Issue 61—October 11, 1979 to February 18, 1980
This issue feels like a watershed of some kind. Not only is it the sixty-first issue (which for some reason was more momentous than the fifty-first issue), but Mary’s recounting finally gets out of the 1970s. She and I had, for quite some time, joked that we never thought we would ever get out of the 1970s, and now that I look at the dates our discussions took place, I understand why. Our discussions progressed from 1969 to 1970 on June twentieth, 1995. We doggedly proceeded through the 1970s until the discussion for this issue, which took place on March twenty-eighth, 2005. So it took us almost ten years to cover the ten years of the 1970s. And the 1970s seemed like such extraordinary years in which Mary’s and Krishnaji’s worlds changed enormously—Brockwood became established; the Oak Grove School was created; the Foundations hit their stride with publishing and disseminating Krishnaji’s work; the systematic videotaping of Krishnaji’s teachings was established in Europe, America, and India; and the first attempts at collecting archives independently of Rajagopal were started. The sweetness of the relationship between Krishnaji and Mary seems also to have grown and changed. In 1970 Krishnaji was addressing her in letters as “Ma très chère Madame” (while just a couple of years before, it was “Mrs. Zimbalist”) to addressing her in letters during his trip to India covered in this issue as “My dearest Maria.”
Perhaps most important to we who read these memoirs: By 1980, Mary became the person to whom he could most reveal his inner life, and she wrote in her diaries a great deal of what he revealed.
Perhaps also this issue feels special as it is being published on the one hundred and nineteenth anniversary of Krishnaji’s birth.
The Memoirs of Mary Zimbalist: Issue #61
Mary: So, today, we begin our discussion on October eleventh, 1979. And for that day my diary reads, ‘Krishnaji and I went to London on the 10:20 a.m. train from Petersfield. Joe met us and drove us first to Christie’s, where I had Pascaline’s pin evaluated.’ She donated a jeweled pin to Brockwood. ‘Then we went to Huntsman for Krishnaji’s fitting. Mary lunched with us at Fortnum’s, and it was very leisurely, as the Thompson dental appointment was postponed till Monday. We bought books at Hatchards, cheese at Paxton, and then got a taxi to Waterloo. We were back at Brockwood by 6 p.m. I had a 7 p.m. meeting with Dorothy, Stephen, Kathy Harris, Shakuntala, John King, and Brian Jenkins about Brian Jenkins’ plans.’ Do you remember what that was about?
Scott: Brian had inherited some money, and he had some plan…I don’t know what. I don’t think anything came of it.
M: The next day, ‘Krishnaji stayed in bed, had his lunch in bed, and only got up for a walk in the afternoon at 4:30. I went to Alresford on errands and attended the staff meeting at 5 p.m.’
October thirteenth, ‘I spent most of the day typing, and Krishnaji rested. The little fawn chased by the dogs had to be put down, as its front legs are paralyzed.’ You remember that?
S: I do, yes.
M: ‘Dorothy lunched with Krishnaji and me in the West Wing dining room. Later, we walked across the fields.’
The fourteenth. ‘Again, I spent most of the day typing. Dorothy came up to talk to Krishnaji about the Brian Nicholson problem.’ Who was he? Oh, he was that…
S: Brian Nicholson was a Brockwood teacher…
M: …teacher and who went off to another place.
S: Yes, and he thought he was Dorothy’s heir apparent.
M: That’s right. [Light chuckle.]
The fifteenth. ‘Krishnaji and I went to London at 11:30 a.m. Joe met us and dropped us at Fortnum’s, where Krishnaji and I lunched. Joe came back and took Krishnaji to Mr. Thompson the dentist. I did errands. A box…’ Oh, something I bought, you don’t want to know what I bought…
S: Yes, we do.
M: No! [S laughs.] That’s silly. It was a present for my sister-in-law.
S: Okay [Pause.] …What color was it? [Laughs.] I’m only kidding.
M: [Laughs.] You’ll just have to remain in your thick fog of ignorance!
S: Yes, I will. Still more is lost to history. [Both chuckle.]
M: ‘I took Pascaline’s pin to Phillips’—they sell things like that—‘then to Mallett’s on Davies Street, looking for a mirror for Ojai, and then to Nelson for Krishnaji’—Nelson’s was…
S: The homeopathy place.
M: Yes. ‘And finally to Thompson’s, where at 5 p.m. Krishnaji was through, and Joe drove us to Waterloo. We were back by 7 p.m. We had supper and then watched TV and fought flies.’ Every autumn we had terrible fly trouble in Krishnaji’s room at Brockwood.
S: Yes. I remember.
M: They came out of the woodwork.
S: Yes. We finally tracked down what it was, but it wasn’t until after Krishnaji died, I think. In the window casements, they would lay eggs, and there was nothing you could do to get rid of them unless you injected something through all the holes, because when the window would warm up with the sun, they all hatched and came out at once. And of course, it was cold outside, so where do all these millions of flies go? Inside.
M: Onto Krishnaji’s ceiling.
M: The sixteenth of October, ‘Krishnaji is tired. There was a telephone call from Pama Patwardhan in Bangalore saying that the Benares meetings had been canceled due to electricity and water shortages. Krishnaji will go to Madras and then Rishi Valley. We lunched alone in the West Wing, Krishnaji in his dressing gown. Later we went for the usual walk.’
The next day there was really nothing, but on the eighteenth, ‘I took the 9:23 a.m. to London, and brought Krishnaji’s dental bridge to the dentist laboratory. I then walked to Bruton Street, saw Fleur Cowles’ exhibition’—a friend of mine—‘at Partridges, and did some shopping. I ate a sandwich sitting in South Molton Street on a bench, returned to fetch the bridge, then went to meet Betsy to see the flat she has bought in Cheyne Gardens. I went with her to look at sofa fabrics. We walked back to her rented house in Seymour Walk, where we had tea and I fetched an electric typewriter I bought from her for Brockwood. I took it by taxi back to Waterloo and caught the 5:10 p.m.’
