Issue 68—June 26, 1981 to July 31, 1981
In general, this issue follows Krishnaji’s and Mary’s lives uneventfully from Brockwood to Paris to Gstaad. But, there are some private conversations between the two of them that are quietly remarkable.
The Memoirs of Mary Zimbalist: Issue #68
Mary: So, we begin today with my diary entry of June twenty-six, 1981: ‘Krishnaji had insufficient sleep, as he couldn’t get back to sleep after last night’s intruder.’ You’ll remember that the night before was the night that a demented Irish man broke into Krishnaji’s bedroom and the police had to be called. ‘I telephoned to Saral. Dave is a little better. Krishnaji spoke to her twice during the conversation. Dorothy drove Krishnaji, Jean-Michel, and me to Heathrow, where we flew on British Air, a 2:30 p.m. flight to Paris. We had a picnic lunch on the way in the car. In Paris, Jean-Michel drove us to La Tour d’Argent. Bud has lent us his flat. Krishnaji and I shopped for a little food, and other things we thought we might need, then walked across the Seine to the back of Notre Dame. When we got back to the flat, we had soup sent down from La Tour. I telephoned Dorothy, who had just heard that Dave was holding his own. I slept fitfully. It is cold in Paris.’
The twenty-seventh. ‘The Marogers came at 1:45 p.m. Then Prema Srinivasan came, bringing briefly her friends Monsieur and Madame Jean-Louis Dumas. They left and Krishnaji, Prema, Marie Bertrand, Jean-Michel, and I had a good lunch at La Tour. Daisy’—that’s my niece—‘came by. She is touring Europe with three friends. The Marogers came with Krishnaji and me to the film Shogun.’ Remember that?
Scott: Ah, yes.
M: ‘We walked back from the film, and the again the Tour sent down soup, and some other small things. I spoke to Dorothy, again. Dave was briefly taken off the heart machine but had to be put right back on it.’
The next day, ‘Krishnaji slept better. It was cold and drizzly. We walked to the Marogers’ small flat in Rue Seigner, and had lunch with the two of them. We came back in Jean-Michel’s car. Krishnaji slept all afternoon. I gave tea to Daisy and her friends, whom I met for the first time. We talked for two hours. They left and I made potato soup for Krishnaji and me. We ate on trays. Dorothy rang. Dave is off the heart support machine as of this morning, and his heart is holding up. But Montague had to go to Winchester Hospital this morning with prostate trouble and will have to be operated on.’ I don’t remember that.
S: I don’t either.
M: June twenty-ninth. ‘It is again cold, fifty-five degrees and raining. Krishnaji is feeling tired. He says his stomach feels heavy. He stayed in bed. I got him a bouillotte.’ Do you remember—did you have bouillottes in your French childhood? A bouillotte is a hot water bag. [Chuckles.] ‘I got him a bouillotte and shopped for food. I made our lunch, which Krishnaji had in bed. At 4:30 p.m., Nadia Kossiakof, who is now well again after her operation in March, and Mar de Manziarly came to tea. Krishnaji came en robe de chambre.’ That’s a wrapper.
S: A housecoat/bathrobe kind of thing.
M: Yes. ‘Krishnaji talked to Nadia about sharing editing with the French committee. My brother telephoned from New York.’ [Laughs.] ‘Lisa,’—that’s his wife—‘is to be made a Knight of Malta.’ [Chuckles.] ‘So they will come over.’ She ran a museum and that, I don’t know, had something to do with it. ‘So, they will come over for two days at the end of July. Daisy came by to leave some things and cooked eggs for her and her friends to eat on their trip tomorrow. I made our supper, telephoned Frances’s sister, Helen McCann, in Lausanne. Frances visits her tomorrow.’
June thirtieth. ‘There is a little sun today, and Krishnaji felt better. We went to the Morgan Bank. Lunched at Le Meurice. Bought books at WHSmith and Roger and Gallet soap at Swans’—that’s a pharmacy in Paris. ‘Went to Charvet and ordered four shirts for Krishnaji and three for me, then came back to the flat. At 4:30 p.m., Krishnaji gave an interview to a Madame Rena Dumas.’ That was the friend of Prema’s who had come the day before. ‘La Tour sent down soup, etcetera for supper.’ For whoever needs to know, La Tour d’Argent is the restaurant on the top floor of the building where my brother had his flat.
S: Yes, we know. But it interests me that you ate lunch at Le Meurice.
M: I know. It did me, too. It surprised me when I just saw it. I don’t know why we went there. Perhaps it was near where we were, but…
S: It’s near the WH Smith and all that, but…
M: It’s not a place to go for lunch…not in our lives. Well, that is what it said. [S chuckles.]
July first, 1981. ‘A most extraordinary event. At supper, Krishnaji told me I must write about him, and that I will do it very well. That neither Mary nor Pupul can do what I can, because I am with him, know what he says, what he feels, and what it is like to be with him day by day. He said I should write about being in Notre Dame today. ‘You will start a book and it will be published. Start now. Start with more than notes. Start the book.’ He got excited about it, and stopped only for a coal barge, as long as a football field, coming around on the Seine near Notre Dame.’ [Both laugh.] ‘We rushed to the windows. The tug skipper ruled the seas. Then Krishnaji came back to the table and urged me on, saying, “I am excited about it.” I put up my strong inhibitions of the past about writing: the sense of the subject being too vast, and my being too close to him to be able to be the one to write it, and I said I had never intended to write about him. “You will,” he said, “I want you to.” An odd thing in this is that I woke up early this morning and decided to restart these writings, going back to begin with ten days ago, June twenty-second, and catching up. So here is today: I’d begun in my brother’s flat in the Tour d’Argent, where Krishnaji did his breathing exercise for an hour while I went for the Herald Tribune and croissants at the bakery across the street. Later, I went marketing on the Île Saint Louis and puttered back, the shopping bag heavy with artichokes, haricots verts like wisps’—you know little delicate ones—‘a lettuce head like a bride’s bouquet, cresson’—that’s watercress—‘and…fraises des bois.’ Wild strawberries. [Chuckles.] See, look at all this writing…
S: Oh, good.
M: I was inspired to write down everything…‘And a melting brie and a demi-baguette. Then, I ran clothes’ [laughs] ‘through Bud and Lisa’s washing washer and dryer, in the flat. Krishnaji and I walked through the side streets, and then we walked along the quay, to lunch at the Marogers’, Krishnaji lagging behind because he looks at everything.’
S: Where did the Marogers live at that time?
M: Nearby, I’ve forgotten the address. They moved shortly afterward to a new address.
S: Ah, but they lived on the Left Bank?
