience of the Great Initiates ran out: Genghis Khan did not justify their hopes. The mighty throne was taken from him, and soon the great commander died, although his heirs, alas, continued his occupation. Do you know the name of Khan Batu?
“Yes, you know,” I said. And impatiently asked: - And the throne? What happened to the throne?
- Now it is called the throne of Genghis Khan. And it is kept in the same place: in the fifth tower of Shambhala.
I was silent. I was speechless! The narrator looked at me without blinking. His eyes were solid black spots in which a deep, even fire flickered. I saw: all the elders sitting around the fire, also turning their heads, looked at me attentively, and their eyes were black.
“ Get it, George, a piece of the map that is hidden in your clothes. ” The order sounded in the elder's voice.
I obeyed: I took out a precious map from my jacket and handed it to Teacher. (Throughout my being, it sounded, repeatedly repeated, also like an order: “This is your Teacher.”) And he already had a large card in his hands with the upper right corner torn off. Having received my piece of the map, the elder put it in place of the torn piece, the edges coincided, merged, and before my eyes the gap healed …
- Here, - the elder said calmly and solemnly, handing me a whole and unharmed card. - Now it is yours. It is prescribed from Above: a second time to try to save humanity and guide it on the path of truth and goodness. We, given to us by the power, have no right to directly interfere in the fate of the people who inhabit the Earth. Sometimes we can only instruct and show the way. It is the people themselves who must overcome the obstacles. So, my friend! The lot fell on you. You have to travel a long and arduous journey to the fifth tower and receive the throne of Genghis Khan. And know: it will take many years just to prepare for this path.
I was silent. I was shocked.
- Remember, George: to find the throne of Genghis Khan is your highest mission, your destiny in this earthly incarnation. But it will be owned by another …
- Another? I exclaimed in confusion, and my heart sank.
- Yes, different. Perhaps one of the most powerful magical mediums that this sinful planet has ever known was born on Earth. He is your age, and your paths will cross. For him, and only for him, you are called by the Higher Forces to find the throne of Genghis Khan. But on a long journey you will go after him alone. Of course, you must have companions, assistants. But he will not be among them. He was ordered to go there.
- Why? - A puzzled question escaped me.
- This is not given to you to know! - The elder paused, intently, without blinking, looking into the flames of the fire. - This claimant to save humanity with the help of the throne will build a new, just world with equal opportunities for all inhabitants of the Earth. And in it, in the throes of the born new world, only harmonious people will live. And now you will see this person. You should get to know him when you meet. True, you will see the future ruler of the new humanity at the moment of his possible triumph. After all, we know not only the Earth's past and its present day, but also what lies ahead.
Suddenly everything changed. In a second - or a fraction of a second - the fire went out, and for some reason, pitch black, it seemed to me that velvet darkness swallowed everyone - me, the Teacher, and the elders by the fire that went out in an instant. But I didn’t have time to be frightened - probably only a few seconds passed, and then a huge white square appeared in the depths of the black space. It gradually filled with a bluish light. (Now, as I write these lines, they would say: a giant movie screen.) And in this square I saw something that made me shudder: iron monsters with long trunks were moving soundlessly at me, cogwheels that obviously replaced wheels were spinning, I could not clearly see kabbalistic five-pointed stars. The monsters were approaching me and disappearing into the darkness. Then I knew nothing about cinematography, about moving pictures, a new amazing spectacle,which was later invented by the French, the Lumiere brothers.
I was shocked, stunned, depressed. But one thing I felt, realized: these iron monsters - military power, something the same as the cavalry of Genghis Khan, only for another, not yet come time. The image on the white square has changed: pictures flashed with reduced iron monsters, which moved in two columns, seemingly over a square enclosed by bizarre stone structures. And suddenly a strange structure arose, remotely resembling a stepped pyramid, on it there was something like a balcony or an open theater box, and people were standing there.
Suddenly they approached, but I did not have time to make out their faces: the whole white square - dashed black lines ran obliquely and at random - was occupied by one of these people: an oblong face, it seems, mountain ash on the cheeks, keen, hypnotizing eyes under thick black eyebrows; a straight, pointed nose hanging over the mustache, also thick. The man was wearing a strange frock coat, apparently without a collar, buttoned up with all the buttons. Such clothes are worn by wealthy Indian merchants during the winter rainy season.
“Remember him,” the elder's voice sounded imperiously behind me.
- Yes teacher! - I responded.
The square began to fade slowly, more and more intersecting lines flashed across it in different directions, behind the grid they disappeared, a vivid picture of the future was lost. And finally, the square disappeared completely, disappearing into darkness.
Immediately, as from the touch of a match to the firewood doused with kerosene, a fire broke out. And I saw the Great Initiate in his black chair, and around the fire, which burned silently and coldly, the elders in white clothes were sitting, frozen in their former positions.
- Now go! - the voice of the Teacher sounded. - You know what you need to do.
-Yes teacher! - In my hand was a rolled-up map. - I'm coming!
Out of the darkness appeared my guide, now, like my other guide, in a red robe and with a brightly burning torch.
- I'm going … - I whispered.