October nineteenth. ‘Mary Links arrived at 10:30 a.m. to spend the weekend with us, staying in the West Wing guest room. And by 11 a.m., she, Krishnaji, and I were seated around the kitchen table to go into questions Mary has for the second volume of Krishnaji’s biography, which she will start when she finishes the one on her father that she is doing now. This week her book The Lyttons in India was published. I’m reading it.’ That’s about her…
M: Grandfather, yes. He was viceroy of India. ‘She went over with Krishnaji many parts of his life, but one important clarification was Krishnaji’s explaining, again, that though he was perhaps born with a certain temperament, apparently egoless, free of most of human beings’ usual conditions, and though he went through the suffering of the process, this didn’t mean that others had to be born to it or go through something similar. Out of whatever he is, he has shown certain things, and if one sees and understands, it can come about in them. There was much talk about “the emptiness” of the boy and why the adoration, etcetera, that went on did not corrupt him. Here, similes seem to me to confuse things. We were also trying to find out what Krishnaji actually means by ‘no memory’—it is clear that he has extremely little memory, as we usually think of it; but he also seems to mean, “no reaction,” rather than literally being a blank.’ That’s my interpretation. ‘He also does remember things in his life as a result of being told about them by someone else.’ That refers a lot to Shiva Rao, who told him a lot about his childhood, which he didn’t remember directly.
S: Yes, he remembers what he was told.
M: ‘At 1 p.m., I went down and brought up our lunch and served it in the West Wing dining room, using, at last, that room for what it was intended. Later in the afternoon, we, along with Dorothy, started for a walk, but Dorothy and I went only to the grove as we had to go to a staff meeting; but Mary L. and Krishnaji continued. In the evening, Mary and I sat in the drawing room and talked at some length.’
The next day, ‘There was another long talk in the morning, Krishnaji, Mary Links, and I in the West Wing dining room on questions for the biography. It was his language that was theosophical in the early days, not his beliefs; and later, he found his own language. We lunched again in the West Wing dining room, and walked later across the fields. David Bohm arrived at suppertime back from conferences in Spain and the U.S.’
October twenty-first. ‘Krishnaji talked again with Mary about his life all morning until Joe arrived at noon. The four of us had lunch in the West Wing dining room. Mary and Joe left at 3:30 p.m., and later Krishnaji, Dorothy, and I walked across the fields.’
The twenty-second. ‘I worked most of the day at the desk and doing laundry. After lunch upstairs, Krishnaji came down to talk to Robert Wiffen.’ Do we know Robert Wiffen? He was the other architect who helped do the Cloisters.
S: The Cloisters and the Assembly Hall.
M: Oh, yes. That is important.
S: He was also the consulting architect for things like when we were putting in the fire escapes and things like that.
M: He worked with Ian.
S: He worked with Ian Hammond, but he was like Ian Hammond’s underling or something because…
M: Yes, he was Ian’s number two.
S: Yes, Ian didn’t really show up very often; but Robert Wiffen did. He was the on-site person; the person who’d actually come and make sure things were done correctly. He was a very nice man, very nice man, and deeply interested in Krishnaji.
M: Yes, so, ‘Krishnaji came down to talk to Robert Wiffen and Dorothy about building quarters for staff.’ That’s why he was there. ‘Later, we only had a short walk as Dorothy and I needed to go to the school meeting.’
October twenty-third, ‘Krishnaji and I took the 10:23 a.m. train to London. Joe met us at Waterloo and dropped us at Vigo Street. Krishnaji fitted corduroy trousers at Huntsman. We walked to Fortnum’s. It was cold and brisk, the first wintry day. Krishnaji wore his heavy gray flannel suit with a waistcoat. I had on a Chanel winter tweed I’ve had now for years and seldom wear. We bought chocolates for Krishnaji to take to India, then went up to the fourth floor and lunched with Mary. She put it strongly that if Radha Burnier remains both the head of the Esoteric Section of the Theosophical Society and a KF India trustee, especially now that Damodar Gardens and probably part of Besant Gardens are leased to the KFI for a school, no one will believe that Krishnaji is not connected to the Theosophical Society.’ She was very strong about that. ‘He said he would discuss it in India. He said he did not want this connection in anybody’s minds. I had brought typed notes that I took on Sunday for Mary of the conversation she had with Krishnaji for the biography.’
S: Hm, do you have copies of those notes?
M: Good question. I don’t know.
S: Can we look?
M: Yes, of course. I have a lot of stuff of Mary’s.
‘It developed in further talk at the lunch table that, in Mary’s view, Rajagopal and Rosalind didn’t care if Krishnaji lived or died, which she thought even though she still had remnants of her early remembrances that Rosalind was pleasant. Krishnaji told a new anecdote I had not heard before, that Rosalind knocked him down the concrete steps of the patio at Arya Vihara and he was knocked out. It means there was no end to the ugliness of what Krishnaji was subjected to. We said goodbye to Mary and walked to Truefitt, where Krishnaji had his hair cut. I bought a heavy cardigan at the Irish shop. We found a taxi and just caught an about-to-leave train at Waterloo. Krishnaji slept in the train. On returning, I found a letter from Amanda.’ Well, then, that’s all about the family things, not relevant to this.
There’s really nothing of significance until the twenty-fifth, when ‘Krishnaji dictated the thirty-seventh Letters to the Schools. We lunched on trays, and he stayed in bed until 4 p.m. when we walked across the fields. He received a letter from Mary Links reiterating what she had said about Radha Burnier, strongly putting her questioning of Radha Burnier being a trustee of KFI when she is head of the Esoteric Section. Krishnaji is reluctant to have to do something about this, but sees the implications, especially now that KFI is using Damodar Gardens for The School. He likes Radha and she is an excellent KFI member, but the Theosophical Society connection is wrong, and he feels it is.’ I think all of us felt it was.
S: Yes, yes.
M: But because she’s so nice and we like her, and she tries to do everything properly, nothing has been done about it.
The twenty-sixth of October. ‘I worked at the desk in the morning. Krishnaji remained in bed, and we lunched on trays in his room. Afterward I drove in mist and rain to East Dean for tea with Phyl and Christopher Fry. Christopher came out to the car, welcoming me and showing me changes in their garden, which is blooming with dahlias, but still has snapdragons and roses. Phyl was very dear as always, perhaps a little more abstracted, but she remembers all sorts of details. It is her manner, which sometimes makes her seem to come from far away when she speaks. They have found a new painter they like.’ They sort of collected paintings by favored painters. ‘Andrew Hemingway.’ Oh—I bought one of his. It’s in the West Wing as you come in to the left, it’s a thing in a barn or something.
S: Ah, ha. Yes.
M: ‘Their friend David Tindle’—he’s a great friend of theirs and a very good painter—‘has an exhibition on in London. I’m sorry to have missed it. They will go to Vienna in the spring of 1984 for Christopher to direct The Lady’s Not for Burning. As always, I felt deeply glad to be with them.’ They were two of the nicest people I’ll ever know.
S: Oh, how nice.
M: And they were two people as one person, really.
S: Hm, yes, how nice.
