RUSSIA
The first chapters of your work have already reached me in the Mongolian desert. Although I know that this message will not reach you soon, nevertheless I must write to you.
You feel Russia so deeply and so truly. I have rarely met definitions such as yours. In a vivid mosaic you have molded a many-faceted image of great Russia. And you have done it with magnanimity toward all its parts. You expressly crossed upon benevolent milestones. Only good signs denote the right path.
You say: "Russia is not only a state… It is a super-stale, an ocean, an element which has not yet been fully formed, which has not yet reached its own predestined shores. It has not as yet begun to sparkle in sharpened and faceted concepts, in its individuality, as a rough diamond sparkles in the jewel. It all still is forebodings, fermentation, endless strivings, and limitless organic possibilities.
"Russia is an ocean of lands swinging over an entire sixth part of the world and holding within its spread wings the East and West.
"Russia is seven blue seas, mountains crowned by white ice; Russia is a furry bristle of endless forests, carpets of wind-swept and blooming meadows.
"Russia is endless snows, over which are singing deadly silver storms and on this background the kerchiefs of Russian women are glowing vividly, snows from under which dark violets and blue snowdrops come forth in tender spring.
"Russia — a land of unfolding industrialism of a new type as yet unheard of, as yet undefined.
"Russia — a land of fabulous, richest treasures, which are hidden in her deep bosom until the destined time.
"Russia is not one race alone — therein lies her strength. Russia is a union of races, a union of peoples speaking 140 languages; it is a free collective, unity in diversity, polychromic, polyphonic.
"Russia is not only the country of the instantaneous present. It is a country of the great past, with which it is linked indissolubly. In her sunny birch groves even today rites to ancient gods are performed. In her frontier forests even to this day sacred oaks and cedars rustle, ornamented with fluttering bunting. And before them are placed offerings, pitiful clay bowls with gruel in them. Zhaleiki1 are mournfully crying over her steppes in honor of ancient gods and heroes.
"Russia is the land of Byzantine domes, sounds of bells, and blue incense borne from the great, dead heiress of Rome — Byzantium, second Rome. And they give to Russia inexpressible beauty, superimposed upon Russian art. Russia is a powerful, crystal waterfall, streaming bow-shaped from the abyss of time into the abyss of times, uncaught as yet by the frost of narrow experience, sparkling in the sun with rainbows of consciousness, sounding throughout the world with a powerful affirmation of Pan-Slavic being.
"Russia is grandiose, unrepeatable".
"Russia is polar. Russia has a mission in the new era".
"Russia is the only country in the world which through its greatest festival glorifies the affirmation of life, a festival of resurrection from the dead, rejoicing at the dawn of a blossoming spring day, with the lights of religious processions beneath the fiery amber brocade of the morning sky."
Is it not strange that in my letter to you I am quoting your own words? But these words are so true, so heartfelt, so beautiful, that I would like once more to live through the images created by them. They must be not only realized but also loved. The more we absorb them, with all their sounds and colors, with all the hieroglyphs of existence on our minds, the more will truth be revealed; and it is so needed. So urgently needed.
In your further survey of the structure of Russian original art you justly mentioned V.V. Stasov2. And together with you I once again in thought paid a tribute to his memory. It was he who, so to speak, introduced me for the first time to the treasure house of the Public Library. He introduced me to the treasures of this storehouse and supported me in my first calls pertaining to Russia.
I remember my correspondence with him. I always wrote him in the style of ancient Russian epistles, and he always rejoiced that the style and manner were as of old. Sometimes he replied to me in the same true style. And at times he laughed good-naturedly saying, "Although your yellowed epistle smelled of fresh coffee, its spirit remained Russian, really Russian." I remember his article about my painting "The March" in which he understood so well my anxious and fundamental striving. Kurbatov had our photograph taken at his famous desk in the Public Library, covered with books. When you quote Stasov I recall vividly the Public Library and those fine, remarkable people who used to come to his hospitable desk. And that same Stasov also took me to visit Leo Tolstoy, after I painted my "'Messenger."
And when you mention Moussorgsky, the uncle of Elena Ivanovna3, you awaken in me the life of all those related to and linked with our great composer. The tragedy of Moussorgsky's life was also a true Russian tragedy. May be I have already told you when we met that in a certain country estate, because of ignorance, many manuscripts of that great creator were burned.
