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XIII
IN ADDITION TO the
group of children, Mr. Gurdjieff's rela-
tives, and a few adult Americans, the only people who had not
gone to America with Mr. Gurdjieff were older people --
mostly Russians -- who did not seem to fit into the category of
students. I did not know why they were there except that they
appeared to be what might be called "hangers-on", practically
camp-followers. It was difficult, if not impossible, to imagine
that they were in any sense interested in Gurdjieff's philosophy;
and they constituted, along with Gurdjieff's family, what we
called simply "The Russians". They seemed to represent the
Russia that no longer existed. Most of them, I gathered, had
escaped from Russia (they were all "White" Russians) with
Gurdjieff, and they were like an isolated remnant of a prior
civilization, justifying their existence by working, without any
apparent purpose, at whatever chores were given them, in
return for which they received food and shelter.
Even during the active summers, they led their own, private
existence: reading the Russian newspapers, discussing Russian
politics, gathering together to drink tea in the afternoons and
evenings, living like displaced persons in the past, as if unaware
of the present or the future. Our only contact with them was
at meals and at the Turkish baths, and very occasionally they
did participate in some of the group work projects.
Notable among these "refugees" was one man, about sixty
years of age, by the name of Rachmilevitch. He was distin
guished from "The Russians" because he was inexhaustibly
curious about everything that took place. He was a mournful,
dour type, full of prophecies of disaster, dissatisfied with
everything. He complained, continually, about the food, the
conditions in which we lived -- the water was never hot enough,
there was not enough fuel, the weather too cold or too hot,
people were unfriendly, the world was coming to an end; in
fact anything at all -- any event, or any condition -- was some-
thing that he seemed to be able to turn into a calamity or,
at least, an impending disaster.
The children, filled with energy, and without enough to
occupy them during the long winter days and evenings,
seized on Rachmilevitch as a target for their unused vitality.
We all mocked him, aped his mannerisms, and did our best to
make his life one long, continuous, living hell. When he would
enter the dining-room for a meal, we would begin on a series
of complaints about the food; when he attempted to read his
Russian newspaper, we would invent imaginary political
crises. We withheld his mail when we were on concierge duty,
hid his newspapers, stole his cigarettes. His unending complaints
had also irritated the other "Russians" and, subversively, they
not only did nothing to restrain us, but, subtly and without
ever mentioning his name directly, approved, and urged us on.
Not content with badgering him during the day, we took
to staying up at night at least until he had turned off the light
in his room; then we would gather in the corridor outside his
bedroom door and have loud conversations with each other
about him, disguising our voices in the hope that he would
not be able to pick out any individuals among our group.
Unfortunately, and understandably, he was not able to
disregard our activities -- we never gave him a moment's
peace. He would appear at meals, enraged by our night-time
excursions in the halls, and complain in a loud voice about
all of us, calling us devils, threatening to punish us, vowing to
get even with us.
Seeing that no other adults
-- not even Miss Madison --
sympathized with him, we felt emboldened, and were delighted
with his reactions to us. We "borrowed" his glasses, without
which he was unable: to read -- when he hung out his clothes
to dry, we hid them, and we waited for his next appearance
and his violent, raging, frustrated reactions with great antici-
pation and delight, moaning in a body with him as he com-
plained about and raged at us.
The torture of Rachmilevitch came to a climax, and an end,
when we decided to steal his false teeth. We had often mimicked
him when he was eating -- he had a way of sucking on these
teeth, which made them click in his mouth -- and we would
imitate this habit to the great amusement of most of the other
people present. There was something so whole-heartedly
mischievous about our behaviour that it was difficult for anyone
not to participate in our continually high, merry, malicious
spirits. Whenever poor Rachmilevitch was present in any
group, invariably his very presence would make all the children
begin to giggle, irresistibly and infectiously. His very appear
ance was enough to start us laughing uncontrollably.
Whether I volunteered for the teeth-stealing mission or
whether I was chosen, I no longer remember. I do remember
that it was a well-planned group project, but that I was the
one who was to do the actual stealing. To accomplish this,
I was secreted in the corridor outside his room one night.
A group of five or six of the other children proceeded to make
various noises outside his room: wailing, blowing through
combs which had been wrapped in toilet paper, pretending
we were ghosts and calling out his name mournfully, predicting
his immediate death, and so on. We kept this up interminably
and as we had foreseen, he was unable to contain himself. He
came tearing out of the room, in the dark, in his nightshirt,
screaming in helpless rage, chasing the group down the
corridor. This was my moment: I rushed into his room, seized
the teeth from the glass in which he kept them on the table by
his bed, and rushed out with them.
We had had no plan as to what to do with them
-- we had
not gone so far as to think that we might keep them forever --
and after a long consultation, we decided to hang them on
the gas fixture above the dining-room table.
We were, of course, all present the following morning,
eagerly awaiting his appearance and squirming in antici-
pation. No one could have been a more satisfactory target for
our machinations: as expected, he came into the dining-room,
his face shrunken around the mouth by his lack of teeth, the
very living embodiment of frustrated rage. He lashed out at us
verbally and physically, until the dining-room was in an
uproar as he chased us around the table, demanding in high-
pitched screams the return of his teeth. All of us, as if unable
to stand the combination of suspense and delight, began
casting glances upward, above the table, and Rachmilevitch
finally calmed down for long enough to look up and see his
teeth, hanging from the gas fixture. Accompanied by our
triumphant shouts of laughter, he got up on the table and
removed them and replaced them in his mouth. When he sat
down again, we realized that we had -- for once -- gone too far.
He managed to eat his breakfast with a certain cold, silent,
dignity, but although we continued, as if our motors were
running down, to poke fun at him rather listlessly, our hearts
were not in it any longer. He looked at us coldly, with a feeling
that was even beyond hatred -- the look in his eyes was like
that of a wounded animal. He did not, however, let it go at
that. He took the matter up with Miss Madison, who then
cross-questioned us unendingly. I finally admitted to the actual
theft, and although we all received black marks in her little
black book, she informed me that I now led the list by an
enormous margin. She kept me on in her room when she
had dismissed the other children, to enumerate the list of
things which she had marked up against me. I did not keep
the stables sufficiently clean; I did not sweep the courtyard
regularly; I did not keep Gurdjieff's room properly dusted;
the chicken yard was a general mess; I was careless about my
own room, my clothes and my appearance. In addition, she
felt sure that I was the ring-leader in all the offences that had
been committed against poor old Mr. Rachmilevitch.
As it was already early in the spring and Gurdjieff's
arrival
from America was imminent, I did pay some attention to her
words. I cleaned up the chicken-yard, and made at least a
small improvement in most of my jobs generally, but I was
still living in some sort of dreamworld and I put off as many
things as I could. When we learned that Gurdjieff was going
to arrive on a particular day -- it was told to us the morning of
the very day that he was to reach the Prieure -- I surveyed the
condition of my various chores and I was horrified. I realized
that it would be impossible for me to get everything in order
before he arrived. I concentrated on cleaning his rooms
thoroughly, and sweeping the courtyard; my most "visible"
projects. And, filled with guilt, instead of dropping my work
when I knew he was arriving, I continued sweeping the court --
yard, and did not go to greet him as everyone else had done.
To my horror, he sent for me. I went to join the group, shame --
facedly, expecting some immediate retribution for my sins,
but he only embraced me warmly and said that he had missed
me and that I was to help take his baggage up to his room
and bring him coffee. It was a temporary reprieve, but I
dreaded what was to come.
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