M: Phyl died not too long after this. ‘These once-a-year afternoons having tea by the fire and talking with them mean very much to me. I drove back carefully through the rain. Krishnaji had admonished me intently to drive carefully. He, it seems, increasingly wants me to be on guard. “Do nothing unnecessary and be careful,” he said. I was back by 6:30 p.m. In the evening, I telephoned to Filomena in Rome. All is about the same with her and her family. I told her about Miranda’s new job and having seen the Frys, which pleased her. At 8 p.m., Mary Cadogan telephoned. She had been rung by Erna who, on return from Canada with Theo, had received the text of a book of Krishnaji’s poems that Rajagopal is bringing out.’ He had the right—I think I’ve talked about it—to republish anything that had been published before he lost the…
S: The court case.
M: Yes. In other words, the pre-’68 material. He could republish, as it was already done, but—and this was in the judge’s decision—it had to be done as originally published. ‘Erna received the text of Krishnaji’s poems that Rajagopal was bringing out, and was disturbed to find that The Path, from 1924, was included, in spite of the settlement statement that Krishnaji didn’t want anything pre-1926 included in future editions. Also, there were “insane” changes to the text. Erna wants a protest letter by the Publications Committee if Krishnaji agrees. Krishnaji stood beside me as Mary told me all this, and said he would absolutely not agree to any changes. Mary rang Erna back to tell her this. Erna was to have talked to Lou Blau, but hadn’t reached him by the time that Mary called her. She will do so over the weekend. But Erna had a call from Rajagopal in the meantime; he learned from Harper’s Carlson’—Carlson was the editor at Harper for Krishnaji books—‘that Erna had seen the text and objected. Rajagopal said he had the right to edit. She said he had no right to change words, etcetera. He said, you are trying to frustrate me like Doris Pratt’s letter. We will have to see our solicitors.’ So that was the beginning of the next lawsuit.
October twenty-seventh. ‘Krishnaji dictated a letter to Rajagopal refusing permission to make any changes. He and I both talked to Mary Lutyens about this, and also about her letter to Krishnaji about Radha Burnier’s trusteeship in KFI. Doris says her letter to Rajagopal was objecting to his giving material on Krishnaji to an Ojai newspaper which did a review of “spiritual” groups in the valley. Krishnaji this morning said the resting he has done these three weeks has been remarkable.’ He had taken three weeks to rest, more or less. “Something extraordinary has been happening. I can’t describe it.” He said we must remember and do it again in the future. Doing his exercises, then spending all day in bed, including lunch on a tray, then getting up for a good walk, then back to bed seems to be the recipe. He reads, sleeps, watches TV, and seems to relax and rest at a more thorough level. But he did say, at one point, that as soon as he really rests, his head starts. The usual pain. His seeing and saying how good the rest is made me happy to the point of tears.’
The twenty-eighth. ‘There was frost on the lawn, and it was fifty-nine degrees in my room. My electric heater is kept in Krishnaji’s bathroom. I turn it on when I get up at 6 a.m., so that it will be warm for his bath. So, as there is little heat in the radiators these days, I light my tiny fireplace. It is nice to sit a few feet from it, and Krishnaji likes it when he comes in for me to help him with one of his two exercises: he sits and I stretch his elbows over his head, also pull his arms straight up while pressing his back with my knee.’ [Both chuckle.] I don’t remember that. ‘I talked to Mary Links. She suggested that The Path might be acceptable to Krishnaji as it was written in Ojai after his experiences  began there. I got a copy from an archive, showed it to Krishnaji. He thumbed a few pages and listened to my reading a letter in the biography that he had written to Lady Emily while he was writing the piece in 1922, which was later published as The Path. Later I read it all. A strange outpouring of that strange mind; very beautiful. Krishnaji agreed, and so did I, that it could be republished providing Rajagopal makes no changes’—underlined—‘in any text. I rang Mary Cadogan to tell her this so that when Erna telephones here they will both know. Krishnaji went downstairs to lunch with the school. Summertime ended this morning, so when we walked at 4 p.m. across the fields, it was cold, and became dark soon after we got back. The earth smelled of autumn. The grass in the field was dry as hair. We heard the whistle of the Watercress Express train that goes from Alton to Alresford. I have just begun to pack.’
S: Oh, I’d forgotten about the Watercress Express: an antique steam train with old carriages that is maintained by enthusiasts.
M: Yes. And it goes just a few miles.
S: Yes. [Both chuckle.]
M: The twenty-ninth. ‘Krishnaji’s voice was a little hoarse, so he rested in bed all day. We lunched on trays. Much of the morning went in telephone conversations with Mary Cadogan and Mary Links about Rajagopal’s publishing The Path, etcetera. Krishnaji revised the draft of his letter to Rajagopal, which I am sending to Erna in which he said the agreement called for no changes in text, and while The Path was pre-1926, he might consent to its republication providing no changes are made in any of his writings.’ I’d forgotten that the legal agreement of the first suit with Rajagopal was that Rajagopal couldn’t publish anything pre-1926, and The Path was 1924. ‘Mary Cadogan says Erna says Rajagopal has revised The Path into a poem format. Mary Links suggested Krishnaji appoint me to make decisions on these publication matters during his absence from the U.S. He gave me a written letter of appointment. I packed in the afternoon, and went to the school meeting.’ I’d forgotten that he had appointed me to do that.
October thirtieth. ‘In the morning, Krishnaji had make a note for Letters to the Schools when he returns. “When attention is profound it includes everything.” I suggested he do one on man’s impulse to worship; what it is. It was a gray day and though Krishnaji’s hoarseness is gone, it was better he not go out. He packed and I packed. We lunched on trays in the dining room.’ He liked to do his own packing. You, I think, got into that.
S: Yes. Yes, I was involved in his packing. [Chuckles.]
M: ‘We lunched on trays in the dining room, and afterward he talked to Daphne, Blake, and Chris Koster for a short time.’ Those are students.
M: ‘They say that they and a few others are “serious,” and what could they do about it?’ Those were all good young people.
S: Yes, they were.
M: ‘Later, with Edna Cleeve, I went over things to be done this winter, and I kept packing, doing laundry, ironing, and putting things in order until it was finished at about 10 p.m. Dorothy came up at 4:30 p.m., and we sat and talked and then we went to hear, for the first time, the hi-fi system built by Harsh and students in the Assembly Hall. The car was put away for the winter. Krishnaji gave me a letter to read on the plane tomorrow, and he came in as usual before bedtime and put his hands on my head and eyes—the delicate blessing of his touch. He went to sleep at 8:30 p.m.’ He was always healing me in some way. He felt my eyes, that I shouldn’t wear glasses, and he put his hand on my back.’