M: Yes, on the Left Bank. Not too far away. ‘So Krishnaji, lagging behind because he looks at everything, laughed at a white china toilet bowl left like a milk bottle at a door and at me for not seeing it. We cut over to the side streets where there is more to see. Krishnaji in his elegance,’ he dressed beautifully as you know, ‘was more eccentric than the students and tourists.’ [Both chuckle.] ‘A pleasant lunch again by Marie-Bertrand. Genevieve Gerard, the young woman who was starting her own school in Neuilly, came to talk about it to Krishnaji and made a good impression. Marie-Bertrand and I did the washing up. Then both Marogers drove us to see the new Krishnaji Information Center over beyond the Boulevard de Grenelle. Pascaline Mallet and Gisela Elmenhorst, who has retired from her job and will devote herself to the center and the French committee, showed us around. It is a nicely small, but not too small, shop. We left and headed for the Etoile, and where Krishnaji suggested going to Vuitton, as he had thought of a shoulder bag for traveling, and we found one. This gave me much satisfaction.’ [Both chuckle.] ‘We then drove down the Champs-Élysées, past Beauburg, which we hadn’t seen and found ugly.’ [Seems to explain:] ‘The Marogers dropped us off by Notre Dame to walk home. “Let’s go in,” said Krishnaji. We walked around the left to look first at the western rose window, Krishnaji noticing the curve of the arches. He was disturbed by tourists turning away restlessly from a priest in satin vestments and dark glasses intoning a mass.’ I’m full of details. ‘We stopped at the blue east rose window, and Krishnaji was alive and eager at the fluted columns, massively holding up the huge cathedral. “They must’ve felt something to build all that,” he said. “But it loses its sacredness in the stream of tourists.” He noticed the crushed cigarettes at the door and was bothered by the empty faces. He would like to send them all away and let the cathedral be cleaned of them and be itself again. He talked impatiently, intently, and we walked along the little park; and he added that Indians, though it means nothing to them, would have lit candles with the rest.’ You know, you light little candles and make a prayer. ‘We came back through the Île Saint Louis, where I had shopped in the morning, and so to our supper and Krishnaji’s pronouncement that it is fine.’ I have had too many attitudes about writing. These are overboard now.
S: Right. [Both chuckle.]
M: That was a milestone day.
July second. ‘Dorothy rang late last night to say that Montague’s prostate operation is to be this morning. I rang her this evening. It is over and it went well. I asked if there had been a lab report, and she didn’t know about that. He will be in the hospital two weeks. Dave is now in the normal ward and is up and walking. It has been a week of surgeries. Here in Paris, it was another gray day, turning to rain by lunchtime, and very quiet for us. Except for going to get croissants and the newspaper, I stayed in. I did our laundry in Bud’s machine. Marie-Bertrand and Diane lunched with us in the Tour. Diane walked holding tightly to her mother’s and my hand. She was delighted to come, and looked at everything sagely, as did Krishnaji. He was wearing, for the first time, a gray worsted suit he had made in 1973, and his gleaming shoes looked like antique lacquer. They were made, of course, by Lobbs, in the 1920s. As almost always, he pays me the compliment of asking me which tie to wear. He watched a table of Japanese tourists, knew how many there were, and observed the coarseness of some of the lunchers. These sorties out into the world impress him with their degeneration. He sees with impatience the ugliness. He talked a little about his early days in Paris and couldn’t remember at all when I asked how he managed living alone on the Rue des Colonels-Renard.’ That’s up near the Etoile. ‘Who saw to things? Who cooked, cleaned, did the laundry? He laughs and says he has no idea. His shyness seems to have protected him from advancing women.’ [Both chuckle.] ‘He thinks it’s funny. We had again the splendid dessert of fraises des bois and raspberries surrounding pistachio ice cream, with strawberry sauce over the berries. Krishnaji “treated” Diane downstairs while I went to pay our Tour bill. Krishnaji had said, “Let’s go back to Notre Dame,” but by 4 p.m., when Marie-Bertrand and Diane left, it was raining and very bleak, so he went to bed instead. He spoke again of this book I am to write, saying I must say who I am, how I came into all this, the story of Hirschfeld.’ That’s the story of how I learned about Krishnaji. I know I’ve told all this early in our conversations, but…Hirschfeld was Sam Hirschfeld, my doctor, and everybody’s doctor in California, and my friend. Hirschfeld had a friend, another doctor, from Chicago, who had found he had various serious heart trouble, and this Chicago doctor told his family and his friends, “I am going to California to learn how to die from a man named Krishnamurti.” Well, this caused consternation here and there; and my friend, Sam Hirschfeld, who was his friend, went up to Ojai to find out what this was all about. I happen to go into his office for some medical thing, I don’t know what, on the weekend after he’d been to Ojai. He called me into his office because we used to talk about all sorts of things; he was a surgeon and an overall doctor, but he was interested in everything psychological, and I had gone through years of psychoanalysis. So, we used to talk about psychiatry and people thinking and everything about that subject, just for fun, as friends.
S: This would have been in what year? In the forties?
M: Yes in the forties. Yes. Let’s see, yes, I think it would have been an early 1944. Anyway, he told me the story about how he’d gone to see his friend, and he had met this Krishnamurti; and he said, “He knows more about the human mind than anyone living or dead.” At that, my ears went up because that’s what interested me.
S: Of course.
M: I’ve told this story to you and everybody else who asks, “How did you meet Krishnamurti?” And so, I heard sometime after that, that this Krishnamurti was going to be giving public talks in Ojai. So, out of curiosity, I went. And I listened. Krishnaji is so impressive you can’t help but be impressed. While there, I bought a pamphlet, those things we used to sell as Verbatim Talks, and took it home and started reading it. Krishnaji, at that time, spoke only on weekends, so through the week, I read this thing and I found myself arguing all the way down the book, as my conditioning was psychoanalytic and it didn’t quite mesh with this different point of view [chuckles]. And then, fortunately, I decided by the end of the week that it was stupid to argue with the thing. I thought, “If I want to know what he says and thinks, go and listen to him.” So I went back the second weekend, and that was an epiphany: Suddenly, light dawned. And that started my whole interest, that second talk. So anyway, this is the Hirschfeld story referred to in this.
M: Now where was I?…Krishnaji spoke of the book I am to write, saying that I must say who I am, how I came into all this, the story of Hirschfeld, and how I went to hear a talk out of curiosity. Right. ‘I told Krishnaji at supper of buying a booklet and being unable to finish a page because of arguing with it, then going to the next talk where it dawned on me not to argue, but simply to listen. “You must write that,” he said. “It shows you’re not a disciple, but understand something.” I also described to him my vivid memory of first meeting him alone on the path heading into the Grove just before a talk. The vivid cross of looks and that that is what I think of when he has said to me, “We should have met many years before.” He said we probably would have not been very passionate about the look, “but there would have been something continuing to this. We should have met.” Then he stopped. “No, it is right as it has happened. It is exactly right as it is.”’