I do not remember whether we spoke with you about the family of Rimski-Korsakov, about the members of the renowned group of artists — the Powerful Kutchka — and about the Peredvizhniki4 with whom I often met. Kuinji, Shishkin, Repin, Surikov, Nesterov, the brothers Vasnetzov — all this was dear to me and instructive. You also recall correctly the attacks on everything national. Whereas precisely because of its national character the art of Russia was so valued in the West. It would seem that this vivid example known to all should have been a sufficient reprimand for all those who attempted to divert the powerful river of Russian creativeness into an alien channel. You truly understand the words of Stasov, "Every nation must have its own national art, and not drag itself on the coat tail of others, upon a trodden road, at someone's bidding." There was no condemnation of foreign creativeness in these words. Stasov was a truly cultured man to say this; but, as a sensitive critic he understood that the Russian essence will be much more valued if it is molded in its own beautiful forms. And Russia does give the most beautiful and the most penetrating images. The told and untold, the written and unwritten, as in ancient synodics5 the majestic images remain unuttered. In this inexpressibility is contained that hidden national, undrained chalice which .you sense so heartily.
I hope that your future chapters, even if slowly, will also reach me and bring still more joy. You remember my painting, "Three Joys": a wandering dulcimer player tells a villager a story about three joys — St. George himself takes horses to pasture, Nicholas the Miracle Maker himself safeguards the herds, and Elijah the Prophet himself begins to reap the rye. I do not know where this painting is. In the book by Ernst there was a small reproduction of it. All kinds of unexpressed joys live in the heart.
Tonight a strong frost and snow struck accompanied by a storm. It got cold in our yurts, even the watch stopped.
And in the morning the radiant sun shone in the literal sense, and all the hillocks and mountains sparkled white, pink, and blue in a sudden snowy adornment. The surrounding country, viewed from the steps of the former temple, reminded me of two of my paintings. One from far-off Karelia, and the other from the Tibetan Chantong. The very same hills were in my painting of the year 1915, "The Calling One." All calls pertain to the very same thing. The majesty of open spaces is one. Thank you for your word about Russia, which is so close to my heart.
Tzagan Kure
April 26, 1935
1 An ancient folk wind instrument.
2 Vladimir Vasilevich Stasov, renowned music and art critic.
3 The wife of Prof. Roerich.
4 A Traveling Exhibition in 1871 started an entirely new artistic movement, the propagators of which called themselves "the itinerants," Peredvizhniki.
5A Russian word for a list of names of the dead to be read during a memorial mass.
THE INEXPRESSIBLE
Scientists say that absolute zero cannot possibly be attained. Professor V. de Haas, of the University of Leiden, who in his laboratory experiments readies a point one five-thousandth of a degree above absolute zero, has declared that absolute zero (the ultimate extreme) will never be attained.
"Absolute zero is — 459.8 degrees Fahrenheit. At this temperature all gases become solid and all motion ceases."
Thus, still another absolute point has been recognized as impossible. Likewise there results a small difference during decompositions and inversely, compositions. It turns out that that which is mechanically synthesized loses something which it formerly had, and which could even be detected on the scales at the beginning of the experiment. A well-known experiment with the decomposition and mechanical recomposition of a potato shows that there remains something that eludes formulation.
Similarly, one can observe something inexpressible in all manifestations. Moreover, precisely in this circumstance which eludes formulation something essential will be contained. Again one is obliged to recall the fact that the weight of a man immersed in intensive thinking differs from his usual weight.
On the one hand, such a factor is disappointing to the investigator in its unattainability. But on the other hand, precisely this something, even when detected by our crude physical apparatuses, always remains both inviting and inspiring. Could one hardly be distressed or disappointed when such obvious possibilities are already accessible to earthly expressions? No doubt there will come into being in the investigations some new approach which in place of the imagined absolute will provide a new infinity.
It is related that certain outstanding military leaders, during their most crucial battles remained in their quarters, seemingly absorbed in some mechanical usual occupation. Those who do not know would advance all sorts of ironical considerations. Some would even assume that in these moments the leader wished to mentally absent himself, under the influence of fear. But those who knew these great men intimately understood full well that at this time some unknown process was going on, which could not be put into words.
The leader has done everything that was dependent upon his decision. At this time he could not rationally make changes where his orders were already being carried out. The leader wished to set aside the language of reason and to allow something inexpressibly profound to create a new influential process. A small mechanical occupation was not just a killing of time. On the contrary, this was one of the means of shifting his consciousness. It stands to reason that the consciousness can be shifted without any mechanical distractions, but for this, along with the art of thinking, one also has to be in full possession of the reverse art of arresting thought.
