Part One: In Search of Ancient Knowledge. Gurdjieff's diary
Part two: Gurdjieff and Stalin
Part Three: Gurdjieff and Badmaev
Part Four: Gurdjieff's Intimate Secrets
Part Five: Gurdjieff and the Imperial Geographical Society
Part Six: Aleister Crowley and Gurdjieff
September 22, 1901
Promotional video:
“The morning was warm, almost summer, the sun was beating in direct rays through the windows of Pyotr Alexandrovich’s office. It was seven o'clock. We stood at the map on the wall, checking the route for the umpteenth time, and Badmaev told me:
- So, Arseny Nikolaevich, you will deliver my messages to these monasteries. They are all on your way. ("In Mongolia and China - yes, - I managed to think. - But in Tibet …") The exception is three of them, you know.
- Yes, Pyotr Alexandrovich, I know.
- You will go there with letters together with my people who will join you in Mongolia.
- Of course, Pyotr Alexandrovich. Everything will be done as we agreed with you.
- Well, - the owner of the office opened a drawer of his writing desk, - here are the letters for you. “A thick bundle of envelopes (each with an address written on it) was tied crosswise with a thin, flexible strap. - And two checks: for seventy-five thousand and fifty thousand. You must receive the second amount on your way back. - Pyotr Alexandrovich smiled. “In addition to travel and other expenses, fifty thousand includes your fee.
- Thank you, Pyotr Alexandrovich. I hid both checks in my wallet and allowed myself a smile too. - I understand this: we are returning with the throne of Genghis Khan. But what if the expedition ends in failure? Will my fee be denied?
“You deserve it for one daring. After all, you intend to make a legend, a myth a reality. In a word, in any case, the fee, that is, the remainder of the final amount, if any, is yours. And let's leave this topic. The main thing is to return with your comrades safe and sound. Let's sit down on the far path according to Russian custom. - We sat down in armchairs. On the table in front of us was a tray made of old copper, on it was a dark bottle without a label and two glasses. Doctor Badmaev filled them in. - Tincture of their herbs collected in our Aginskaya steppe. She is twenty years old. Well, Arseny Nikolaevich, also according to the Russian custom: on the road! Do you know what is the meaning of this toast?
- No, Pyotr Alexandrovich. I … How to say? Not quite Russian …
The owner of the office winced.
- In that case, I, too, not quite … But, my dear! We are both Russians. We are honored to be born in a great and wonderful country! And he stopped himself: - Okay! I can talk endlessly on this topic. At some other time. So, - he raised his glass, - on the staff - this is the third glass of wine before the long journey, goodbye: the first - on the right leg, the second on the left, the third glass - on the staff, on which the traveler will lean on his way. But you and I have only one glass, and therefore - for the road! This is a healthy glass on the way - the road. Good luck!
We clinked glasses and drank - the dark-brown tincture was thick, tart, the pleasant taste of steppe herbs, unknown to me, remained in my mouth.
Our expedition departed from Chita on September 22, 1901. Seven people on short and strong Mongolian horses: I, responsible for everything (“commander” - they called me in the detachment), five of my faithful friends from Alexandropol and Kars, Arthur Kralain; we were accompanied by three camels, loaded with all sorts of belongings, they were led by two Buryats-epaulettes, we had an agreement with them: we cross the border of Mongolia, and they receive the final payment, and we hire local guides for further travel.
I had the necessary documents with me, thirty thousand golden Russian rubles, two maps: one laid out the route along which we were to follow to the final destination, lost in the mountains of Tibet - this is a map for Dr. Badmaev, and my cherished map, which indicated the true route to tower number five, leading to the underground catacombs of Shambhala; on Badmaev's map, our path through the territory of Tibet ran parallel to the true route. And this presented a difficult dilemma. I didn’t know how to solve it yet and said to myself: “I’ll think of something on the spot”.
The morning sun blinded my eyes. Leaving the camp of Dr. Badmaev (as soon as we were outside the gate), I saw that in the whitish sky, unattainably high above us, an eagle was circling, spreading wide powerful wings. And he, smoothly describing his airy figures, now moving away to the sides, now hovering at the very zenith above our heads, accompanied the caravan for several hours. Sign? For better or for better?.. The eagle eventually disappeared when a wavy ridge of low hills arose in front of him: a lonely air wanderer, turned back to his native steppes, soon turned into a black dot and disappeared into a pale blue immensity. What next?..
No, I will not describe in detail our trip to Tibet. I will say one thing: from the very beginning we were lucky, we moved quite quickly, heading south-west, and autumn followed us on the heels with the first frosts, with cold starry nights and with the northern wind rising in the morning. At times it seemed that somewhere very close to winter and just about it will overtake us. And yet, we moved faster than the Buryat winter with little snow. We walked south, and the way to the Chinese city of Keten, on the border with Tibet, I hoped to cover in twenty - twenty-five days in the conditions of a warm, even fertile autumn characteristic of these places.
We crossed the Mongolian border in the Kyakhta region, said goodbye to the Buryat guides, crossed the stormy and transparent Selenga and along the right bank of the river moved inland, hiring two Mongols to take care of the camels and horses - until, I decided, while in the detachment Badmaev's people will not show up. They appeared in our tent, which Arthur Kraline and I occupied, late in the evening, emerging from the steppe haze filled with indistinct rustles - either the wind, or disembodied spirits - the cries of birds of prey and the indistinct voice of a nearby river on rocky rifts. The warriors were silent, in the light of a road kerosene lamp their faces seemed tired, gloomy and the same to some kind of mystical improbability.
After they had been fed and given tea with milk and salt (the meal was held in complete silence), one of them, apparently the senior in rank, said:
- It is twelve miles from here to the Balgan-Uld monastery.
This was the first Buddhist monastery on our way, the abbot of which was to present a letter from Badmaev.
“Yes,” I said, “tomorrow. Will any of you go with me?
There was no answer: the warriors, all three, were sleeping sitting up - they were extremely tired …
I handed the letter to the abbot of the Balgan-Uld monastery. My guide was a local shepherd who was led by one of the soldiers. Without a guide, I would never have got to the monastery: it was located in some amazing way - it appeared immediately, it seemed, out of the ground, in the valley between the hills and, when we were already very close, disappeared from sight, it was only necessary to deviate from barely perceptible path along which our horses made their way.