Yes, I remember that first glance at each other…I had my dog with me, a big German shepherd dog, whom I had to leave in the car, obviously. And I went out to check that the window was open enough and it was still shady. I put the car in the shade, but I was uneasy, and I walked out just before the talk to check on the dog, and that’s when I ran into Krishnaji coming down the hill through the Grove. That was the first direct glimpse of him person-to-person. So that was that.
July third, ‘I packed. Jean-Michel came and helped us get a taxi and get our five bags into it. We were off to Orly Airport, and the Swiss Air flight. While waiting in the departure lounge, Marie-Bertrand and Daphne came to say goodbye as the family was en route to their home at La Mahaudiére. Krishnaji and I reached Geneva and the Hotel des Bergues at 1:15 p.m., in time for a pleasant late lunch in the Amphitryon, soigneusement, provided by familiar staff.’ That’s their restaurant. ‘Both admitted we were relieved to have left Paris, and to be in Switzerland. This old-fashioned, orderly, immaculately, Swiss-ly clean hotel, with its boring décor, is a comfort in which to find ourselves. Why was Paris all wrong for both of us? Krishnaji confessed the apartment upset him. He had done the mysterious exorcising, that thing that he does in strange rooms, to both the bedroom he used and the one I was in, but it failed to have its effect. The fact that the decoration of the flat is uncomfortable from our point of view (too ornate, fussy, excessive mirrors, gold faucets, and the oppressive black and heavy flowered fabric on the walls in Krishnaji’s room, etcetera) wasn’t the only reason. There was something wrong in the atmosphere. I tried to sort out what it could be with Krishnaji. Had the fact of my father’s illness and death left an imprint? Or Olive’s madness?’ Olive was my father’s second wife, and she got more neurotic as she got older. ‘Krishnaji couldn’t say, but something kept him from sleeping there and upset his stomach, too. “Have we become too sensitive?” he asked. I too was not comfortable, but that could have been concern over Krishnaji, seeing to the logistics of his meals, etcetera. I also had, and continue to have, the odd feeling that I have not been in Paris. And I was glad to leave and move onto Switzerland, where coping with daily life is easier, more familiar, and, therefore, one lives on a deeper level. Anyway, Paris remains a bit of a mystery to us both. At supper, Krishnaji wondered if the atmosphere of the flat reflects intensely self-centered people. He also said that he was very vacant there; and, therefore, did not dominate the surroundings. He said he had felt especially close to me, had I noticed it? I had, from the time we left Brockwood. He seemed to need my presence and a protection. After lunch, we walked to Patek, where both watches were left for oiling and servicing; then to Jacquet, where the younger man was absent, but an older man waited on Krishnaji. He was not as helpful as the younger man, and so the choice of ties to be made for Joe and Krishnaji went less easily, which tired Krishnaji, and he got vague. But choices were made.’ Usually, there was great pouring over the silks because these ties were all made to order, if you please.
S: Yes, yes. Of course. [Both chuckle.]
M: ‘We did some small errands at Grand Passage, etcetera, and returned to the hotel for rest. We dined later in the Amphitryon and so to the immaculate cleanness of bed. I telephoned Vanda at Tannegg.’ Swiss hotels were really nice and comfortable.
S: Yes. I always think of crisp sheets, and a remarkable lack of fussiness, even in fancy ones. In the décor, in mean.
M: Yes. They were not pretentious in any way. [Both chuckle.] They were comfortable, clean, and efficient.
July fourth. ‘We both slept well, and woke up to sunshine. It is nice to be here, we kept saying. We had a quiet, lazy morning at the hotel, and then went to the Pharmacie Centrale to get a travel bathrobe for Krishnaji we saw yesterday.”
S: You would’ve bought the towel bathrobe at Grand Passage, no?
M: Yes. We bought all those towel bathrobes through the years at Grand Passage. I’ve still got some.
S: Yes. I have several. [Laughs.]
M: You have several and I have a couple very frayed ones in the closet. They go in the neck.
S: Yes, yes. I know. [Both chuckle.]
M: And I think Kathy has some, too.
S: Oh, good, good.
M: ‘We lunched in the Amphitryon. Krishnaji asked me what I would feel if he died suddenly. He said he felt rather as if he already had. He didn’t explain what he meant by this, but went on to describe what death usually means to most people, the average person, the state of shock that endures at being bereft, left, let down. He thought of all this last week when it was touch-and-go with David Bohm. I asked him what had gone through his mind then, and he said, “I said to myself, he mustn’t die because, first of all, he is a nice man, interested. There are very few of them like that. I said, if he lives, I am going to ask him to leave all that nonsense about the third dimension, the implicate order, wholeness, etcetera. You see, I think basically there must be a conflict in him of which he may be unaware. I would say to him, let’s gather a group of serious people. Come and settle at Brockwood, don’t travel. You can’t travel anymore. Let’s work together and create a nucleus of people who are intellectually tops and spiritually geniuses. I said I would tell him that.” After lunch, Hertz delivered a little yellow Ford Fiesta, into the back of which our five bags and hand luggage just fitted; and we set off for Gstaad, going gently along the Route du Lac, preferred by Krishnaji. It was a warm, sunny summer day at last. The lake was Monet blue and Krishnaji pointed to trees as we passed them. We had one of our “if we had to live in Europe” conversations—where would we choose?’ We used to talk about that, and ‘Krishnaji said somewhere near here but higher up, looking down at the lake. He said, “Switzerland is safe and stable.” It would be in French-speaking Switzerland. But then he laughed and said, “But I prefer California.”’ [S laughs.] ‘We went on all the familiar roads through Mézières, Oron, and Bulle, where we stopped to buy gâteau Bullois.’ Do you remember that?
S: Yes, of course. Very well.
M: ‘We reached Gstaad just after 6 p.m. Vanda and Fosca had come earlier, and have everything in order. They are as always, and it was a smiling feeling to see them. A new wooden, of course ugly, door has been put at the entrance, but otherwise all is, again, as it was. The mountains are silent, familiar, inscrutable. I got everything unpacked before disappearing to sleep.’ That really brings it all back.
The next day was ‘a resting day for all. I spoke to Saral Bohm. Dave had his stitches out and goes to a convalescent place in four days.’