The thirty-first. ‘I was up at 5 a.m., made our usual nettle tea, and sterilized the dishes as we have been doing each day.’ Why was I doing that?
S: I don’t know.
M: I don’t remember. ‘Krishnaji did his exercises and so did I, against our long hours of sitting in planes. I bathed, dressed, and had my bags ready by 9:30 a.m. I packed two large cheddar cheeses for Krishnaji to take as presents. We had breakfast in the kitchen. He has been telling me I must be very careful, very attentive when I drive. I asked if he had a feeling I was to have an accident. He said when he is with me, nothing will happen, but I must be careful because there is danger to someone very close to him. “Where there is good, evil wants to get at it,” and it can’t touch him but will try to hurt the one who is close to him, so I must be watchful, attentive.’ He said that to you, too?
S: Yes, he did.
M: Mmm. ‘At breakfast, he said, “Give fifteen minutes a day to sitting quietly, finding out what is attention. Go into it deeply.” He gave me a letter last night to read on the plane. His flight to Delhi on British Air was to go at 13:45, and Dorothy and Doris were to take him. Mine to Boston was two hours earlier. Ingrid kindly offered to take me in her car. All his things were in order. He blessed me. There, the whole life with him is a blessing. Some of the school were out on the driveway to say goodbye to me, and Krishnaji was standing in his white towel bathrobe at the kitchen window above. It was an aching pain to leave. Heathrow was a jam of passengers, with the three check-in windows for the TWA flight not manned until half an hour after the check-in time. Ingrid came in and accompanied me as far as passport control and then stayed on to see Krishnaji off when Dorothy would bring him for his 13:45 British Air flight to Delhi. He is due there nonstop at 3:30 tomorrow morning, to be met by Pama and Pupul. They then fly at 6 a.m. on to Madras, arriving there by 9:30 a.m. local time.’ My god, I do have details.
M: ‘My TWA flight left forty-five minutes late. Once airborne, I could read Krishnaji’s letter as he instructed me. It was short and said everything I care about: “Partir, c’est mourir un peu.” …“Be exceedingly watchful. Be very attentive driving. This attention must flow from the inner to the outer.”…“What a beastly day. Stia bene e sempre sia benedetta.”’ In Italian, that meanS: Be well and always be blessed. ‘I felt as though his hands touching me, were coming with me—the piece of paper carries his care and blessing.’
‘I landed in Boston at 2 p.m., coming in over the new Kennedy Library, opened ten days ago. There were no luggage carts, so I struggled to get the three bags to the customs inspector, the solitary porter for the whole hall helped to get them to the curbside, and I bribed the taxi driver to get them to the Air New England flight check-in, where Bud had made a reservation for me on the 5 o’clock flight to the Vineyard. It was a dash to the small plane. We stopped at Nantucket and then continued to the Vineyard. Lorna was there’—my cousin—‘and I got the bags into her car. I am staying comfortably upstairs in her little house. I went over to see Wooge’—that’s my stepfather…well, that was his nickname. His real name was Francis Huger McAdoo, and Huger in the South—it’s a southern name—is pronounced ‘Yougee,’ and he was called Yougee McAdoo, but the children all corrupted it into Wooge. So, ‘I went over to see Wooge. He was upstairs in bed and sadly deteriorated from the two years ago when I last saw him. He is almost blind and seems only marginally aware, like Father’—that’s my father—‘in his last days. Lynn’—that was the wonderful nurse—‘is looking after him devotedly, and there is a nice young cook and relief nurse. At last, Elmholm’—Elmholm is the name of the house—‘seems to be working properly. Lorna made our supper. And so to bed. I was pretty tired.’
And that ends the big diary for 1979, so all the entries until February fourth, 1980, will be short ones because we only have my small daily diary.
S: Well, that’s much better than nothing.
M: November first. ‘Krishnaji should be in Madras. I spoke on the telephone to Bud. He will fly up here tomorrow. I went over to see Wooge, who seems barely here, very physically deteriorated. He was in his armchair and dressed, but spends most of his time in bed. He is almost blind. I read to him. I went with Lorna to the village, and had a rest after lunch. I feel quite tired. Lorna and I had supper on trays by the fire and the TV news. I talked to Amanda and Phil, and also to Erna.’
The second. ‘Wooge was downstairs and more able to talk. I sat with him for over an hour. I walked to the village to post the first letter to Krishnaji in Rishi Valley. Lorna and I had a pizza lunch, then took flowers to Mother’s grave and Gertrude’s grave’—that was Mother’s sister, my aunt, mother of Lorna. ‘Lorna and I met Bud, who arrived at 5:15 p.m. on a charter plane. We cooked supper, and all three had a pleasant evening of talk. Bud taped reminisces of our early days.’ You’re not the only taper. [S laughs.]
The third. ‘Bud had breakfast here at Lorna’s. Then he and I went to Seven Gates’—that was a farm when I was a child. It was owned by the Webb family, and it was split up into different sites for houses, but nobody could build a house that was seen by another house. It was nicely arranged, and most of it is all kept wild; my brother has a house there. And so we went to Seven Gates ‘to see his Japanese house’—it’s an old-style Japanese house built by a great Japanese craftsman, and there’s not a nail in it; it’s all done with wood joints. ‘I came back and visited Wooge, who was tired and wished to sleep. Bud, Lorna, and I lunched here, rested, and had tea by the fire. Later we went to Edgartown, where Lorna and Bud dined with me.’
The next day, ‘It was a beautiful autumn day. Bud and I spent over an hour with Wooge, talking over past times, and Bud taped some of it. We said goodbye, Bud and I flew in a small charter plane to Peterborough, New Jersey, where Bud’s wife Lisa, and two of his children, Laurie and Lindsey, met us. We drove into New York. In Iran, students seized the U.S. embassy and took hostages.’
November fifth. ‘I cabled Krishnaji that I’m in New York, did errands for Belgian shoes, etcetera, and lunched with Bud in a restaurant around the corner. We went to the bank on business things, and then I went to Bendel’s and bought a cosmetics case. Bud, Lisa, and I dined at the apartment. I have made reservations to go to San Francisco this weekend for Liddy’s wedding.’ Liddy is my niece, one of my brother’s daughters.
The sixth. ‘I was in most of the day doing a business review with Bud, and later, the family lawyer, Mitchell Booth, came by to revise my will. We dined at Chez Pascal. Krishnaji was scheduled to go from Madras this day to Rishi Valley.’