I was surprised by the fact that the abbot met me at the gate, there was no invitation to enter the fence, we only exchanged silent bows, and I realized that the meeting was over. Looking ahead, I want to say that this happened in all monasteries in Mongolia and China, and gradually I realized that the reason was not the lack of eastern hospitality, but the preliminary meetings of our warriors with the supreme hierarchs of each monastery: Badmaev's people always ended up there earlier than I did, conducted some negotiations and disappeared. Badmaev didn't want my closer contacts with the abbots of the monasteries? I do not know. In any case, one can assume that what Pyotr Alexandrovich and those people in the Russian government who shared his plans were up to in Mongolia and China was a dangerous state secret, and I was not given the opportunity to penetrate it. Only one thing was clear to me: it was important for the abbots of the monasteries that the letters be handed over to them by a Russian, to whom, obviously, the soldiers introduced me to the monks.
However, all these subtleties cared little to me. I was absorbed in purpose, which led me through the expanses of Mongolia and China, through the sands of the Gobi Desert. And, again, luck accompanied us. Now I try to understand myself then. A surge of powerful forces (now I will add: painted in dark tones), rage, impatience: to achieve the set goal as soon as possible. And I will achieve everything, no matter what!
The world through which our path ran seemed huge, festive, attractive. I was struck by the desert, which I got into for the first time. No, not dead dull sands or sandy whirlwinds bringing destruction and death. The desert was full of life: thickets of saxaul, traces of unknown animals and birds, snake paths, at night - the cries of jackals, buzzing beetles, and maybe night dragonflies - they thumped dully against the tarpaulin of the tent, and for a short time the buzzing was cut off; or suddenly, early in the morning, you leave the tent into a piercing dry freshness - everything is pink, vague, in the east, on the horizon with a huge orange ball the sun hangs, and a camel stands next to the tent and looks at you with lazy curiosity; no, these are not our camels - ours in the paddock. It turns out that camels wander in the desert, released by their owners to "graze", as the locals explained to us,that is, to work up strength. They leave the house for hundreds of miles, they can run wild, but sooner or later, if death does not overtake them in the desert, they return to their master. A sharp movement of the hand - and the camel, shuddering with its entire body, silently disappears, dissolves into the pinkness of the vast sandy desert.
But - rather, rather! Climb! Quick breakfast, we're loading. Sleepy camel drivers grumble. And - forward!
Most of all I was angered and annoyed by the fact that we spent a lot of time delivering letters to monasteries. And I was ready to miss at least some of them, but the guardianship of Badmaev's people was vigilant. Yes, we were in a hurry. The Gobi Desert is already behind. Having sold the camels, we loaded the load onto five local horses - strong, short-legged, with wide croup; we moved through the salt marshes of Qinghai province, hurrying the guides hired in the town of Yumen - silent, lean Chinese, also like two drops of water similar to each other. On the distant horizon, to which we were striving - and he kept moving away, slipping away - one day in the middle of the day loomed a ridge of mountains that seemed smoky blue. A warm south wind blew in our faces, carrying the tart unfamiliar smells of local grasses, flowers, bushes that grew in shallow rocky ravines.
October 16, 1901
The caravan finally reached the city of Keten. We were there in the evening - tired, exhausted by the long last march, dusty, stinking of horse sweat; our faces were sunburned, our lips were chapped, our eyes were watering. A short rest - and more! We are already close to Tibet … Hurry, Hurry! The goal is close …
Our many-day journey to the border with Tibet passed through almost complete desertion: desert, salt marshes, mountains, rare squalid villages, even rarer encounters with shepherds who drove flocks of sheep or herds of bulls - they always appeared suddenly, enveloped in clouds of flying dust, like visions, mirages, and just as suddenly disappeared.
And the more striking was the evening Keten. Like all Chinese cities, it was densely populated, and in the deepening twilight we found ourselves in the crowded variegation and bustle of evening trade on narrow streets: in the interweaving of multi-colored lanterns, on open ruins, in cramped shops with open windows and doors, they sold everything and everything - fabrics, jewelry, items made of gold, silver, bronze, fake dragons and snakes of all sizes and the most bizarre colors, clay dishes, wooden carved masks, stuffed animals, beads and necklaces, straw hats … And there was an impression that all the city eats supper right on the streets: braziers everywhere on the sidewalks; we were called, dragged to low tables or mats: “Try it! Cheap! The hubbub, bustle, movement, diversity of faces and clothes … I confess: after the silent landscapes of the sandy desert, monotonous,lulling salt marshes with sparse vegetation, the silence of mountain spaces, through which a caravan moves along a path known only to guides and it seems that there will be no end of the way - you are looking forward with increasing impatience to the crowds, city noise, smiles of people, even if you are completely unfamiliar. And now - finally!
We stayed at the "European" hotel London: the rooms are spacious, clean, with bathrooms heated by gas burners; in the restaurant - English cuisine (in the presence of, of course, a huge number of Chinese dishes).
The next day, at the local branch of the Beijing Credit Bank, without any complications, I received a bearer check signed by Badmayev, an amount equal to seventy-five thousand Russian rubles - part of Chinese yuan, but mainly British pounds sterling: Arthur Kraline and I were convinced that "British interests", judging by financial transactions in trade (and, probably, not only in trade), are felt in China at every step: the pound sterling was everywhere the most popular and profitable currency.
In the evening after dinner in our quite respectable room at the London Hotel, I dedicated Arthur Kraline to my most difficult problem, which now had to be solved immediately: I told him that after crossing the Tibetan border we had a tower leading to the underground world of Shambhala, two ways: true, on my map, and imaginary, for Mr. Badmaev. And it is on this wrong path that Buddhist monasteries are located, where the messages of our patron have to be delivered. Arthur thought about it. I noticed how strangely the expression on his face changed: it tensed, his features lost their attractiveness, something dark and at the same time voluptuous appeared in him. Finally my new friend and first mate on a dangerous journey said:
- There is only one way out of the situation: we must go through Tibet without the people of Mr. Badmaev.
- But how to do that? I exclaimed.
- They must disappear.
- That is … You mean …
- Leave it to me, - Arthur Kralain interrupted calmly and after a long tense silence asked: - For some time we will be able to follow the route agreed with Pyotr Aleksandrovich and, therefore, known to his Buryats?
- Yes, about three hundred miles. Not far from the town of Pading there is a Drung-Gi monastery. And then both roads diverge.
- Three hundred miles! - Arthur Kraline laughed predatory. I'll have time for everything.
- What will you have in time? - A chill slid down my back.
“It's my concern … that they disappear. And that's it. The topic is closed for now.
From Keten, early in the morning on October 20, 1901, we set off and, as our new guides (there were two of them) said, in the middle of the day we crossed the border of the Chinese province of Qinghai and Tibet, that is, a fast mountain river; the horses wade across it on slippery large pebbles, on which the horse's hooves parted."
Let's take a break from the fascinating reading of Mr. Gurdjieff's diary entries and switch to Mr. Badmaev for a short while. This is the story that Igor Aleksandrovich Minutko describes in his book “George Gurdjieff. Russian Lama”after the expedition headed by Gurdjieff set off to Tibet, to the legendary and mysterious Shambhala to the throne of Genghis Khan.