After Sarkis Poghosyan and I parted in Bombay, my path to home was long, difficult, but full of impressions, meetings, new knowledge. It was on that first long journey of mine that I met the Teacher of Faith, which later, reworked by my own worldview, became the basis, the foundation of my teaching about a harmonious man. From India to the Caucasus, I returned through Pakistan, the Afghan parched deserts and treeless mountains, and there, in Afghanistan, in a mountain village near Kandahar, I met with Sheikh Ul Mohammed Daul. On a deserted road leading to this village, I met a barefoot boy sitting on a dusty roadside. Having bowed as befits a Muslim, he said in Arabic:
- Let's go! The teacher is waiting for you.
I accepted this invitation without any surprise. I seemed to be waiting for him …
The village had about two dozen squalid houses with flat roofs, built of large stones. Houses were pressed against the foot of a low mountain. No vegetation, bare. Donkeys with sad eyes are standing in the shade of adobe fences, gray-bearded old men are sitting under the walls of houses, talking quietly about something. Two women in long black veils passed by. Alien, incomprehensible, mysterious life.
Only one huge tree grew in this village - not a tree, but a whole green world with a mighty dumpy trunk, with a dense spreading crown (I don't know what it is called). It grew in the courtyard of Sheikh Ul Mohammed Daul; and not far from the tree, falling into the shade of its foliage, in a small marble pool, a stream of a fountain beat upward, filling the hot air with coolness and a quiet ringing. To this fountain came the sheikh, a tall old man with an ascetic stern face, in white clothes.
I bowed. Ul Mohammed Daul answered me with a barely perceptible nod and said:
“You, stranger, were seen in Kandahar three days ago. After all, you are on your way to Russia?
- Yes, it is, - I answered. - My homeland is Armenia.
- So you could not pass my house. Be a guest, stranger. May the warmth of my hearth warm you.
I lived in the house of Sheikh Daul for three days, we had long conversations. Rather, the sheikh spoke more, I listened. Sometimes, after interrupting his sermon, he asked questions. I was shocked by what I heard - now admiration seized me, then I was indignant, insulted, mentally protested, not daring, however, to object out loud, and again admired … unexpected, which the Europeans call Sufism, fell upon me with its crushing, fiery dogmas. And most importantly, the sheikh inspired me (he spoke calmly, calmly, but it seemed, deliberately hurting my pride), this is what: I, as a person capable of comprehending the highest meaning of being, do not yet exist, I need to rip off several shells from myself, the essence of which is - traditions and conventions of the society in which I was born and raised,and only then (“Maybe,” the Teacher repeated several times) I will go out on the road to Truth.
I protested, did not agree, in my heart I considered myself an already established person, and, although I was silent, I saw a grin in the eyes of the owner of a huge magic tree that grew among the mountains and desert that were incinerated by the sun: he knew my thoughts.
Seeing me off, Sheikh Mohammed Daul said: - You will calm down. Now your alarmed soul and rebellious mind will eventually come into equilibrium, and you will mentally return to our conversations more than once. I see it. And the hour will come, you will return to me. This means our beliefs. A path of a thousand steps leads to them. These days you took your first inept step. I'm not saying goodbye to you, stranger.
October 12, 1949.
I finish this diary entry in my study at the Palais Prieure, which is located in the Paris suburb of Fontainebleau. I bought the palace twenty-six years ago, in 1922. However, the disciples call this monastery the palace. In fact, this is a 14th century castle. And I bought all the land near the castle too - more than a hundred hectares of parks, ponds, pastures and fields and a large area of forest where hunting is great.
… Yes! It is necessary to clarify: now the Prieure Palace does not belong to me. Back in 1934, I sold it and moved to Paris, buying a large, ridiculous layout (this is what attracted me) apartment on the Rue Colonel-Renard near the Place de l'Esta. In the contract for the sale, I made one point: this my office and the bedroom located next to me are assigned to me until my death, I can appear here whenever I want and live as long as I want. And I decided long ago that I would come to Fontainebleau to die.
And at that distant time, as soon as I settled here … It's funny … Then among the French elite - yes and not only the French - I immediately became a famous: "This sorcerer Gurdjieff is an alchemist, he found a recipe for making gold from tin and saltpeter." Fools! None of them learned to really work using the opportunities that the Creator gave to everyone. Even those who were my students at the Institute for Harmonious Human Development. Okay! Why reopen wounds?.. I say to myself without cunning: “Maestro! You have lived a decent life on earth. " And mistakes … Who is insured against them? Only one mistake, fatal both for me and for all mankind, I cannot forgive myself. I know: you will have to answer for it - it is inevitable. And at the High Court I am ready to answer. I have something to say THERE, I hurry this moment and feel: soon. I have very little earthly life left - a year,maybe less.
What a wind has risen in the dark autumn park outside the window! Dry, broken branches knocking on the glass. The fireplace is hot in my lonely office. A sip of good old wine. So … Still, human life is a mirage, a dream, a fantasy.
What? Are you asking if I am afraid of death if I foresee it? Enough, gentlemen! After all, I am immortal …"
Part two: Gurdjieff and Stalin
Part Three: Gurdjieff and Badmaev
Member of the Russian Geographical Society (RGO) of the city of Armavir, Sergey Frolov