November seventh. ‘I talked by phone to Lorna; her son-in-law, Mike Kennedy , stationed by the State Department in Tehran, is one of the hostages taken when the students there seized the U.S. embassy. I spoke to Alain Naudé. He will meet me in San Francisco Friday. I went to the Cooper Hewitt’—that’s the museum that Lisa was the head of—‘then on to Midtown on errands. After visiting downtown with Bud to see Liberty Tower’—that was a building that he was partly invested in—‘we picked up Lisa, and then to 12th Street’ to pick up Jim Kraft, the new director of The New School. We went across the Brooklyn Bridge to dine at the Riverview Café’—that’s a really nice place because you see across the East River all the blaze of the New York lights. ‘The Riverview Café, chef Laurence Forgione, made us special things that were very good. The view of the Manhattan across the East River is beautiful.’
The eighth. ‘I went to the Metropolitan Museum, then to Mitchell Booth’s office to sign my revised will. Came back to the apartment and met Philippa and David. We talked all afternoon and then we went to a Chinese restaurant on 86th Street for dinner.’
November ninth. ‘I took the United 11:45 a.m. plane to San Francisco and Bud and Lisa went on another airline. Alain met me. We stopped to see his newly rented house and then he dropped me at the Huntington Hotel. Bud and Lisa were already there. We dined at L’Etoile Restaurant downstairs. Bud, Lisa, Alain, and Miranda who moved here last week and is doing news reporting for CBS News, and whom I saw at 6:30 on the TV news. We had a festive dinner.’
The next day, ‘I went to see Blanche Mathias at 10 a.m.’ That was the old friend of Krishnaji’s who lived across the street from the Huntington, and I know we’ve talked about her.
M: ‘I lunched with Bud and Lisa at the Huntington Big 4 Restaurant, then we went to Macy’s to get presents for Liddy’—that’s the bride-to-be. ‘In a rented car we drove to a house in Redwood City, bought by Liddy and Jerry Latter’—that’s the one she was marrying. ‘Toodie was there already with her children’—that’s another daughter of Bud’s. ‘I saw, for the first time, Liddy’s little girl Cathy, called Toto, and met Jerry, whom Liddy marries tomorrow. We went to their friend’s house for dinner. Jenny’—that’s their mother—‘my brother’s first wife, and sister Helen…’ You don’t want all this stuff.
S: Yes we do. We want it all. [Chuckles.]
M: Who is going to care, except you? And I can’t believe that you’re interested.
S: But you know me.
M: Anyway, they were all at dinner.
November eleventh. ‘Bud, Lisa, and I drove to the Woodside House of Helen Miller, where Liddy and Jerry were married in a Buddhist ceremony.’ I think they made it up. [S laughs.] ‘They had a not-very-Buddhist-looking Buddhist…’
S: Yes, it’s very Californian, that.
S: You make up your own, yes.
M: ‘Much milling around. Then, lunch with lots of people. We came back to San Francisco. Miranda came at 6 p.m., and we walked across the street to the Mark Hopkins Hotel and had supper and talked.’
The twelfth. ‘I had breakfast with Bud and Lisa, then took the 10 a.m. United flight to Santa Barbara. Erna and Theo met me. We lunched at the school, then came to the cottage. It was strange to come back to it alone.’
Most of the next three days don’t have Krishnaji-related things until November sixteenth, when, ‘I wrote to Rajagopal, enclosing Krishnaji’s letter to him and a copy of Krishnaji’s authorization to me to act with regard to K & R Publications. I fetched diesel and left the green Mercedes for servicing at Dieter’s. I mailed a letter to Krishnaji.’
The next day, ‘Krishnaji’s first letter of the year from India arrived, posted from Madras November fifth. He went to Rishi Valley on the sixth. At 10 a.m., I went to a seminar at Arya Vihara organized by Fritz. There were eighteen people in all. I lunched there and went to a second session in the afternoon.’
Again, it’s mostly non-Krishnaji-related things until November twenty-sixth, when ‘Erna and I talked to Clayton Carlson at Harper & Row. He has spoken sharply to Rajagopal about his changes in the text of Krishnaji’s poems, etcetera, and they are to be put back as originally published. Alasdair came, and we went over plants, etcetera. The second letter from Krishnaji arrived, written November seventh to the seventeenth in Rishi Valley.’
On most of these days that I’m skipping I have notations that I was working at my desk that day. I also attended a weeklong seminar organized by Fritz at Arya Vihara. Then on December fourth, ‘I got a cable from Krishnaji that he hasn’t received any of my letters. I sent him a reply by cable and a long letter.’
On December eighth, ‘It was the last of the seminar meetings and I got another letter from Krishnaji posted in Rishi Valley November twenty-ninth.’
December tenth. ‘I got confirmation from Clayton Carlson at Harper that a revised-into-original-form manuscript of From Darkness to Light will be sent to us at the end of the week.’
The next day, ‘I sent Krishnaji copies of all my letters that he hasn’t received.’
For December fourteenth, I have it that Krishnaji was to go that day from Rishi Valley to Madras.
December fifteenth. ‘I spent a quiet day at home. Letter number four from Krishnaji arrived, sent December sixth from Rishi Valley. He had just received my first letter from Ojai.’
December twenty-first, ‘Erna and I went over the corrected manuscript of From Darkness to Light, but it got complicated to read together, so each of us took half to check at home.’
Editor’s Note: We have been providing links to the public talks and public discussions which Mary thought were special. Of course, we have no indication from Mary about the talks and discussions that occurred in India in the years she didn’t go to India. But we do, sometimes, get indications from Krishnaji himself in his letters to Mary. In his writing to Mary on December twenty-third, he mentions this about his talk the previous day. “Pupul & the others said that what one said was totally new and Pupul bent down to touch the feet; after the talk etc. people were touching with their forehead to the ground where one had walked! … It’s too long & too complicated to report what the talk was about; it passed out of one, words cascading.” As readers may wish to read the text of this talk, a link to it is provided here.
December twenty-third. ‘Breakfast in bed.’ It is so notable to have breakfast in bed that I note it.
S: It’s not the same thing, though, when you serve it to yourself.
M: Yes, well, I had a sort of high double act. I would assemble all the things for my breakfast, and then I set it up beforehand as though it was set up for me…
S: …by someone else.
M: Yes. I always set it up the night before, then my breakfast tray is ready for me.
S: Yes, yes.
M: And I would also turn down my bed before I went to bed.
S: Right. As if someone had done it for you. [Both laugh.]
M: Well, it’s a pleasant illusion.
S: Yes, I agree. [More laughter.]