October 23, 1901
“Pyotr Aleksandrovich Badmaev woke up unusually early: outside the windows it was just getting light, the room was filled with smoky twilight. He woke up as if from a jolt, or more precisely, from a light touch. Opening his eyes, Pyotr Aleksandrovich lay motionless on his back for several moments, looked at the ceiling and realized, felt that he was not alone in the room. And the doctor already knew who had visited him: there was a gentle scent of lilacs in the room.
Several years ago, while traveling through the Buddhist monasteries of Mongolia and southern China in search of the handwritten originals of the book "Chzhud-shi", a Tibetan healer ended up in a rocky monastery, hiding in a labyrinth of natural caves in a mountain range near the southern edge of the Great Wall of China. The caretaker of the library of this monastery turned out to be a tall, thin old man, who struck Badmaev with his stateliness, the lightness of his silent gait (it seemed that he barely touches the floor with his feet), the young shine of dark eyes under white eyebrows, although his face was covered with furrows of deep wrinkles. Having greeted the unexpected guest, who was brought to the book depository by a novice boy, the elder asked:
- With what have you come to us, stranger? And can I help you?
Pyotr Alexandrovich outlined the essence of his searches and aspirations. He was listened to attentively, and not once did the library curator interrupt him.
“I understood you, Zhamsaran,” the elder said when Badmaev's confession ended. The healer shuddered when he heard his real, generic name, from which he had already begun to wean. “And I waited: I knew that sooner or later you would come to us. Immediately I have to grieve you: our library does not contain complete genuine copies of the Chzhud-shih. First, I invite you to share a meal with me, and we will talk. And then … - He got up from the mat on which he was sitting. - Come on, Zhamsaran.
They found themselves in a small garden, which was enclosed on all sides by sheer cliffs. The rustle of foliage, the sound of a spring among large stones. And the strong scent of lilac - its thick bushes grew everywhere, some were blooming, on others bunches, white, purple, pink, pale blue, just blossomed. A table was laid under a spreading fig tree, near which one could sit only on mats: tea, unleavened cakes made from barley flour, nuts, dried fruits.
Their unhurried conversation continued for several hours, which passed unnoticed for Badmaev. Saying goodbye, the library caretaker - his name was Ying Jay - said:
- In Mongolia, in the south of the country, closer to our border, in the mountains is the Bayan-Ndang monastery. He has a peculiarity: he is invisible.
- That is, as invisible? - burst out from Badmaev.
- It is located on the slope of a mountain range and is so inseparable from the landscape, so merges with the landscape that you cannot see it even a hundred paces away. The Bayan-Ndanga book depository has what you are looking for. Here is a note for you from me to the superintendent there, he is my old friend, together we learned the Highest Wisdom in Tibet from the Dalai Lama. If you find a monastery, you will have all the lists of Chzhud-shi.
- I will find it! - Badmaev exclaimed passionately. And he added quietly, embarrassed: - I have been looking for too long …
- I know, Zhamsaran, you will find, - said Ying Jay. The elder put his hand on his shoulder. “To promote Tibetan medicine into the life of other nations is a sacred cause, and we,” he emphasized the word “we,” “will help you.
- Teacher, I can't find words for gratitude …
Ying Jay stopped him with a calm but imperious hand gesture:
- Your gratitude, my son, is in one thing - in the cause you are called to serve. And I want to warn you: you are too keen on Russian interests …
“But Russia,” interrupted Dr. Badmaev, “is my homeland. And … and I accepted their faith, I am Orthodox.
- There is no sin in this, - said the caretaker of the library of the cave monastery. - I, Zhamsaran, about something else. When I say Russian interests, I mean material interests: finance, trade. Of course, without this there is no existence of man and state. This is service to the body, but not to the spirit. Do not let this force prevail in yourself, my son, do not obey it completely. And here is a great temptation. Remember: we, - again he emphasized this "we", - are always ready to come to your aid: to support, strengthen, suggest …
- But how? - asked Badmaev.
- When you need our help, advice, you call me. Call with all your heart. And I will respond.
In the end, albeit with great difficulty, he found the way to the Bayan-Ndang Badmaev monastery and returned to Russia with the full original text of the Chzhud-shi methods of Tibetan medicine. An insurmountable difficulty arose during the translation of the third chapter of this fundamental ancient manuscript: Pyotr Alexandrovich realized that the signs that he seemed to interpret correctly were meaningless, there was clearly something encrypted in them, and it was necessary to find a key to decryption, but all efforts were in vain … He has been struggling with the third chapter for several months - and no results. And then one night in his office on the second floor of a house on Poklonnaya Hill, Badmaev, sitting at his writing desk, littered with sheets of the translation of "Chzhud-shi" devoid of meaning, whispered with despair and passionate faith:
- Teacher Ying Jay, help!..
It was winter, it was January; outside the dark window, chained by frost, covered with snow, Petersburg slept in deep sleep. There was complete, deep silence in the house. The light from the desk lamp fell in a bright circle on the sheets of scattered paper. Some barely perceptible movement arose under the ceiling, the lightest breeze rustled there, and suddenly there was a gentle and subtle smell of May lilacs. In the far dark corner of the office, a swirling blue cloud appeared, began to thicken, a human figure appeared in it, and finally, like a butterfly out of a cocoon, the caretaker of the library of the cave monastery Ying Jay emerged from it. Yes, it was him, but only transparent, incorporeal; his figure shone through. The teacher easily, without touching the floor, went to the writing table, at which, close to fainting, was sitting Badmaev.
"Is … is that you?" - Pyotr Alexandrovich whispered, still not believing his eyes.
“Yes, it's me,” said a familiar voice, calm and friendly.
- Are you here?..
- I, Zhamsaran, are here and there.
Ying Jay sank lightly into a chair next to the desk.
- You called me. Do you need my help?
- Yes teacher…
- I am listening to you, Zhamsaran.
The key to deciphering the third chapter of the Chzhud-shi was handed over to Pyotr Alexandrovich after a few minutes of conversation. This night meeting took less than three minutes. When Badmaev, already with the help of the key received, translated the first few vertical lines of the ancient text and their true meaning was revealed to him, he raised his eyes to warmly thank the Teacher - there was no one in the chair, and a bluish cloud was melting in a dark corner, as if drawing in into the wall. And the scent of lilacs slowly disappeared in the office.
And here again this smell. “But I didn't call the Teacher,” thought Pyotr Alexandrovich, still lying on his back, looking at the ceiling; his heart began to beat faster, perspiration covered his face.
- Yes, I am here, Zhamsaran, - Ying Jay's voice sounded.