On July sixth, ‘I did errands in the village. And then ferried Frances up to lunch with Vanda and me. Krishnaji ate in bed, but came in briefly to see her. He remained in bed until 4 p.m., when he walked down to beyond the Palace Hotel where I picked him up with the car, and took him to Mr. Nicolas for his haircut. As we drove, Krishnaji said, “Put in your journal that I woke up in the night with an extraordinary energy that seemed in the center of the brain. It was there again when I lay down after lunch.” I asked how it affected the body. He said, “The body was absolutely quiet.” I asked if it kept him awake, and he replied, “Oh, no. I fell into a deep sleep.” He walked halfway back with Vanda, and then I picked them up. Dr. Parchure arrived from Brockwood just before supper, having flown from London to Geneva, and from there went by car with Gisèle Balleys. He reported a worrisome outlook for Montague, whose kidneys were slow to respond. But when I telephoned Dorothy, her voice was light with the news that this afternoon, she had found him sitting up in a chair, clear in his mind, and the doctors say he may perhaps be able to leave the hospital Saturday. She is tentatively planning to come to Saanen with Mary Cadogan. Krishnaji came to the telephone to speak to her. He sat in a hunched position, which he claims gave him a stomachache. He has had this ache on and off since we got to Paris. At supper, I discussed it with Dr. Parchure. It possibly could be the result of a hernia, below the esophagus, seen in an X-ray by Dr. Scheef last year.’ That’s the German doctor we consulted in Bonn. ‘Headstands and similar postures are not good for it, according to Dr. Parchure, but Krishnaji brushes his advise aside. We must persuade him to give up that headstand stool.’ He had headstand stools in the places he regularly stayed. In fact, I have one in the closet in there. It’s a little stool with a hole for your head…
S: Yes, so that your body weight is not on your head and neck, but it’s on your shoulders.
M: That’s right.
The seventh. ‘Dr. Parchure gave Krishnaji homeopathic remedies early, and when I brought Krishnaji his nettle tea, which is the first thing he normally consumes, he said the pain had quickly gone and that he would follow Dr. Parchure’s advice. Discussing it all at breakfast with Dr. Parchure, Krishnaji came in and agreed to take suggested homeopathic remedies, and an enzyme suggested by Dr. Lichti for digestion. In the morning, Krishnaji resumed dictating his Letters to the Schools. The KFT has just brought out a booklet edited by Mary Links of the first thirty-seven letters. It made Krishnaji want to go on, so he dictated number thirty-nine. Scott arrived in Saanen with the video van, bringing our books and Waterpik from Brockwood, and stayed to lunch. He described mountain climbing near Zermatt. Krishnaji came to the lunch table with him, Vanda, Dr. Parchure, and me. In the afternoon, Vanda and I talked to the agent about renting Tannegg again next summer. The owner wants to sell it for $2 million, but present Swiss law precludes foreigners buying houses here. Vanda and I went to Saanen at 5 p.m., where I described to Joan Muspratt where to look in Geneva for another towel bathrobe for Krishnaji. We went by the tent, which the Brockwood team had put up completely since 7:30 a.m. this morning—one day. In the evening I went with Scott to the movie The Shining.’ Do you remember that?
S: Oh, I do.
M: That was a scary movie.
The next day, ‘Krishnaji dictated a Letters to the Schools number forty. He came to the table with Vanda, Dr. Parchure, and me, but rested all afternoon. I worked at the desk and did village errands. Krishnaji found it too hot to go for a walk, but sent me on one.’ [Both laugh.] ‘I went up the hill and through the woods.’
July ninth, ‘Krishnaji got up for lunch but otherwise stayed in bed. I did desk work, including letters that Krishnaji had dictated. In the afternoon, Vanda and I went to the village and got marooned in the post office during a cloud burst.’
The tenth, ‘Again, the day for me was filled with desk work and errands. Krishnaji had lunch at the table. I went on a cherry fast, but felt so weak that when I started on the walk with Krishnaji, I came back.’ Why did I go on a cherry fast? People went on fruit fasts. I ate a light but normal supper.’
The next day, ‘I spent most of the day doing desk work. Vanda and I signed a lease for Tannegg for next summer. Krishnaji and I walked in a light rain to the edge of the wood and Krishnaji asked, “Why did Dr. Bohm care so much that I came to see him?”’
‘Me: “Because your affection, your regard, probably in a human sense, means more than anything to him.”’
‘K: “You mean he depends on me?”’
‘M: “I think there’s too much emphasis on dependence. Affection, friendship doesn’t have to be just dependence. You have known him a long time, and a few years ago I think he became quite depressed because you seemed to lose interest in talking to him. Then he cheered up when you renewed your talks. And two things have just happened: After knowing him for twenty years, when we were just in Ojai, for the first time you used his first name. And just now you went to see him. Something you would normally never do before his operation.”’
‘K: “When he is well I wonder if he can get some really serious people to talk about these things. More than always talking to the teachers.”’
‘M: “You do that over and over at each school you go to.”’
‘K: “Yes, but it should be more.” Later on the walk, Krishnaji said, “Let me ask you something: You have heard me talk so many times. Do you think this person learned it or is it totally new?”’
‘M: “He couldn’t have learned it, because it has not been said. Buddhist teachings have certain similarities, but fundamentally what you say has not been said before. Why do you ask that?”’
‘K: “Oh, I just thought of it.”’ [S chuckles.]
‘A little bit later, Krishnaji said, “I’ve been thinking about consciousness for the talk.”’
‘M: “I’ve been reading in the book about computers”’—I put in parentheses, ‘(Through the Micro-Millennium by Christopher Evans)’—some book—‘“…and toward the end, he tries to define thinking and intelligence, answering all the criticisms people make of computers. He says that, in reply to most criticisms, humans and animals are equally programmed. Making a distinction between a program the baby is born with—breathing, moving, seeing, grasping, digesting, etcetera—and what is acquired.”’ This must be hell to try to transcribe.
S: Probably it is, but luckily, we have a good transcriber.
M: ‘K: “Of course. Does he say computers can do all that humans can?”’
‘M: “He is saying that they can do certain things laboriously, going through all the possibilities before choosing the answer, but man can see enough of the whole to choose without examining each option.”’
‘K: “But it is the same. Knowledge is operating and the computer does it very quickly.”’
‘M: “He seems to be saying (and I haven’t finished it yet) that machines will be able to outthink man.”’
‘K: “Then what is man? What can he do that machines cannot?”’
‘M: “It seems to me the machine must always function in the field of knowledge. Man can go beyond, to another dimension.”’
‘K: “That is right. That is what I have said.”’