M: ‘I worked on proofreading’—that’s what I was doing in bed—‘then lunched at 3 p.m. with the Hookers at the Ranch House. I was back by 5 p.m. and proofread until 10 p.m.’
The next day, ‘I got Krishnaji’s fifth letter sent from Madras on the fourteenth. Rain came at last. I had Christmas Eve supper with Erna and Theo at 6 p.m.’
Christmas Day. ‘I telephoned Wooge and spoke to Ann’—that’s one of his daughters—‘and Lorna. I also telephoned Dorothy at Brockwood, Sam’s brother and sister, and learned that her husband had died last summer. I drove down in the afternoon to the Dunnes’, and spent the night there.’
December twenty-sixth. ‘I had a pleasant morning talking to Amanda and Phil. Joan and John Houseman came to lunch.’ John Houseman, does that mean anything to you?
S: Yes, it does.
M: I first knew him when he was a partner of Orson Welles, and I worked on radio things with Orson, back in New York. When Orson died, John came out to California; he and his wife Joan lived in Malibu, actually. And they were friends of the Dunnes, too. ‘I drove back to Ojai.’
The twenty-seventh, ‘John McGreevy brought a friend and sculptor, Jonathan Hirschfeld, to lunch.’ John McGreevy was a Canadian who made that rather mannered thing of Krishnaji walking around the garden. You remember?
S: Yes. Yes, I remember.
M: ‘McGreevy is to find out if Bill Moyers might do an interview with Krishnaji.’ I wish that had happened.
M: ‘The Russians invaded Afghanistan.’
December twenty-ninth. ‘I finished proofreading From Darkness to Light, correcting the butchery done to poems by Rajagopal. In the afternoon, I walked with Erna and Theo around the block.’
And the last day of the year says: ‘I went over corrected proofs of From Darkness to Light with Erna and Theo and sent them to Harper. I posted a letter to Krishnaji addressed to Bombay, marketed, and cooked dinner for Erna and Theo. They left before 10 p.m., and I sat up and passed into the new year and the ’80s, listening to one of Krishnaji’s talks.’ I thought that was the way to do it.
S: Oh, how nice, how nice.
M: ‘Bud, Lisa, and Laurie had telephoned earlier from Paris.’ End of 1979, and so, finally the end of the 1970s.
S: 1970s, oh good, thank god. We thought we’d never get out of them. 
Alright, so now we’re beginning January first, 1980.
M: Hurray! Alright. January first, 1980. It starts in Ojai, and it sayS: ‘Asit Chandmal rang from San Francisco with news of Krishnaji. Asit returns to Bombay tomorrow. Krishnaji goes there from Madras on the tenth, and Asit will advise him on ways to get here in case the political situations worsen.’ I don’t know whether that was situations in India or what.
S: I would imagine it was flying over the Middle East back to England.
M: Perhaps it will unfold. ‘A quiet day. I mostly did letters. Went for a walk. It is as warm as summer.’
Then, again, I’ll skip a lot of days until January ninth. ‘Krishnaji’s seventh letter, written from December twenty-first to the twenty-ninth and posted in Madras. Letter number six is missing.’ He used to write a little bit each day.
M: ‘Harper and Row telephoned about the publisher’s note in the poem book. I rewrote part of it.’
January eleventh, ‘I got a letter from Dr. Parchure on a health diet of Krishnaji. Carol and Joe Zorski came to supper at 6 p.m. Krishnaji went from Madras to Bombay.’
The next day. ‘The rain stopped. I telephoned New York and spoke to Lisa. Bud, who has had pneumonia, is better. I also spoke to Toodie’—that’s the daughter—‘who went there for the weekend. Drove to Malibu and lunched with the Dunnes. Ray Eames, Barbara Poe’—that’s a friend—‘Joe Cohn’—that’s a friend of Sam’s and mine and he was the executive producer of Sam in the studio; they had people who did business and then producers who did movies, and he was a great old friend of Sam’s and mine, and he was with Sam in Rome when Sam died—‘Joyce and Jules Buck’—that’s another friend—‘Polly Pierson, Evelyn Keyes were there. I went across the canyon. The fault has reopened along the same place. The earth was to have been fixed. Also a slide on the west side is moving. Four-and-a-half inches of rain in the last few days did it. Came back by 6 p.m. and found the missing sixth letter from Krishnaji posted in Madras had come. I agreed to Alan Hooker becoming a trustee.’ The land situation in Malibu was very worrying.
Then we skip to January fifteenth, when ‘I telephoned Mary Cadogan to be sure she booked Krishnaji’s ticket from London to Los Angeles. The Hookers and Lilliefelts came to tea. As Krishnaji has agreed, the Foundation invited Alan Hooker to become a trustee in place of Ruth Tettemer, who was retiring. Mrs. Gandhi became prime minister again.’
The next day, ‘I typed Letters to the Schools, had them photocopied, and sent them off. There was another offer on the Malibu house.’
January nineteenth, ‘The Hidleys and the Zutaverns and their daughters Kate and Vicky came at 2 p.m. to ask me about Brockwood.’ Hidley was a psychiatrist in Ojai, and he was…
S: Yes. And eventually his daughter Kate came to Brockwood as a student, and he had discussions that were videotaped with he and Sheldrake and Krishnaji here.
M: Yes, in the living room here. And the Zutaverns were friends of theirs, I guess.
S: Vicky Zutavern came to Brockwood, also.
M: That’s right. ‘Walked with Erna and Theo around the block. I saw Louisa Kennedy on television reading a letter from her husband Mike.’ He was still a hostage in Tehran.
Then we’ll skip again until January twenty-third. ‘Krishnaji’s ninth letter arrived, sent on January tenth.’
And the next day, ‘Krishnaji’s eighth letter arrived.’
January twenty-seventh. ‘I went to a seminar at Arya Vihara at 10 a.m., then lunched there. My real estate person telephoned that a buyer, a Mrs. McNichol, has accepted my counteroffer on the Malibu house.’
S: Oh, eureka.
M: Yes, exactly.
January twenty-ninth, ‘Mr. Schwartz brought the Saarinen chair recovered in red’—which is Krishnaji’s bedroom chair.
January thirty-first. ‘I went to Beverly Hills on various errands, but was back in Ojai by 5:30 p.m. By then Krishnaji was in the air from Bombay to London.’
The first of February. ‘Krishnaji, having left Bombay at 3:40 a.m., arrived in London at 6 a.m. Ojai time. I telephoned Brockwood. He was safely there and sounded well. I lunched at Arya Vihara with Evelyne, the Lilliefelts, and seminar people. The trustees had an informal meeting in the afternoon.’