Badmaev quickly turned to the voice: the Teacher was standing at the window, or rather, his astral transparent body hovered above the floor, because his feet did not touch him; however, the facial features were clear, embossed, and the eyes shone with living fire.
- Don't be surprised, Zhamsaran. Indeed, you did not call me. And you, as you think, do not need my help. Unfortunately…
Pyotr Alexandrovich, throwing on his dressing gown, went to the writing-table and sat down in his chair, experiencing growing anxiety; a small chill began to beat on his body.
“Calm down, calm down, my friend.” The Teacher's voice seemed to fall from the ceiling or emerge from the walls, and Ying Jay's eyes stared at Badmaev, hypnotizing, slowing down the beats of an agitated heart.
- We are forced to interfere in your actions, Zhamsaran, or rather … advise. We cannot do anything without your will and participation. You sent an expedition to the throne of Genghis Khan. As you say, financed it.
- It really is. And what?
“What happened to you was what I warned you about in our first meeting: you… sorry, I have to say it. You are mired in your worldly financial, political and other affairs, in all that you call Russian problems. You move further and further from serving the spirit …
- But what has …
- Wait, don't interrupt, Zhamsaran. Don't get excited. Captivated only by your material and political interests, you could not understand who these people were, who went to Tibet to seek the throne of Genghis Khan. And first of all - who is the head of the expedition - Arseny Nikolaevich Bolotov. You are in a hurry, you are in a hurry, my friend … You have become impatient, Zhamsaran. You consider yourself to be the main thing in everything. And right - also in everything …
- But not with you, Teacher! - Badmaev could not resist.
- So listen … Bolotov's real name is Georgy Gurdjieff …
… Ying Jay spoke for a long time.
After listening to the Teacher, Badmaev exclaimed in dismay:
- What to do?
“We know what to do, but we cannot act on our own. The participation of your will, your desire to stop them is necessary!
- But only so that no one dies!
“Death will not be sent to anyone from us. We have no right to do so. And one more circumstance you need to take into account in the future: in what will happen or can happen, we will be opposed by powerful forces. For this black power, you will also become an enemy. Do you agree to join us in single combat with her?
-Yes!
- But know: we are not always the winners in these battles.
"I am with you, Teacher."
Isn't it a mystical story, my dear reader? Already breathtaking from such a story. But let us return with you again to the diary of Georgy Ivanovich Gurdjieff. It becomes more and more interesting. So, the floor to G. I. Gurdjieff:
“For the events we are going to talk about now, you need some special words, a new language, images, style of presentation. Everything that happened after we crossed the border into Tibet. Because everything that happened is beyond the usual "common sense", logic, reality of everyday life. And I certainly cannot convey what happened to me in those few days, in my mind, in my feelings. How insignificant, sorry for my inept pen!
But I have no other means to tell about THIS … First of all, the time, or, more precisely, our time, has accelerated, in which from the nameless river symbolizing the Sino-Tibetan border, the caravan, led by me, moved to the Drung-Gi monastery: in one and a half days we traveled about three hundred miles and on October 22, 1901, we successfully reached our goal. I, according to the already established rule, gave the abbot of the monastery an envelope with a letter from Badmaev - at the monastery gates; polite silent bows, the whole procedure takes a few minutes, and I, accompanied by two of my friends from Alexandropol, return to our camp; it is broken right on the road in a mountain gorge, near a waterfall with the purest, crystal-clear water. It is about ten miles from the Drung-Gi monastery to him.
It was in the middle of the day. Halfway to the camp, three horsemen appeared behind us, they were our Buryats, Badmaev's people. There was no doubt: they control my every trip with a letter to the abbot of the next monastery on our way. Only one thing has changed - earlier, on the territory of China, it was done secretly, now - openly, and demonstratively openly. We, one might say, returned to the camp together. It was a sultry, windless, cloudy day. The map from the place of our bivouac to the town of Pading was forty miles. And then the roads diverge and …
What is the “and”?.. I had no choice. Nothing had happened yet, but an incomprehensible silent tension was growing in our camp, everyone seemed to be unreasonably nervous, irritable, the Chinese guides refused to dine with us, which was surprising, and made tea for themselves in the distance, behind a stone block that resembled their the contours of a bear climbing on its hind legs.
Arthur Kralain stayed in the tent of the Buryats, and one could hear them talking about something rather lively there, behind a thick tarpaulin. To the tablecloth spread on the fresh grass (probably near the waterfall it was so fresh, emerald all year round, it grew and grew all the time … Lord, what am I writing about? Am I delaying time, perhaps?..), to this damn tablecloth, on where everything was prepared for dinner, they came together: three people from Badmaev and Artur Kralain. The round faces of the Buryats were excited, glistening with pleasure, the usual tension to which I was already accustomed was relieved - it was, as it were, a mask permanently attached to them. They all sat down around the tablecloth and began to eat in silence.
Chewing on a piece of boiled lamb, Arthur Kraline casually said:
“Our friends,” he glanced at the three Buryats, who quickly, in a hurry, with pleasure devoured meat (they never touched bread), “can you imagine? - he was now looking at me, and his gaze was dry, direct, cold-cruel - here, very close, they saw a herd of mountain goats.
“About five versts,” said one of Badmaev’s men, “up the stream.
- We decided to go hunting, - my new German friend has already got up, intending to go to our tent.
- When … - I'm suddenly hoarse. - When are you walking?
- Right now!
All three of our guards (after all, that's what Pyotr Alexandrovich called them) nodded in unison: "Yes, yes, now." And, saddling their horses, they went hunting, taking with them their guns and bandoliers. Already sitting in the saddle, Arthur Kralain, throwing a hunting double-barreled gun over his shoulder, said loudly so that everyone could hear:
- We'll be back for dinner.
They left. For a while, the sound of rustling small stones under the horse's hooves was added to the sound of the waterfall. I went to our tent, lay down on a felt mat, covered myself with a piece of sheepskin that served as a blanket. It was dark, even stuffy, but I was chilling. “What is he up to? - I tried to understand. - How is he going to do all this?.."
Listening to the silence that merged with the roar of the waterfall - and the monotonous roar was also silence - I clearly felt something thickening over our camp - heavy, dark - and crushing, crushing both people and animals. Everyone is waiting for something terrible. The horse whinnied in fright. Startled, I got up and left the tent.
The hobbled horses grazed alongside peacefully, nibbling at the bright juicy grass. The gray sky thickened, sank lower and lower, the tops of the mountain range, under which we set up our camp, disappeared in the swirling darkness. Near the fire by a stone that looked like a bear, two Chinese guides sat cross-legged, drinking tea from bowls, talking quietly. They never looked at me, although I passed them several times. "They know everything …" - I thought with horror. I couldn't find a place for myself. An hour passed, the second. It began to get dark. At least to talk to someone, to be distracted … My comrades sat in their tents, did not go outside, and their voices were not heard. Why are they hiding? Also guess? Are waiting? Or fell asleep?..