‘M: “If the rat theory is correct…”’ Now, the rat theory, that is what’s-his-name—Sheldrake. Let’s see how I explain it, but if not, we must sum up what is meant by it. Well, anyway I will just read just what I have: ‘“If the rat theory is correct, it is as if a man can come along’—you, for instance—‘who can pierce limitations, see onto another plane, and that once it is seen, it is possible for others of the human species to see. In answer to your earlier question, you have perceived something not derived from knowledge. It is as if mankind sometimes, rarely, produces a human being with this ability to go beyond, and this becomes an opening in the total human consciousness. It really doesn’t matter if those people in the tent tomorrow understand what you will say or not. You see something, and you utter it.”’
‘K: “CWL,”’—that’s Leadbeater—‘“used to say it doesn’t matter if anyone understands.”’
‘M: “The TS believed an entity manifested.”’
‘K: “The bodhisattva came when the world was in a terrible trouble, every 2000 years or so.”’
‘M: “What I am saying is a little different, not that existing beings incarnate, but that the human species casts up one of its kind with this power to see beyond its limitation of consciousness. The TS wouldn’t have accepted it as intelligence manifesting, would they?”’
‘K: “No, they wouldn’t.”’
‘M: “They made it into personalities with names and lives outside of time. Even when I was very young, four or so, I had difficulty with the notion of God in the image of man. It seems somehow so petty. It had to be something much vaster than that.”’
‘K: “Yes, petty. Much vaster.”’
‘M: “Also, with you, I am not really interested in a bodhisattva who incarnates in the body of Krishnaji. You are bodhisattva. It comes from you, not from some other being.” On the return to the chalet, Krishnaji said, “Are you writing these things down? Will you write this?”’
‘M: “Yes.”’ That was an interesting conversation.
S: It is very interesting. It’s very interesting also that he doesn’t have any reply to your last comment to him.
M: What was my last comment?
S: That he is the bodhisattva.
M: No, he didn’t. He didn’t think about it, that I know of, anyway. [Both chuckle.] He didn’t give any sign I recorded of having noticed.
S: He didn’t appear to, yes.
M: ‘I telephoned Dorothy at Brockwood. Montagu was home and well, and I spoke to Mary L. and Joe in London. They go to Brockwood Tuesday.’ Do you remember? They used to spend their summers at Brockwood—it was their summer home, as it were.
M: July twelfth, ‘In the morning, there was fog and light rain. At 10:30 a.m., Krishnaji began his first Saanen talk on consciousness: how we are programmed, what is man. There was a large crowd. On his return to the chalet after the talk, he slept, but kept waking himself up by what he calls “shouting.” He came to lunch at the table with Vanda, Dr. Parchure, and me; and then slept again until about 5 p.m. As we started on a walk, he said he didn’t feel like walking, but that we should go a little ways. He felt no energy, but as he walked, and I told him more about the computer book, which I finished today, his interest and energy rose, and before we knew it we reached the Turbach Road. He is struck by the fact that as soon as Asit began to talk about computers, he’—meaning himself—‘grasped the whole implication of it. Most people seemed to recoil, react with, “But…” Krishnaji instantly saw the whole meaning, and so did I. In the evening, Saral telephoned that Dave is doing very well in the convalescent place in Frimley, Surrey. As soon as he is home, he wants to talk to Krishnaji, and to come to Brockwood once Krishnaji is there. In the evening, Krishnaji watched an old Fernandel movie in the Don Camillo series, which highly amused him: the gestures, the talking to God, the very French and very humanness of the character actor.’ [M chuckles.]
The next day was ‘another very gray day with occasional rain. Dr. Parchure bought spices for Krishnaji’s soup to stimulate his digestion. Topazia Alliata came to lunch, and hammered away at the lunch table.’ She was one of those very talkative women. ‘Krishnaji didn’t feel like a walk in the rain. He had me ring Saral to tell Dave not to meditate until he is stronger.’
July fourteenth, ‘The fog lifted by 10:30 a.m. when Krishnaji gave his second Saanen talk, which continued on consciousness: not individual, but human consciousness; the perilous world and how the divisions are dangerous. In the car returning, he said that his stomach again was not right in the night, and he felt so weak he wondered if he could give his talk today. But a tremendous energy came while he spoke, and there was no stomach pain. He was plainly tired, though, and slept deeply “without shouting” for an hour before lunch. I talked to Dr. Parchure. Each day we have tried to adjust Krishnaji’s diet: reduced oil, and omitted whatever he says disagrees with him; but he tends to blame the food, the medicines, etcetera, at random. And those cannot be the causes, or the sole causes. Krishnaji wanted “something spicy” to stimulate his digestion yesterday, so Dr. Parchure made a soup of tomato, ginger, herbs, etcetera. Krishnaji drank it, but said later it disagreed with him. Parchure and I discussed the worrisome possibility of something organically wrong. Last year in Bonn, his upper tract was checked by Dr. Scheef, but I now think that the lower gastrointestinal should be X-rayed. It would upset Krishnaji too much during the talks, so Parchure thinks we must proceed day-to-day, get him through the talks, and then see what to do. Krishnaji came to the table and ate a normal lunch. At 4:30 p.m., he saw Nadia Kossiakof, and then we went for a walk to the Turbach Road. More and more, life becomes edged with perils—a sort of perimeter. The world is becoming a city of rioting humans, more in one quarter than in another, but it is there, around the corner. And one lives one’s daily life in degrees of the sound of it, steering if possible around the danger spots. But to be aware that at any moment, one may come upon the violent, the mugger, the bum, and now illness, the perils of age. At lunch, Krishnaji said to me with an amusement in his voice, “One wonders how long he can keep this up.”’ Meaning the talking. ‘This edging of danger is there, and I feel intensely the rare and quiet wonder of so many small and once normal things: the silence of sunlight in summer, a clean and quiet space to read. As I write this early in the morning, there is the solid orderliness of the chalet, the sound of the coffee Fosca is making in the kitchen. The mountains are untouched, and Krishnaji is sleeping in his room.’
Hear Mary speak here.
July fifteenth, ‘I went to the village on errands. Coming back, I met S. Weeraperuma and Dr. Parchure on the hill and gave them a lift. Weeraperuma spoke of meeting U.G. Krishnamurti, who asked, “Are you here to listen to that clown in the tent?”’ That horrid little man.
S: I know.
‘Krishnaji shrugged when told this, but then the subject came up at lunch with Krishnaji, Vanda, Topazia, Frances, Marjolaine van der Straten, and Dr. Parchure. I told the story. Topazia, followed immediately by Vanda, defended U.G. Krishnamurti. I said their doing that was indefensible.’ That was really incomprehensible to me: two people professing undying friendship for Krishnaji, and yet they…anyway.