Though the art of thinking is not easy, yet the ability to arrest thought can sometimes be still more difficult. For this it is necessary that the process of thought must entirely cease so that a new formation may arise in the consciousness without being burdened in any way. And this is very difficult, for here again the absolute is not reached in such an experiment.
Very often people assume that they have ceased thinking about something, yet it still remains an illusion of theirs. They compel themselves forcibly to think about something else. But this very compulsion will leave behind some reflexes of the former thought. Yet in order to shift the consciousness it is surely necessary to attain some almost infinitesimal numbers having many zeros. And, nevertheless, this will be a relative matter.
But long ago it was said on the Heights, "If you wish to become a new man, breathe a sigh about the Inexpressible. In a single sigh transport thyself unto the verge of Infinity."
Thus, not by prolonged calculations but in a single sigh about the Inexpressible is the consciousness renewed. And where a rocky cliff appeared insurmountable and impassable, calling distances are unexpectedly revealed.
But everything must be voluntary. In this concept is contained the greatest law. No coercion, no constraint enables the consciousness to be loftily transported. Voluntariness usually remains a not very well interpreted concept. In the ordinary understanding any liberty is often considered not concordant with good, with a heartfelt concern for one's fellow men.
Indeed, all testings and vital experiments will sufficiently demonstrate how much a true voluntariness transforms all actions. After all, this beautiful desire emanates from the depths of the chalice of consciousness. It results in both self-abnegation and a desire for continuous creativity in all spiritualized labor.
Again, it is very difficult to discern where is true voluntariness and where some alien considerations have entered in. In military organizations there are also volunteers. But among them only a few will be true volunteers, while the volunteering of the others will be tinged with extraneous considerations. There are entire army units where the members are supposed to be volunteers, but in reality they are trying to evade or conceal this or that dramatic factor in their life.
In all thought processes voluntariness plays the principal role. Without it there remains only a crude mirage which never renews the consciousness.
What kind of luminous sigh about the Inexpressible can bring forth that which is unexplainable through relative formulas? What kind of transference of consciousness into the Inexpressible helps to change matter into spirit, or rather, one state of consciousness into another? Where the will terminates, where desire is extinct, where the command is wordless, a single sigh about the Inexpressible will regenerate everything.
The most refined pranayama may be ineffective where a sigh about the Inexpressible is borne into the great spaces.
People read bookish words about the most great. These words are beautiful, but where there is the Word, the best words require something else, the still greater — the Inexpressible.
It is asked, "Is it for me to think about the Inexpressible?" "Verily, precisely for you on all the paths."
Tzagan Kure
April 28, 1935
RECIPROCITY
Reciprocity is the basis of agreements." So many times has this Old French proverb been quoted. It has been repeated in lectures on international law, and has been used during the conclusion of all sorts of treaties. Moreover, it has been quoted in countless cases of many vital perturbations.
Not just a most immutable truth is contained in the words of this proverb. Each human mind, in all its aspects, distinctly understands that without reciprocity any agreement will be only an empty and disgraceful sound. Without reciprocity the participation unfailingly amounts to falsehood and fraud, which sooner or later produces all the consequences created by deceit.
We speak about good will, but reciprocity can flourish only on the basis of good will. In no wise is it possible to evoke so-called reciprocity if this beautiful flower does not blossom as the lotus of the heart.
Waves beat against the rocks. The rocks meet them without reciprocity. True, the waves can wear away the rocks. The waves can form whole underwater grottoes and in their ceaseless motion can destroy stone giants. But of course this will not be reciprocity or agreement — this will he an assault. This is violence, and any violence inevitably ends in destruction of one kind or another. He who uses violence will perish from violence.
In the example of the waves and rocks, two discordant elements meet, as it were. Yet even the rocks, if their structure permitted, could lead the opposing element into channels useful for existence.
However, it is hardly possible to assume that human hearts are as little in concordance as are water and stone. After all, even water can be in a solid state and the strata of rock can produce moisture. Yet these elements lack consciousness, or, at any rate, their consciousness is inaccessible to us. But there can be no human heart, which on the one hand could bestow the dew of benefaction, and on the other be incapable of adamantine courage.
The humanness, which is common to all ages and peoples is likewise ineradicable. No matter what narcotics, alcohol, and nicotine may do to kill it, it can somehow, somewhere, be awakened.