February second. ‘I was home all day preparing the house for Krishnaji’s arrival. There is a new outdoor table, inset with tiles from the Malibu house that’s out on the patio, and two benches made by a carpenter.’
February fourth, and we are back to the bigger diary. ‘The house is polished and so was the green Mercedes today. The house rose beds are made, and the lantana, camellias, jasmine, rosemary, and rock roses are planted. Two hanging baskets of cyclamen are on the north patio. Some painting has been done, and the front door oiled, etcetera.’ In those days, the front door was natural wood and you just oiled it. But it got spattered with rain, so I painted it later. ‘The yard was swept. The house and I are waiting for Krishnaji’s arrival tomorrow.’
February fifth. ‘Lorna telephoned at 9:30 a.m. Wooge had died about half an hour earlier at Elmholm. Pneumonia took his life as it had Mother’s, but really it was the body’s final failing. Sally and Peter’—that’s one of his daughters and her husband—‘had been with him last week and Sally was unsure if he had really known they were there. Francis’—that’s Wooge’s son—‘was arriving today. Wooge was a very dear man in all our lives. I was about to leave for the airport when Lorna rang, but Krishnaji’s TWA flight due at 2:40 p.m. was late by two hours leaving London, because of engine trouble. I saw him debark through a window and there was Asit with him. Krishnaji was in his gray herringbone overcoat and wore a shirt made in India from the Viyella I found for him at Liberty’s.’ [Chuckles.] ‘He looked well and less tired than he should’ve been. I thought he told me on the telephone last Friday when he was at Brockwood that “Asit is coming,” but I understood Asit was coming later. I rang Erna to get the guest room opened up. When they finally emerged, we set off for Ojai. Krishnaji was pleased to see the gray Mercedes. It had been washed in West Los Angeles an hour earlier. It was dark as we passed Malibu and 8 p.m. when we came up the drive in Ojai. Erna, Theo, Mark, Asha, Fritz, Margrete, Michael Krohnen, and Alan Hooker, newly a trustee, were waiting by the pepper tree to greet him. I had made soup in the morning and we had supper after Krishnaji had inspected and shown Asit the house. Krishnaji, at last, home and in his bed.’
February sixth. ‘Krishnaji was up very early but went back to sleep again till 6 a.m., when we went into the still-dark kitchen and had nettle tea. I telephoned Bud. Wooge’s funeral is on Saturday. Bud saw Wooge last Thursday. I telephoned Francis at Elmholm. Asit came for breakfast with Krishnaji and me in the kitchen; Krishnaji sitting in front of the Norwegian stove. We had Erna and Theo come over at 11:30 a.m., and Krishnaji had Asit tell us about a computer scheme to invest in.’ Thank god I didn’t do it. [S chuckles.] ‘Krishnaji thought it might help the Foundations, but we had to explain that the Foundations cannot invest in speculations. I got lunch, and we five sat at the lunch table till after 4 p.m., Krishnaji wanting to talk, unwilling to rest. Radha Burnier has resigned from the KFI to run for president of the Theosophical Society after John Coats’ death. Rukmini Arundale, her aunt, is the opposing candidate. Krishnaji covered all the Indian news. Finally, he went back to bed, and had supper on a tray while I gave Asit dinner in the kitchen. After Asit had gone, Krishnaji told me of the something new that is going on inside him. It began in Rishi Valley. He said, “It could be the committee—or some other.” What other? I asked. He didn’t know. “We will write about it”…“I am further away”…“Pupul and Nandini noticed it, and said, ‘We have lost you, you are not with us.’” Krishnaji is “cooking” Asit, thinks him very bright and if this financial thing goes through, Asit in five years will be free and able to devote himself to Krishnaji’s work.’ [S chuckles.] ‘Krishnaji wants to put money into the scheme. Finally, at 11 p.m., he went to bed. He told me again that he wrote to me everyday or I “would fade from my consciousness.”’ He said the reason he wrote so often was so he wouldn’t…um…
S: Forget you.
M: …forget me. [S laughs heartily.]
M: Somehow, it seemed quite normal. [M chuckles.]
S: Now, what is this “committee” he mentions?
S: I know.
M: Who knows.
S: From somewhere other.
M: Something that may or may not arrange and decide things.
S: Right. So this is some group that on some nonphysical level…
M: Undefined group.
S: Right, that decides things.
M: That decides things. And you can do your own casting if you choose to fantasize…
S: Right, of who’s on the committee.
M: But I don’t attempt to straighten it out.
S: No. I’m just asking this for the record. [Chuckles.]
M: One can imagine things but I don’t…
M: …I don’t believe what I imagine, necessarily.
M: The seventh. ‘Krishnaji was awake at 6 a.m., and talked at length to me till almost 8 a.m. There’s something that began in Rishi Valley that has given him tremendous energy. The brain is charged. “I have changed my idea of how long I will live, maybe much longer.” Asit came for breakfast. Michael is now to do the luncheons at Arya Vihara. So, Krishnaji, Asit, Erna, Theo, and I lunched there today. At 4 p.m., we walked down Thacher Road and around the block.’
The next day. ‘Krishnaji slept in the morning. We lunched again at Arya Vihara and walked up Horn Canyon. Krishnaji thinks it is thirty years since he has walked that far up there. The real estate man says that the buyer, Mrs. McNichols wants to start the escrow immediately, as soon as my lawyer okays her financial situation.’ Oh, good.
The ninth. ‘Wooge’s funeral and burial at the Vineyard is today. The Island is apparently covered with snow and sunlight. Bud telephoned me during our dinnertime on his return to New York from the Vineyard. Almost all the family were there. Dear, dear Wooge. Bud was a pallbearer and he broke down at the funeral.’ Wooge was a really a better father to my brother than his own father was.
M: …because he was around more.
S: And he did things like read stories and played games…
M: Yes, you know, and the quizzes Wooge made up. And all that sort of family life…
M: He was very much a part of that, and as a stepfather, he was perfection, because he was funny and affectionate and fond of us, and never took any authority over us, never told us what to do and not to do.
M: He was just a lovely person. A nice man in every way. ‘Krishnaji began his exercises.
Krishnaji talked to Asit, Erna, Theo, and me on how to hold the Foundations together. We all lunched at Arya Vihara. Max came and fixed the door. We walked down McAndrew.’
The tenth. ‘I talked to Sally and Anne at Elmholm’—they were Wooge’s two daughters by his first marriage. ‘Krishnaji, Asit, Erna, Theo, etcetera lunched at Arya Vihara, and later walked around the block.’