S: I know, I know. In many ways, Vanda has been called a “contrarian,” someone who just likes to take the contrary position.
M: That’s right. But not about Krishnaji, I mean, you shouldn’t about Krishnaji.
S: Yes, yes, I know. [Chuckles.]
M: Anyway, ‘Krishnaji said to Vanda, “You know nothing about it, so don’t discuss it.” After lunch, I ferried Frances and Topazia home, and Vanda to town. Marjolaine is starting work in a hospital in Brussels, having done four years toward her M.D. and is such a nice girl. I said so, as we drove away, and Frances said Marjolaine had such dignity. Vanda immediately said she doesn’t have dignity and Topazia chimed in with her criticism.’ [S laughs.] You see? Frances always has something nice to say about people.
S: Yes, Frances does.
M: Frances, in all the about forty years I’ve known her, has never said anything disagreeable about anything.
S: Or about anybody. I know. I know.
M: And those two… [Both chuckle.] ‘I dropped off Vanda and Topazia, and Frances and I went to meet the trains in Saanen, which Dorothy and Mary Cadogan could be on. Waiting, we went over to see the Finnish pair, Elza and Miri’s little apartment. It is old, nice, and, of course, spotless; and only 30 Swiss francs for both per day. Dorothy finally arrived just before 6 p.m., and I drove her up to see Krishnaji. Then, I took her to Doris’s, where she is staying. On the return, Krishnaji said I shouldn’t have reacted to Topazia and Vanda’s defense of U.G. Krishnamurti. He said Vanda has her mind made up about people, like Rosalind and Rajagopal, and won’t say anything against them. I asked what that had to do with U.G. Krishnamurti. Surely, U.G.K is no old friend of hers like Rajagopal and Rosalind. Krishnaji used the word “insult” in describing U.G.K.’s remark, and I asked how can two women supposedly devoted to him for years instantly defend his insulter. Krishnaji replied, “Why do you react?”’ I said, “Of course I react, it appalls me.”
Krishnaji gave up.’ [Both chuckle.] ‘I feel something is intrinsically wrong in this, something false. Later, Krishnaji mentioned it again, and I asked what if it were reversed, and an insult to me had been given? What would he do?’ [Both chuckle.] I clearly wasn’t going to leave this alone. ‘Krishnaji said, “I would say you are quite mistaken, you don’t know the facts.”’
‘I said I could understand if the discussion made him uncomfortable, but Vanda and Topazia’s attitude remains ugly, and to me very questionable. A circular is also being passed around Saanen by the German Rajesh follower with a pseudonym Premmander, announcing, “Jokes by Bhagwan Shree Rajesh on Krishnamurti, his followers, other ‘saints’ and himself.”’ More ugliness. ‘Dorothy in the car, about all this, said that she has felt for some time, something she called “subversive” in Vanda’s influence on the Brockwood young who have visited her in Florence.’ That’s interesting. ‘Scott Ellard came back to Brockwood hostile, unfriendly, and others, too.’ Scott Ellard, as you may recall, was one of our students.
S: I remember him well, yes. A New Yorker.
M: ‘Dorothy now discourages students from going to visit Vanda. And also, lately, Yen Yang, who Vanda wanted to ask for lunch today.’
July sixteenth, ‘Krishnaji said he woke up at 2 a.m., bothered by yesterday. At 10:30 a.m., he gave his third Saanen talk. Dorothy came to lunch with Vanda, Krishnaji, Parchure, and me. Krishnaji ate at the table. Afterward, Dr. Parchure and I went to Gisèle Balleys’s chalet for the annual meeting of the Saanen Gathering committee. The present members, Mary Cadogan, Doris, and I, accepted the resignation, with regret, of Edgar Graf; and confirmed the new memberships of Dorothy and Gisèle and appointed Mary secretary and Gisèle treasurer. Krishnaji’s stomach is still not right and he ate no supper. Dr. Parchure slept in the adjoining room to observe how he was in the night. Before that, Dr. Parchure and I had a long talk. He still feels it is dyspepsia, not something organically wrong. He wants to deal with it as that, and if that fails, we will have to look at it more seriously. We decided to change Krishnaji’s Bircher-Benner sequence of food’—which is fruit, then salad and raw things, then cooked food—‘and start with cooked food.’
The next day, ‘Krishnaji slept quite well. He feels “empty,” but has no pain. Dr. Parchure measured exact amounts of muesli, etcetera, but didn’t give him toast. He is trying to balance the amount of food with the energy needed. Vanda left at 9 a.m. for Florence. At 11 a.m., there was the annual meeting of the foreign committees at Tannegg. Krishnaji, feeling all right, attended and talked of their responsibilities when he is gone: the spreading of the teachings without interpretation, and what constitutes interpretation. Mary Cadogan and Jane Hammond stayed to lunch. Jane had some pain in her back and Krishnaji put his hands, which eased it very much. Krishnaji had lunch in his room, and the new sequence was started–cooked food first, then salad, then fruit. At 3 p.m., Mary, Dr. Parchure, and I drove to Saanenmöser where, at the Sport Hotel, there was a further meeting of all the committees. It went well. Jean-Michel and van der Straten were there. Video and publications were discussed and each committee gave an account of its activities. On our return, Krishnaji had walked to the Turbach Road and has had no pain. The new food sequence continues. In the early evening, there was rain and wind, and a marvelous rainbow over the Wasserngrat, and there was peace in the house.’
S: The first international committees meeting, the one at which Krishnaji spoke, that was at Tannegg, not at Saanenmöser, is that right?
M: Yes, it was at Tannegg. Then we moved to Saanenmöser for the afternoon session, and Krishnaji didn’t come. We always began at Tannegg.
July eighteenth, ‘It rained at night. Krishnaji feels well, and slept well. I did the marketing. Jean-Michel is here in Gstaad for the committee meetings, and came to lunch and Krishnaji, Dr. Parchure, and me. He brought a copy of All One, the first edition of the magazine that Alain Naudé is doing. Jean-Michel didn’t know where it came from until I told him. Krishnaji picked it up and read parts of it, and said, “What has happened to Naudé? Oh no, he’s become a guru.” There are the bits about God that I looked at askance at Ojai in the sample he brought there, and the style is somewhat pontifical, but I will read it later. Krishnaji seemed saddened. “He was intelligent once. What happened to him?” It was too wet to go for a walk, so we each read detective novels.’ [Both chuckle.] ‘Krishnaji is feeling well. Parchure rations his food.’