A great criminal may be a devoted family man. Consequently, if his good feelings are still capable of being aroused in relationship to his near ones, in the same way, by some increased effort they can be extended toward all that exists. At present people are not setting up as an ideal St. Francis of Assisi, who even addressed a wolf as "Brother Wolf." Not even accepted is the ideal of the ascetics who possessed the language of the heart, which is understood by both birds and animals. Aside from these lofty ideals about which people usually exclaim, "Well, we're not St. Francis," there can be the meeting ground of common humanity.
On this heartfelt basis, it is still possible to open even the most tightly sealed heart. Apart from all their business affairs, about which people have composed the saying, "No deceit — no deal", apart from all their multifarious trade people cannot avoid contact with the spiritual spheres. People who are unaccustomed to such contacts sometimes even experience pain instead of beneficence. This arises from being unaccustomed to such sensations. Indeed, a man who has never felt an electric spark always believes himself extremely sensitive to even the least discharge of it. "It burned me," or "It pierced me," says the novice, but by and by, if they are repeated, he does not even notice greater discharges.
Actually, these outcries arise not at all from a heightened sensitiveness, but from an ingrained prejudice. Is there not also precisely the same absurd prejudice in human relationships when a wave of rationality and cordiality beats against a rock of hostility and stupidity?
It is also strange that people so often imagine reciprocity as a matter of some sort of official governmental agreement. But, surely, without family, friendly, and social reciprocity, what is there to be said about that of the government? Rocking the basis of social intercourse, people shake all the other fundamentals. The foundations of marriage could be shaken, and as a result the state would acquire millions of homeless, savage juveniles born out of wedlock. It is possible to make an odious jest out of the employment of all kinds of poisons, and to end up with the poisoning of almost an entire people. Do we not see examples of this?
In each of such cases, which have turned into a national calamity, at the basis could be discerned some stupid egotistical action. Someone thought only about his own self-indulgence or culpable self-interest, and from this single malignant small piece of coal have burst out conflagrations leading to national disasters. Verily, brutalized egoism is primarily the enemy of reciprocity.
Life in a society provides a multitude of opportunities for the cultivation of reciprocity. Indeed, all feelings have to be cultivated. But a great deal of true humanness and tolerance must be manifested in order that the very idea of reciprocity may grow freely and voluntarily. Reciprocity also reminds about responsibility. Each one who rejects reciprocity offered him in the work for the general good takes upon himself a grave responsibility. In reciprocity are combined mind and heart. In benefaction the heart senses where it must extend its benevolence. On the other hand the mind reminds about that responsibility which will grow out of cruelty or ignorance.
Experiments by small groups of co-workers assembled for good works provide many tests for the cultivation of reciprocity. It is better at first to test everything in daily life. Observe how routine daily tasks and conflicts are transformed, and you will apprehend how, as in a megaphone, they will reverberate, to be heard by all. Egoism and self-interest can also be verified through the megaphone. What a horrible, harrowing roaring and howling can result from an apparently most negligible domestic misunderstanding!
Not without reason in the ancient schools of life did the teacher sometimes intentionally fling out a test of tolerance and mutual understanding. Those who could not understand with their hearts that which was necessary, at least through reason could be put on their guard about the impending responsibility. It is possible to strike upon some resounding object in one corner of a house and receive an echo unexpectedly in an opposite guarter. It is exactly the same in the creating of responsibility and reciprocity.
If people could only realize more quickly that for the good of the peoples' progress reciprocity must not be left within the confines of a proverb, but should become the basis for cooperation!
"Reciprocity is the basis of agreements."
Tzagan Kure
April 29, 1935
ANTAGONISM
To write you about the same thing is not burdensome for me, yet it is edifying for you."
How much resounds in these words! This "about the same thing'' alone evokes deep reflection. One is amazed at the adamantine firmness that produced this calm statement, whereas in other cases, on other lips, it would cause irritation. Precisely "not burdensome," because the writer of these words, wisely knowing various degrees of the spirit knew how difficult it is to turn the rudder into the right current of thought.
Among the many concepts subject to repetition, antagonism is known to all. Whoever shall prescribe and urge that antagonism not be cultivated will himself be within the ranks of the builders.