February eleventh. ‘Asit at breakfast discussed photography and checked all my equipment. He has taken constant photographs of Krishnaji here and in India.’ By the way, all those pictures are now in KFA. He bequeathed them. ‘I gave him an introduction to Clayton Carlson at Harper & Row to discuss a book of pictures of Krishnaji. Later, I took Asit in the green Mercedes to the Santa Barbara Airport, where he flew to San Francisco. Krishnaji was tired and turned out the light right after supper at 8 p.m. I spoke to Lorna at the Vineyard, and saw Louisa on television today. It is the 100th day the hostages have been held in Tehran.’
The twelfth. ‘Krishnaji slept nine-and-a-half hours in the night, stayed in bed all day and slept on and off another three hours. “This is luxury,” he said.’ [Both chuckle.] ‘He dreamt I said, “I must write a book!’” Meaning that he dreamt that I said I must write a book. ‘He read some poetry. He asked for the Oxford book of poetry, for some Keats, Shakespeare, Swinburne, Hopkins, O’Shaughnessy. When I said that Hopkins was a Jesuit, Krishnaji said, “Oh, that rather spoils it.”’ [S laughs, then M chuckles.] Oh dear.
February thirteenth. ‘Krishnaji wished me a happy birthday.’ He usually didn’t know it was my birthday. I don’t know how he knew, but anyway, he did. ‘He said, “We’ve had a marvelous relationship. It must be that way always. I am speaking as the world teacher. You are blessed.”’
S: Oh, how sweet, how nice. [M chuckles.]
M: ‘Later, Bud and Lisa telephoned, Naudé, too, and Winky. It was a rainy day. Electricians put extra plugs in the patio. We lunched at Arya Vihara. Krishnaji talked almost two hours at the table, questioning Mark on the school, etcetera. Then he rested. Erna and Theo came to go on a walk, but the rain was heavy so we had tea in front of the Norwegian stove and then watched President Carter’s news conference on television.’ That’s a great way to spend your birthday. ‘Supper and early to bed.’
Then nothing really until the fifteenth. ‘It continues to rain. Two inches in the night here, but more in Los Angeles. I went to Dieter’s with the green car, and left it there. Alan Kishbaugh picked me up and drove me back to Ojai. He, Erna, and I discussed publication matters. It was Krishnaji’s “day off,” so he didn’t exercise, but stayed in bed all morning. He got up at noon and we all lunched at Arya Vihara. There was a discussion with Mark of the teachers’ discontent and other problems. I spoke to the real estate man, an appointment to start the escrow is on Tuesday. Alan took me back to fetch the car. Krishnaji had walked in spite of the light rain with Erna and Theo. He said he had told them, “You are not using me enough here, ” and said we must discuss this.’
February sixteenth. ‘It rained heavily all night. Krishnaji had Erna and Theo come over at 10 a.m. We sat by the fire and he put to us the question of his not being “used” enough here. “Am I just going to talk to the teachers who understand nothing for two months? It is a waste.”’ [Both chuckle lightly.] ‘He needs the challenge of someone who can push him deeper, someone who has gone into all this. How can we find such a person? He dismisses scientists as not really interested, artists, musicians, journalists, and religiously oriented people as already committed to their own beliefs, etcetera. The ordinary individual is hard to find. Where are the serious, intelligent ones who go in his direction? “Maybe there aren’t any. Maybe this is the way it is supposed to be. I’m not frustrated, but it is a waste.” There is a danger, too, that he will get further and further away. He feels this. It is a lack that confronts him everywhere. At present there is much going on in India but it is an outward response and activity, people offering to help start schools, donate their services, but not this inward exploring. It is intensely painful to me. His frequent telling that the Buddha had only two disciples who understood him, and they both died before he did, is like a knife wound. One wants to give him everything, and this is the most essential of gifts, but I am unable to search for people. I am doubtful of my own capabilities in exploring with him. I understand many things, but make no claims to anything. Am I wrong? Am I hiding in a kind of withdrawal from pushing in this direction? My instincts are to protect him, cherish the man and his energies, but perhaps he needs the demands of challenge. Can I do that? I have felt the physical fatigue for a number of months, but energy comes when it is needed and demanded. The rain poured down. We lunched at Arya Vihara. We had invited Maris Lindley to please her. There was a telephone call from Betsy, who has sold her house to an Iranian for the full price in cash. I spoke to Amanda. The Pacific Coast Highway is closed. Malibu has no electricity, and the rain is heavy. Ojai is also cut off. Krishnaji came into the study at 4 p.m., and as there was a lull in the rain, we walked down to the Lilliefelts’ and then to the dip. The torrent of brown water was thundering over rocks that had washed into the road. Krishnaji watched it like a child. At the Lilliefelts’, while waiting for them, he said, “I am thirsty,” and drank a little rain off the leaves of a trumpet vine.’
February seventeenth. ‘The rain continues. Ojai is cut off. Malibu is cut off. We lunched at Arya Vihara, then watched the winter Olympics at Lake Placid on television. The earth is sliding more at my place in Malibu.’ Thank god, it was sold. ‘Nothing can be done. Blau telephoned to be optimistic that the escrow will start Tuesday in spite of all this.’ So, we must not have stopped worrying. [S chuckles.]
The eighteenth. ‘The rain was intermittent through the day. Southern California is in chaos. Malibu remains isolated. My place is crumbling along the fault. Whether the buyer, Mrs. McNichols, will end the escrow remains to be seen tomorrow. Lou Blau called last night to say he thought she would not, which raised my rain-soaked spirits. Krishnaji and I stayed in all day except for lunch at Arya Vihara. Krishnaji found a copy of La Fontaine’s Fables, which I had bound years ago when I did book binding. “I used to do that,” he said unexpectedly.’
‘“When?” I asked.’
‘“Madame de Manziarly did it and showed me how.”’
‘In the evening we watched the ice hockey, which Krishnaji found very skillful, and the men’s giant slalom in the winter Olympics.’ I like watching that, I must say.
S: That was the eighteenth, and we have to leave it there because we’re running out of tape.
S: So, we’ll begin next time on February nineteenth.
M: The nineteenth, good. That’s wonderful.
 “The process.” Back to text.
 A quote from the French poet Edmond Haraucourt: “To part, is to die a little.” Back to text.
 Moorhead C. Kennedy, nick named Mike. Back to text.
 It looks from this manuscript like we just carried on with the next day, year, and decade; but, in fact, Mary and I turned off the tape recorder and had a little celebration that we had finally gotten through the 1970s. Back to text.