The nineteenth, ‘There is thick fog. It lifted slowly and slightly to reveal snow on the open spaces of the Wispille and Wasserngrat, and on the dark pines there was a sugar ring of white, two-thirds of the way down. Krishnaji saw flakes falling there, but I must have been in the shower then, and missed them. It was very cold. When I drove Dr. Parchure to the tent at 9:15, there were cars come down from the mountains with four inches of snow on their roofs. In spite of it all, the tent was crammed, and Krishnaji gave a marvelous and moving talk. “I put a lot into that,” he said. I gave a lift to La Damme en Chapeau.’ [Both chuckle.]
S: Who was that?
M: Marcelle Bondoneau used to call her that. Her name was Mademoiselle Courtial, and she always came to the talks in the same toque, or little hat. On Thursday, she handed me a grubby plastic sack with shares of stocks, “for the Canadian school.” She was a little bit eccentric. ‘As there is no Canadian school this year, Krishnaji wants the donation to go to Brockwood. I drove up to Tannegg with Mr. Weeraperuma with Dr. Parchure for lunch. Krishnaji was at the table. Weeraperuma again recounted the animosity of U.G. Krishnamurti, and his saying of Krishnaji, “I am going to destroy him.” In the afternoon, Krishnaji saw the Siddoo sisters. They have found an Indian woman they think could be the principal if they reopened the Wolf Lake school in a year. By the time they left, it was too late, cold, and wet for a walk. So we both sank into our respective detective novels.’ [Both chuckle.]
July twentieth. ‘I had a 10:30 a.m. bank appointment about the Alzina account with Mr. Hans Liechti’—that was the bank manager. ‘At noon, a French public relations woman came. Then Brigitte Dantin came to talk to me about putting her eight-year-old daughter in the Oak Grove School. No one was at lunch but Krishnaji and me. At 4:30 p.m., an elderly Spaniard’s wife and Magda from Barcelona came for a small greeting and a gift to Krishnaji.’ She was a nice woman. ‘Then I went to buy him a jersey and we walked to the end of the wood. Tungki came with us.’ He was an Indonesian student at Brockwood. ‘I dined with Suzanne and Hugues at their chalet.’
July twenty-first, ‘The weather is beginning to thaw. For his fifth Saanen talk, Krishnaji wore a nice Navy-made pullover we bought yesterday at Loertscher-Graa. It was very becoming. The talk was very fine. Afterward, he said that he said something new today, and “I had no idea what I would talk about when I began.” He said earlier he wanted to get some Pringle jerseys after the talk, but I pointed out that the store closes at noon. “That’s alright,” he said. And so it was. He ended the talk at 11:35 a.m. and we sped again to Loertscher-Graa, where, in choosing, he felt a bit dissociated and shaky. “I shouldn’t have come right after the talk,” he said. But it was alright, and we got back to the chalet with some nice jerseys. There was no one extra for lunch, so he ate at the table. At 3 p.m., I took a little plant to Madame Banzet, who, at eighty-eight, was again at the talks, but is now in the Saanen hospital with a badly broken ankle. She was looking pinkly orange with health, sitting up in a wheelchair in a ward for old ladies, and taking the attitude that if it had to happen,’ [M chuckles] ‘Saanen doctors specialize in broken bones from all the ski people in winter…’
S: Yes. Exactly.
M: ‘…so, it was the best place to have broken her ankle.’ [Both chuckle.] She was a lovely old lady.
S: I think I remember her.
M: I think you probably do. ‘I came back for a meeting at 4:30 p.m. with Krishnaji, the Siddoos, Dorothy, and Parchure. Plans were discussed to have the possible Canadian headmistress visit Brockwood to learn about it all. Dorothy came on the walk with Krishnaji and me to the river. The weather is warm again. An Alsatian dog jumped at Krishnaji and bit his arm, but he did not puncture the skin through the jacket.’
The next day was ‘a beautiful, sunny day. I went with Dorothy and Mary Cadogan up the Videmanette téléphérique in the morning. We walked across snow and rough ground to a grassy spot and had a picnic. We came down to Rougement and had coffee at a little café. I got back to Tannegg in time to walk with Krishnaji to the river.’
July twenty-third. ‘There was rain again. I took Dr. Parchure to the tent and marketed early. At 10:30 a.m., Krishnaji’s gave his sixth Saanen talk. It was very fine. Pascaline Mallet and Gisela Elmenhorst came to lunch. Krishnaji was at the table. Nicole Philippeau, her daughter Christelle, and son Manuel came to tea. Scott came about Krishnaji’s clocks, and then he came on the walk with Krishnaji and me down around Alpina and back; all in a steady rain.’ [M chuckles.] As I recall you had done a study at Patek.
S: I did. I learned things about adjusting his watches and bought tools for doing that from Patek, yes.
M: The twenty-fourth. ‘It rained again but Krishnaji, Dr. Parchure, and I went touring off in the little yellow car to lunch with Suzanne, and Hugues—the first time since the Biascoechea days…’ you know, Enrique and Isabel Biascoechea.
M: ‘…that Krishnaji has gone to lunch in Gstaad at someone’s house. Jean-Michel, Daphne, and Ariane’—Jean-Michel’s eldest daughter—‘were there, plus a woman friend of the van der Stratens. They have a good cook, and the lunch was good and a bit of a change for Krishnaji. He ate carefully, but seemed to like it. I took him back to Tannegg afterward, and then, at 3 p.m., Dr. Parchure and I went to the second afternoon meeting with all the Krishnamurti international committees at the hotel in Saanenmöser, which lasted till 6 p.m. Hugues presided very well. Much was discussed. The only snag came at the end, when Mr. Schneider of the German committee announced proudly that he would have a Krishnaji booklet at a big vegetarian conference in Germany next summer. I questioned this as associating Krishnaji and his teaching with vegetarianism.’ And, of course, Krishnaji never wanted himself or his teachings associated with anything. ‘There were various opinions. Gisela Elmenhorst and the two Finns, Miri and Elza, said, “Ask Krishnaji.” So I did, and he said a definite “No.”’ I was hated by the German committee for a while.
S: Yes, I remember this.
M: Yes. Remember that? [Chuckles.]
July twenty-fifth. ‘There is more rain. Jane Hammond came by at 11 a.m. to discuss with me whether she should become a trustee of the KFT as is being suggested.’ Do you remember that?
S: Yes, I remember.