A justly founded indignation against the corrupting attempts of the dark forces is one thing, but an entirely different matter is an artificially created and light-mindedly nourished antagonism. The beginning of antagonism flows from a very small and shallow source. So often at its base there will be some tiny personal feeling, some tiny offense, or nonconformity in acquired habits. Usually the man himself does not notice precisely when this small viper penetrates into his Chalice. The course of antagonism is usually very lengthy. It is accumulated from all sorts of preceding thoughts and illusions. A man sometimes feels a small offense, and later on his own volition he begins like a madman to attach to this embryo a tiny tail, wings, paws, and horns — until there results a veritable small monster tenaciously living in his bosom.
Many times these self-made monsters have been described in popular literature. Nonetheless, almost all those who read about them never ascribe to themselves what is being depicted.
At first, speaking simply, something has been unpleasant. This something has probably taken place in the course of the daily routine; then this everyday matter is transferred into a far broader scope, and eventually, like a cancerous growth, it is established as a most dangerous aspect.
The man reaches such a point that, not realizing it in the least, he will not even be in any condition to meet with anyone or encounter anything. Gradually, through autosuggestion he convinces himself that precisely this small daily detail has always been for him the most essential condition of his life.
Each one has had occasion to encounter such woebegone, odd people who have heaped up around themselves impassable barriers of illusory rubbish. Each one can call to mind people who insist that their organism cannot take in this or that food. At the same time, when they have been given precisely this same food under another name, their organism has received it quite well, without any bad consequences. This means that originally an aversion was created, which through autosuggestion reached monstrous obsessive proportions.
From any worldly domain it is possible to enumerate a great number of similar examples. A man believes himself unable to walk along the rim of an abyss, but pursued by a wild animal he rushes over a still more dangerous place without even noticing. No doubt everyone has in store many like examples.
Nonetheless, the question of self-induced antagonism, remains one of the most unwholesome problems in life. Sometimes people try to explain such antagonism toward something either by innate light-mindedness, or by indulgence, absence of discipline, or simply by age. All these explanations do not make it easier, because the monsters of antagonism will plague their creator just the same, and do harm to his surroundings as well. From daily, private life they scatter their poison throughout society and they have a blighting effect upon fundamental state and world problems.
No doubt each one has sometimes had occasion to ask his friends about the cause of their aversion to something. It is likewise probable that many of those questioned believed that this was simply an irresistible innate feeling. Yet in reality in all cases it was obvious that somewhere, somehow, a kind of habit had been formed, and then some circumstance had simply failed to conform to this habit. Sometimes a dish proved too salty or an expected flower did not bloom on a designated date. Even such trifles can gradually be spun together into an entire idiosyncrasy.
One should cure oneself of such cumulated aversions just as one should of the germ of madness.
Many times life itself shows that precisely that circumstance which was apparently an object of irresistible aversion suddenly becomes a most useful one, and that place which appeared emptiest proves to be the richest. Then very shamefacedly the man has to rid himself of all his untimely conclusions. Many times he inwardly regrets that he allowed the self-made monsters to take possession of him to such an extent.
Since antagonism is unjust, so also is partiality. The man who surrounds himself with worthless favorite phantoms deserves the same pity as he who engenders antagonism within himself. Of course the creator of partiality must sooner or later acknowledge his inconsistency with great shame. And of course in people who do not think deeply this shame will produce irritation and will create new harmfulness. Indeed, both self-made antagonism and irrational partiality are equally shameful, because they both have to be outlived. Walking in shackles is very burdensome. It is just as burdensome as any other violation of true justice.
In Roman law the distinction between canon law and civil law is studied. The process of one being engendered from the other is very complicated. One is amazed at those profound minds which have penetrated these subtleties of the formation of human relationships. If we have before us all the various examples of sound judgment and of a desire for the most just solutions, then, too, in everyday usage this must impel us toward a very consciously careful attitude regarding our conduct.
"A word is like a sparrow; it flies out, not to be caught again." Thus does the popular wisdom forewarn. Indeed, here is assumed not only the outwardly sounding word, but also the significance of the thought which gave birth to it. If each thought produces some sort of zigzag in space, then this hieroglyph will remain somewhere, and will always remind us first of all about how deplorable it is to litter space with ill-considered hieroglyphs. For each one of them we are responsible and will have to reply through the megaphone of space.
"From the fall of a rose petal, worlds tremble." The radio whines monotonously, and something is inexorably piercing space. What is this? Partiality? Antagonism? Let us hope that there is being created one more spatial hieroglyph of justice.
Tzagan Kure
May 1, 1935