And, as if in response to my chaotic, confused thoughts, somewhere nearby, one after another, with a half-second interval, two shots rang out, and a many-voiced echo rolled over the mountains. My heart sank and immediately pounded furiously, I instantly doused in sweat - my undershirt became wet, sweat trickled down my cheeks. "Maybe they really hunt?" - I seized on the saving thought. And at that moment a third shot rang out, echoed dispassionately. "No, they don't hunt … It's him …"
Strange! Nobody left the tents. The Chinese continued to drink tea by the fire, sitting in the same eternal oriental postures. Only one horse approached the stream near the waterfall and began to drink water noisily. For some reason I went after her, rinsed my face in the stream - the water was cold, icy. I sat down on a wet stone by the stream. Mortal anguish squeezed my heart. Dusk was falling rapidly. I saw Arthur Kralain next to me and shuddered with surprise: he emerged from the ashen twilight that surrounded me, jumping off the horse - I did not hear her steps because of the noise of the waterfall. And then three horses with empty saddles appeared, stopped at some distance from us, quietly snorting.
Arthur stretched out with a crunch, said, bending over to my ear:
- All.
- What - everything?.. - I asked.
My German friend chuckled, and his grin meant: "Are you an idiot or what?"
- But how?.. How did you manage it? You are one, there are three of them.
- Before dinner, I treated them to vodka. The glasses contained poison - a colorless and tasteless powder. Minor, tiny pinch. It works in an hour and a half after it enters the human body. Moreover, it acts humanely: sleep comes, smoothly turning into "eternal rest".
- And … shots?
- Just in case. For fast asleep targets to the very heart. What if they wake up? I threw the bodies into the gorge. It seems to be deep enough.
Now I was shocked not by what had happened, but by the way Arthur Kraline was talking about it - everyday, with boredom: the hard work has been done, and off my shoulders. “How is this possible? - I thought in confusion. - And - who is he? What kind of person?..”But then another, terrible thought flashed in me:
- What shall we say? I asked in dismay.
- Who? - calmly, with boredom in his voice, answered Arthur Kraline.
- How - to whom? Everyone, including guides. After all, they will definitely ask.
“No one will ask anything,” my new German friend said harshly.
All this happened on the evening of October 22, 1901.
Yes, Arthur Kraline was right: in the morning of the next day, no one asked anything, everyone was silent, gloomy, hastily getting ready to set off, as if reaching the city of Pading was the only cherished goal for everyone and something would happen there, important for each of us. Already all the road belongings were loaded onto horses. And then the unexpected happened: two Chinese guides drove up to me, and one of them, the older one, said (I already spoke quite tolerably well and understood Chinese):
- Further, sir, we refuse to follow you.
- Why? - I asked, all, of course, understanding.
- Pay us for part of the path traveled, and we will go back home.
I had an agreement with them: they are leading the expedition for about a third of the route, that is, along the lands known to them. We passed much less. What to do? Where now, in a completely deserted area, to look for guides?
I was silent, feeling that my thoughts were confused … The Chinese were silent too - they waited. Arthur Kraline drove up to us.
- What's the matter? What do they want? - His questions sounded imperious, rude.
- They require calculation. They do not want to follow us further.
- That's how!..
Arthur jumped out of the saddle, gestured for the Chinese to dismount. Those unquestioningly, somehow fussy obeyed, and my first assistant began to beat the silent guides with a whip, thrown from the first blow into an incomprehensible shock: they only covered their faces with their hands, and one of them, having received a blow on the cheek, fell to the ground; blood flooded his face. Arthur, on the other hand, got excited, his sweaty face, handsome, refined, was brought together by a voluptuous convulsion - he whipped and whipped the unfortunate Chinese, mad with fear and pain, who endured the beatings in silence, and there was something terrible in this … The disgusting scene of beating was watched by all members of our expedition, also in complete silence, and no one stood up for our guides. Nobody, including me … Now I can admit it: we are all! - were afraid of Arthur Kraline. He became the head of our squad,putting fear and violence into the foundation of their dictatorial power over us.
Finally he struck the last blow - tired or felt that the job was done. And, wiping the sweat from his face with his sleeve, breathing heavily, he said:
“Translate to them: if these filthy brutes don't do their job, I will shoot them like mad dogs.
I dutifully translated this phrase word for word.
- Yes, yes … - the senior guide whispered (his clothes were torn to shreds). - We're going …
In half an hour, our detachment set off. And again they drove quickly, swiftly, sometimes, if the road allowed, at a trot. Where were we in a hurry? And although in a day it was more than possible to cover a distance of forty versts, on October 23, 1901, we did not get to Pading.
At two o'clock - no stop for lunch had yet been made - suddenly it began to darken, as if in the middle of the day pitch night was falling from the sky. And we all looked up. Indeed, something incredible was happening in the sky: rushing towards each other, heavy black clouds colliding, the sky thickened, filled with lead, sank lower and lower. And a certain unnaturalness lay in the fact that everything in the sky was in motion, bubbling, smoking black; there, above, whirlwinds raged, a hurricane wind twisted huge masses of heavy clouds in spirals and pushed them against each other - and below, on the ground, there was complete, oppressive silence. Calm.
Our path ran along a rocky bed of a dried-up river. On its left bank a steep rocky ridge immediately began, completely bare, without any vegetation, rising up in huge dark ledges, almost vertically; along the right bank there was a road, barely noticeable, sometimes disappearing altogether, and only guides could identify it; behind it slowly, gently rose hilly saline land, deserted and harsh, in places overgrown with islets of gray feather grass.
Of course, our beautiful blue and green planet is the creation of the Lord God, into which He put His love. But there are some dark forces in the Universe that hindered Him. Or tried to interfere. And maybe sometimes He got tired in His hard work and went away somewhere to rest. And then the Others were in a hurry to spoil the Divine Plan and put their hairy hands on the Earth, which was not yet completely created. And then such areas appeared on it as the one in which our expedition found itself on October 23.
Meanwhile, the sky was already uniform - black, heavy, low. Twilight fell on the ground. Not night, but thick twilight. But it was only two in the afternoon! A sudden, hurricane gust of wind swept across the area where we were. And then a blinding lightning flashed over the mountain ridge to the left … It brought us all out of our numbness. And here it is necessary to emphasize: from the moment when it began to rapidly darken, and the sky turned into a low black veil, and only two or three minutes passed until the gust of wind and the first lightning. Now, after the lightning, everyone was waiting for a deafening clap of thunder. But it did not follow. And I remembered this circumstance for the rest of my life: contrary to all known physical laws on our Earth, there was no thunder after that blinding powerful lightning. We were given time …
“The flood is about to break out,” someone said quietly.