M: Jane was the perfect trustee, but because she was connected with the TS, mostly because she lived near their community in Southern England. ‘She asked if she could be more help than she is at present if she was a trustee. I said we have thought of her for ages as a trustee, but hadn’t because of her TS membership. She said she had not been to any meetings there in years, and the only reason she hadn’t resigned lately is because the one person she admires in the TS is Radha Burnier. She will write to Radha explaining her reason for resigning. Jane leaves Monday. Mary Cadogan left today. A John Streather, who wrote an intelligent letter to Krishnaji last week, came to tea, and Krishnaji joined us when he woke up. He was a nice man, and is going off to teach Indians in Bolivia. Krishnaji and I walked to the river. I dined with Kathy and Scott at Chlösterli.’ Do you remember that?
S: Yes, in Gsteig.
M: In Gsteig, yes.
July twenty-sixth. ‘Krishnaji gave his seventh and final talk for the year in Saanen. Dorothy and Frances came to lunch. Krishnaji was at the table. There was computer talk on maybe using Apple computers so as to greatly accelerate academic learning and leave more time for Krishnaji’s teachings.’ [M laughs.] ‘Dorothy left and Frances talked to Krishnaji about her wish to make a donation.’ Krishnaji had, for years, discouraged the Foundations and schools from accepting donations from Frances, as he didn’t want there ever to be any hint of taking advantage of Frances. She was trying to persuade Krishnaji that it was sensible for her to make a donation, and her advisors agreed. ‘At 4:30 p.m., a friend of Mr. Mirabet, a Mr. Ferdinand Burgues, came to bring letters and a gift from Mr. Mirabet, who couldn’t come this year as his sister is very ill.’ He always brought a donation for Krishnaji’s work, and was very nice. ‘It was raining only lightly, so Krishnaji and I walked down around Alpina and up behind the hill above Tannegg a new way, and it was quite a walk. Krishnaji is pleased with it. His energy is amazing. We took one wrong turn and were almost mountain climbing before retracing our steps. In the evening, my brother telephoned from Paris. He and Lisa are on their way to Malta where she is to be made a Knight of Malta.’ Which I found humorous. It’s something because she was head of a New York museum. ‘I don’t know anything about the Knights of Malta, except that it’s left from the days of the Crusades, and they’re still at it.’ [Both laugh.] ‘We had a nice long talk, though. They return to Vineyard Haven in a week.’
The twenty-seventh. ‘It was a cold night. The copyright of Education and the Significance of Life is expiring in November, and if the author is living, it must be reassigned. Krishnaji has therefore removed it from Rajagopal, and today assigned it to KFA as part of the assets of KWINC, which, in the settlement agreement, came to KFA. As other copyrights expire in Krishnaji’s lifetime, he can regain control of them. He, Dr. Parchure, and I lunched alone. Lola and Patty Shepherd from South Africa came at 4:30 p.m. to say goodbye to Krishnaji before returning to South Africa. Patty has an uncertain heart, and was ill here. Joan Wright brought toweling samples for Krishnaji’s bathrobes she wants to make. He and I walked to the river.’
The next day, ‘Dr. Parchure and I went to Saanen hospital to arrange a lower gastrointestinal X-ray for Krishnaji next week. Then I did errands such as getting an extra suitcase for Krishnaji. He, Parchure, and I lunched at the table. Some Buddhists with a monk’ [M chuckles] ‘dropped in before Krishnaji finished his nap.’ [Both chuckle.] ‘He saw them briefly. Then we went for a walk to the river. I worked on assembling questions for tomorrow’s question-and-answer meeting.’
July twenty-ninth. ‘It was a clear warm day. As usual, I took Dr. Parchure to the tent early. Then I took Krishnaji at 10:30 a.m. for his first of the question-and-answer meetings of this year in Saanen. Krishnaji had done most of the choosing of the questions, and I had typed ten for him, of which he answered five. It went very well. On coming back to Tannegg, I put on the TV, which was broadcasting the wedding of Prince Charles and Diana in London. Krishnaji was scornful, “What nonsense.” I fetched Kathy and Scott to Tannegg for lunch, we watched a bit of the royal wedding until Krishnaji came in and said, “Aren’t you going to turn that thing off?” I left it on but with French sound so we could know when they all came out on the palace balcony. Kathy and I were fascinated by it, so she and I watched it after lunch, while Krishnaji remained in the dining room talking to Scott and Dr. Parchure. Royal doings always get a rise out of Krishnaji.’ [Both chuckle.] ‘At 4:30 p.m., at Vanda’s and Topazia’s behest, Krishnaji saw Helen Brew, who wanted to tell him about her movie on birth. She hinted that the BBC and CBS had talked to her about being interested in doing interviews with him, and Krishnaji told her that if they are interested they should approach him directly. She left, and we walked to the end of the wood.’
July thirtieth. ‘It was a warm day. At 10:30 a.m., Krishnaji held the second question-and-answer session in the tent. It was superb. Krishnaji, Parchure, and I had a quiet lunch, during which we discussed Frances’s condition, and at Krishnaji’s urging, Parchure went to see her and discussed her going to Ojai and resuming her therapy with Dr. Hidley. She agreed. Krishnaji and I talked to her afterward. I telephoned Hidley to verify that he is in Ojai and would see her. I telephoned Frances about Hidley, and also rang her sister in Lausanne with the same information.’ Her sister was…sort of…Her sister hated, well, never mind…
S: No, this is relevant. Frances’s sister was very antagonistic to Krishnaji, to the Foundations, and to Brockwood, but you and Krishnaji were looking after Frances in a way her sister never could or would.
M: Yes. And he had asked Dr. Hidley to look after her, and convinced her to go to Hidley.
S: Yes. And Krishnaji kept seeing Frances, and inviting her, and never excluded her because of her difficulties. I always thought it was a great credit to Krishnaji the way he dealt with Frances.
M: ‘I agree. Dorothy came by and is taking Krishnaji’s new suitcase back to Brockwood tomorrow. Krishnaji and I walked in the woods and then I worked on the questions for tomorrow.’
The thirty-first. ‘It was a hot day. Krishnaji held his third question-and-answer meeting, which winds up Saanen for this summer. Before Krishnaji began, I made an appeal for donations. We need 4,700 more Swiss francs to reach the needed 45,000 Swiss francs. It was a larger meeting and Krishnaji was a fire of energy. In the afternoon, I went to see Frances, who goes tomorrow to her sister’s and then to Brockwood Tuesday and from there to Ojai on Thursday. I found her air tickets all mixed up. She had mixed up her medication, too. Although Parchure came and straightened them out, she is no longer competent to look after herself in many things. I straightened out the tickets. She is touching and it makes me sad. Krishnaji saw the Foures, very briefly.’
S: Alright. We’re going to have to end it there because we have run out of tape.
S: So we will begin on August first.
 Done with care. Back to text.