And these words finally brought me out of my stupor.
- Set up camp! - I shouted. - Hobble the horses and - into the corral of poles and ropes! Attach tents according to the hurricane principle (we had camp tents for the British colonial army with precise lengthy instructions written in a booklet with waterproof pages). We almost had time: a downpour, which fell to the ground not in jets, but in the literal sense of the word as a wall, caught us when we finished putting up the last tent. And the first few moments under this stream were enough to get wet to the skin. But we had something to change into, and soon everyone sat in their tents. The riot of the elements lasted all day, evening and the first half of the night: the roar of an avalanche on a tightly stretched tarpaulin overhead, the howling of the wind, which either arranged its whistle around our tents, then was carried away into the mountains, and it seemedthat he is turning over huge stones there; incessant peals of thunder, also now close, repeated by an echo, now distant, deaf, similar to the growl of a huge lazy beast; even through the canvas walls, lightning was visible - the tent suddenly lit up with a dark brown light.
Arthur Kraline and I, after a hurried meal without any appetite, lay under the light of a camping lamp on our bedding and were silent. Only once did my mysterious and terrible companion say:
- Great, I got them down! There was triumph and gloating in his voice.
The ominous meaning was in his words, and I was afraid to admit to myself that I knew THAT meaning.
To the thunder of a downpour on the tent and the rolls of either close or distant thunder, I - strange! - Imperceptibly fell asleep. When I woke up, I immediately realized that the hurricane had stopped. There was no silence - a powerful roar filled the night, but it was neither rain nor wind. The lamp went out. Arthur Kraline slept with his face turned to the wall. There was a hunting rifle next to his bedding, and I understood, or rather, knew that it was loaded.
And a terrible decision arose in me: to take a gun and shoot Arthur Kralain - immediately, now!.. And then … What - then? Will things change for the better? What will change? And why is it for the better? I did not know. However, it cost me an incredible effort to overcome myself: my hand was already reaching for the gun, and someone in me was ordering: “Kill! Kill him!"
I got up abruptly and left the tent. And - froze, amazed. An incredible surreal picture appeared, or, more correctly, opened before me: above the black ledges of the rock, above the saline plateau, stretching to the distant mountain ranges, stood - just stood! - a high black-slate sky with rare unfamiliar stars, an incredibly large full moon hung at its zenith, and in its dead light it was clear that everything was flooded with water: the formed lakes and large puddles glittered in the saline plateau, streams flowed everywhere; The river bed, which was dry yesterday, turned into a seething, wide, rapid stream, it approached our camp, flooded the road along which we had to continue our journey, and a dispassionate, calm, mysterious moon illuminated the breakers in this, as if by magic, a stream that arose. This is his measured and, at the same time,a terrible noise filled the whole area.
It was discovered early in the morning: at night, that is, during a hurricane, the Chinese guides disappeared from the camp and took with them three horses belonging to Badmaev's people. This news was not discussed - we were in a hurry. Even now I cannot explain: why were we in such a hurry? Were trying to leave the damned place as soon as possible, where the Buryat guards disappeared and an incomprehensible October thunderstorm that had not been seen in those places fell on us? Then, when we told the locals about her, they did not believe us.
By the evening of October 24 we were in Pading. After supper, they knocked in my closet (we stopped at an inn).
“Come in,” I said.
These were two of my faithful friends, one from Kars, the other from Alexandropol.
- Georgy, - said one of them, without looking into my eyes, - we will not go further. We're going back. And don't ask about anything.
I didn't ask. And I didn't want further conversation - I had nothing to say.
- Give us only money for the return trip.
I let them go with God, generously supplying them with everything necessary for the difficult journey back to Russia. The next day, my friends were no longer at Pading. Strange: Arthur Kraline was delighted by the sudden departure of two members of our expedition.
- Frightened! Well, it's for the best that they got out. They are liquid. This is not the place in our squadron.
He spoke like a master. Master of the situation. We found new guides without difficulty. There were three of them, all middle-aged. I was surprised only by one circumstance: they were ready to go with us for any fee and did not bargain at all. Now our detachment consisted of eight people: five of us and three guides; we had twelve horses - on four of them we loaded all the road belongings.
How to tell about what followed? No, I cannot and do not want to describe further in detail. It is not events that are important here, but my condition.
We continued to move quickly, hurrying, as if someone was rushing us, and deeper and deeper into the mountains of Tibet. Soon majestic peaks appeared on the horizon, covered with eternal snow. In the first two weeks we covered a huge distance, and in mid-November we reached the next city on our way - Pranga. And - it began.
We stopped at an inn - in one room we are with Arthur Kralain, in the other - the three remaining members of our expedition; After dinner, the guides spent the night on the street - the evening was warm, calm and frozen, as if in anticipation of something.
There seemed to be no sign of trouble. And in the morning the first incredible event happened. The room of our three comrades was nearby, behind a thin wall. I sleep very lightly and I can vouch: there, behind the wall, there was absolute silence all night. At the beginning of seven, we knocked on the door to the neighbors - it's time for breakfast. No one answered. The door was locked from the inside. They began to knock louder - no answer. The owner was called and he helped us knock down the door.
An incredible, eerie picture appeared to our eyes: there was no one, the window was locked from the inside, no traces of violence. But the most absurd thing was that near the three low trestle beds that replaced the beds, outerwear was neatly folded and near each pile, also neatly, there were soft hiking boots that kept the dust of the roads covered. That is, three members of our expedition left the room in their underwear. But how, if both the door and the window are closed from the inside?
I remember my state: for a moment it seemed to me that I was losing my mind. The innkeeper shrugged, nothing reflected on his sleepy, mysterious face. Either he did not understand anything, or he was indifferent to everything in the world.
For some reason, I rushed into the yard, where our horses stood under a covered shed and the guides spent the night. Everything was peaceful and calm there: the horses, shaking their heads, crunched fresh hay, the recently awakened guides were quietly talking about something of their own. I'm confused. Probably, from the outside I looked more than ridiculous: I rushed to the nearest taverns - isn't it where my comrades have breakfast? He rushed through a small market, pushing the oncoming people, almost knocking them off their feet: maybe my companions are buying something? And finally, I began to shout loudly, for some reason in Armenian:
- Police! Where are the police here?
A strong, sturdy hand lay on my shoulder and pulled me out of the crowd that was already gathering around.
- Calm down! - whispered in my ear Arthur Kraline, and I instantly became quiet and obedient. He was already leading me to our inn.”“No police, no contact with local authorities. An investigation will begin, we will get stuck. And they will blame everything on us.
“But… where are they? - in a quiet panic (which can be called a quiet madness) I asked. - What happened? Where did they go? And … How?
- Arseny, calm down. I have no answers to your questions. - Arthur Kraline spoke quite calmly and coldly. - I am convinced that no one has answers to them. In any case, with ordinary people. I know one thing: there is no point in looking for them. We will never find them. And we need to get out of here as soon as possible.
Looking ahead, I will say the following. A few years later I found out: those three, my faithful friends, whom I called with me behind the throne of Genghis Khan, found themselves in their homes, in their beds, just one morning they woke up and could not remember where they were, what happened to them: the memory of the expedition in their minds was erased.
Quickly, hastily gathering ourselves, we set off. I already knew that something like this would happen. And prepared myself for the worst. “I won't be surprised at anything,” I told myself. And when one morning we saw three dead horses in the paddock - they fell at night for no reason, the day before they were healthy, fed, washed in a mountain river - I took this incident as an inevitability in a series of other inevitability that await us.
However, the next event was overwhelming … Our caravan stretched along a narrow mountain path. To the right is a sheer wall of mountains, wet, in streams of pound water, to the left is a cliff into an abyss, in the black depth of which an invisible river is rustling. Two guides on horseback in front, one after the other; behind them were two horses with their luggage, then I followed, Arthur Kralain followed me, and the third guide, on a large white mare, closed the measured, careful procession.
It's a nasty day; cool, voices of invisible birds; sometimes a stone falls from under the horses' hooves down into the abyss, and you can hear others rushing after it, the sound of a small stone avalanche gradually absorbs the roar of the river at the bottom of the abyss. The trail turned steeply to the left, and behind a stone ledge, into the crevice of which a stunted, dumpy pine tree gripped by its roots, first the first guide disappeared, behind him the second, then the loaded horses … Finally, I turned over the ledge, bending down so that pine branches would not lash across my face, and I heard how Arthur Kraline, who was following me, was pushing them away with his hand.
- God!.. - I heard his exclamation, full of horror and amazement.
I quickly raised my head - two horses were walking in front of me, shaking their heads in time with the measured steps; their saddles were empty. Arthur Kraline and I looked back at the same time - the saddle of the white mare was also empty. Our guides disappeared, vanished into thin air. They became nothing … I do not remember how we ended up in a grove of old plane trees, to which a mountain path led us. The horses must have come here themselves and stopped.
… Some kind of mechanical life began. We had a map (mine, a genuine map …) and a compass. We had to go to the next city on our way - Padze. We walked, guided by a compass needle, day after day. Sometimes impregnable rocks stood in our way, the trail disappeared, we looked for any crevice, ravine, just not to deviate from the route. One night, three horses disappeared, went to no one knows where, perhaps, having freed themselves from the fetters, it is possible, we just forgot to hobble them. And this incident hardly touched me, I became indifferent to everything.
But changes took place in me: bitterness, anger at the whole world, dark irritation at any reason overwhelmed me. And I realized, felt: deliverance will come only in one case - if I get the throne of Genghis Khan and hand it over to "The one who …". I already understood what power lies in the throne of Genghis Khan, but I did not want to admit it to myself, I drove away the terrible truth that was revealed to me. I knew that I was in the grip of that state of mind to which I was now subordinate (and this state is hatred of the whole world), and it would not let me go until I reached the throne of Genghis Khan.
Damn him! Curse him forever and ever!.. But I am exclaiming now.
Arthur Kraline and I hardly spoke. We have become moving cars, driven by "someone" powerful and unforgiving. But this "someone" was hindered by "someone", also powerful. What sign was his strength?
November 29, 1901
In the morning there was a short violent downpour, and at noon a horse, loaded with a camping tent and our warm clothes, fell into the abyss. I will never forget her neigh, full of pain and despair … In the evening by the fire, Arthur said:
- Maybe all our troubles come from letters to monasteries? Why are you carrying them with you? Destroy, burn! And you see, all this devilry will end?
I did not care. I gave my only companion a sack made of thin leather, which contained the letters of Dr. Badmaev to the abbots of Buddhist monasteries. “Everything burns, everything disappears. Everything will become dust …”- I thought, and longing squeezed my heart. The nights were cold, and we had no choice but to take turns sleeping. One was on duty by the fire, into which it was necessary to constantly throw fuel. Nearby, a stunted forest climbed the mountain. I went to him. I looked around. Arthur Kraline, squatting, threw thick yellow envelopes into the fire, and his movements were somehow automatic, and I watched him throw them one by one into the flame of the fire.
“Now everything that connected me to Badmaev is burning in the fire,” I thought. “And this is my inescapable sin before a wonderful and great man.”
Our path continued, and on the morning of December 8, 1901 - the compass and map did not fail us - we reached the source of the Nagchu River. Two mountain ranges parted, we found ourselves in a spacious valley scorched by the sun. According to the map, it turned out: another fifty miles southeast of the river (there was no water in it, only a barely noticeable stream in the middle of a dried-up river bed, often completely disappearing) - and there should be a city of Padze.
After a few hours of travel, we reached it … The city did not exist. Rather, he was, but people left him long ago. We found ourselves among stone ruins, dull, gray, and only the wind drove yellow dust along them, twisting in spirals. Silence. Not a single live sound … In the middle of a small square there was a deep well under a rotten wooden canopy. I threw a stone at him. Half a minute passed before he thumped dully on the dry bottom.
- The water left Padze, - said Arthur, - and people left with it.
“Yes,” I agreed, “and it happened a long time ago, half a century or a century ago. After all, my card is ancient.
In our wineskins there was still, thank God, the water that we stocked up in the mountains, having met, perhaps, the last spring on our way in this part of the Himalayan spurs.
The ruins of Padze seemed to squeeze us, crush us, and we hurried away and again rapidly moved forward, lashing the tired horses. We did not stop until late in the evening, and the sunset found us in a strange mountainous area. The valley, into which we got in the morning, began to narrow - it was crowded by high mountain ranges with snow caps on the tops advancing on it from both sides. The entire space in front of us was strewn with large stones, many of them were taller than human height, of a variety of bizarre shapes, with imagination one could imagine oneself in an unusual open-air theater, revive stone figures crowded from all sides, and play a play by Shakespeare or Moliere … No, better - William Shakespeare. And the backdrop on the stage could be an incredible bright yellow sunset,ominously illuminated by the bulk of heavy clouds with dark swollen sides.
We moved along a rather wide path until we found, among the stone chaos, a dilapidated hut under a thatched roof, with a preserved door, a hearth and a single window that could be covered with a saddle blanket for the night. Most likely, shepherds stopped here, driving flocks of sheep to high-mountain pastures. There was no better place to sleep. After a meager supper, sitting by the hearth, in which the coals were smoldering, Arthur Kraline said:
- Arseny … I already feel it for the third day. "It" is next to me …
- What do you mean? - Goosebumps ran down my spine.
“I don’t know how else to define it… It’s going to take me. Apparently it's my turn.
Now I remember: Arthur Kraline did not feel the slightest fear. On the contrary, he was interested.
“Nerves,” I said, calming myself more than his. “It's just that your nerves are loose.
“Maybe,” my companion chuckled. “But some precautions are needed. Here's what … I noticed: you sleep lightly. And if "it" appears, don't give me to him.”This time Arthur Kraline laughed loudly, and his laugh was a challenge.
We lay down on felt mats, which miraculously did not disappear along with our other things. We were extremely tired of the last long passage, heavy fatigue was felt by every cell of the body. Arthur Kraline fell asleep immediately. In the total darkness that filled the hut, I could hear his even, calm breathing.
Sleep did not come to me: I tossed and turned, listened, tried to examine Arthur Kralain in the dark. And in my mind the questions were repeated and repeated: “What is happening? How did my friends disappear? How did the guides disappear? Where?.. "That night these questions surrounded me from all sides, and I remember thinking:" I will find the answers to them, and maybe nothing will happen to Arthur Kraline."
“But he's a criminal, a murderer!.. Yes. But didn't I push him to the crime? And again, seized with cold horror, I listened to the darkness of the night. No, Arthur Kraline was here, I could hear him breathing. And I also heard horses snorting behind the dilapidated walls of the hut, looking for the meager grass that grew among the stones.
"It's all right, - I soothed myself. - It's all right."
I was awakened by the smell: the scent of freshly blossoming lilacs tickled my nostrils. (What magnificent thickets of white lilac were in the front garden of my father's house in Alexandropol!) Or am I dreaming about this sweet smell of my childhood? No, I was lying on my back, fully awake, and it was already daylight: pink light oozed into the gap between the blanket and the window frame. I turned abruptly on my side - the bed on which Arthur Kraline slept was empty. “He went out of necessity,” I reassured myself, then suddenly jumped up instantly and rushed outside. Arthur Kralain was nowhere to be found, and I realized that it was useless to look for him, to call him.
I saw our four horses - they huddled together, pressed against each other, froze, their muzzles turned in one direction - to the northeast, towards the nearest black ridge. It seemed to me that the horse's eyes were filled with horror.
"They saw! - flashed through my mind. - And it happened quite recently …”Everything in me was shallow, disgustingly trembling, and gradually, drowning out the trembling, hatred began to heat up in my soul, black anger spread through my veins - these feelings, it seems, did not exist addresses, they were my fortune, that's all. That's it!.. “No really! - I thought, hating and cursing. - You won't stop me! I'll get there! I will find the throne of Genghis Khan! Be he thrice - thrice - thrice cursed!"
I rushed to the hut to collect my things. In our ("our") in a wretched temporary dwelling, the last light, weightless streams of the smell of blooming lilacs melted away. Half an hour later, my caravan set off: in front of me, three horses loaded with the remaining belongings behind me. Among other possessions were Arthur Kralain's double-barreled gun and bandolier, his hiking jacket. I was carrying the remaining money, probably a lot (I haven't counted it for a long time), and a map with a route to the Shambhala tower. “I'll get there! I'll get there anyway!.."
And suddenly I almost flew out of the saddle - the horse stood rooted to the spot, then, finely moving its forelegs, began to back away, whinnying. The rest of the horses also began to laugh. I heard a quick clatter of hooves behind me, and this clatter was receding … But I did not look back - I was fascinated by the incredible action that was taking place in front of me: all the huge stones, between which the path looped, slowly moved, moved sometimes silently collided. I closed my eyes, shook my head and opened it again. No, not a hallucination … The stones, as far as the eye could see, moved, and I understood the meaning of this movement: among the stones, the path along which I had to move forward gradually disappeared, and as soon as a pile of stones formed in place of the path, they froze in their new places …
Look to the left, it sounded in my mind. But it was not a human voice, male or female. I don't know how to say … But I heard him. The mountain ridge, which ran parallel to the disappeared path, slowly-slowly moved to the left (and I even saw how an avalanche fell from its highest peak from this movement and silently flew downward). I do not know how long the movement of the ridge continued. There was no time. And I kind of watched from the outside.
Finally, the mountains froze, a trampled path was clearly visible at their foot, it was clearly visible in the rocky rock, and there was the impression that it was illuminated by a certain light, the source of which is indeterminate. "Here is your way, - sounded in me. - Go!" I didn’t even have time to touch the reins - the horse itself moved to the path, went to a light trot, and the stones quietly parted in front of it.
… And now I ask pragmatic and skeptical Europeans and Americans living in the middle of the twentieth century: “Don't you believe? Well … I'm sorry. I am afraid that if not you, then your children and grandchildren will have to make sure from their own experience that our planet Earth is a powerful living creature. Do you wiggle your arms and legs? The earth can also move its members. And with good intentions and in anger …
I do not know how many days my further journey lasted. I can only say that I turned into an established mechanism, into which other people's will and purpose were mounted: I obeyed them. But one mechanism that I turned into, realized: my path had changed, it does not lead to tower number five, but on the contrary, moves me away from it, and I cannot do anything about it … The only thing that I was able to control was this is the presence of the cherished card … I repeatedly felt the lining of my jacket, under which it was kept, and was convinced: “Whole! With me.
Once, in a house near a noisy oriental bazaar, where I got a lodging for the night, all my remaining money was stolen from me (however, maybe I only discovered the loss there), and, I must admit, this loss left me almost indifferent - a small amount was saved in my wallet, and, I remember, I said to myself: “For now, that's enough for the next few days. And there it will be seen …"
My journey, the journey of the somnambulist, it went on and on. And now - the sun, white, dazzling, hanging directly over the stone road, along which a low donkey with unnaturally long ears is dragging me along, and my feet almost touch the ground (when I changed the horse for him, where? - a memory gap …); a sharp, gusty wind throws prickly sand in the face. The road turns to a small village, which is pressed against a low mountain. I see something familiar in everything I see: old people on low benches in the shade of fences, two women in black bedspreads …
My donkey, spinning with its ears, weaves along the only street, and I look around. Ahead - an adobe fence, behind it rises a huge spreading tree with a mighty crown. Ishachok himself stops at the gate, and now you can hear the fountain sounding monotonously behind the fence.
- Yes, it's …
The gate opens, and a tall gray-bearded old man in white robes with an ascetic, reserved face emerges from it.
- Hello, stranger, - says the Sufi Sheikh Ul Mohammed Daul. - I knew that you would return to me. I was waiting you…"
Part Eight: Gurdjieff and Sufism
The diary was studied by a member of the Russian Geographical Society (RGO) of the city of Armavir Sergey Frolov