To Miss Marie Halboister
C/O MISS NOBLE,
21A HIGH STREET, WIMBLEDON.
MY DEAR MARIE,
I am in London again. This time not busy, not hustling about but quietly settled down in a corner — waiting to start for the U.S. America on the first opportunity. My friends are nearly all out of London in the country and elsewhere, and my health not sufficiently strong.
So you are happy in the midst of your lakes and gardens and seclusion in Canada. I am glad, so glad to know that you are up again on top of the tide. May you remain there for ever!
You could not finish the Raja-Yoga translation yet — all right, there is no hurry. Time and opportunity must come if it is to be done you know, otherwise we vainly strive.
Canada must be beautiful now, with its short but vigorous summer, and very healthy.
I expect to be in New York in a few weeks, and don’t know what next. I hope to come back to England next spring.
I fervently wish no misery ever came near anyone; yet it is that alone that gives us an insight into the depths of our lives, does it not?
In our moments of anguish, gates barred for ever seem to open and let in many a flood of light.
We learn as we grow. Alas! we cannot use our knowledge here. The moment we seem to learn, we are hurried off the stage. And this is Mâyâ!
This toy world would not be here, this play could not go on, if we were knowing players. We must play blindfolded. Some of us have taken the part of the rogue of the play, some heroic — never mind, it is all play. This is the only consolation. There are demons and lions and tigers and what not on the stage, but they are all muzzled. They snap but cannot bite. The world cannot touch our souls. If you want, even if the body be torn and bleeding, you may enjoy the greatest peace in your mind.
And the way to that is to attain hopelessness. Do you know that? Not the imbecile attitude of despair, but the contempt of the conqueror for things he has attained, for things he struggled for and then throws aside as beneath his worth.
This hopelessness, desirelessness, aimlessness, is just the harmony with nature. In nature there is no harmony, no reason, no sequence; it was chaos before, it is so still.
The lowest man is in consonance with nature in his earthy-headness; the highest the same in the fullness of knowledge. All three aimless, drifting, hopeless — all three happy.
You want a chatty letter, don’t you? I have not much to chat about. Mr. Sturdy came last two days. He goes home in Wales tomorrow.
I have to book my passage for N.Y. in a day or two.
None of my old friends have I seen yet except Miss Souter and Max Gysic, who are in London. They have been very kind, as they always were.
I have no news to give you, as I know nothing of London yet. I don’t know where Gertrude Orchard is, else would have written to her. Miss Kate Steel is also away. She is coming on Thursday or Saturday.
I had an invitation to stay in Paris with a friend, a very well-educated Frenchman, but I could not go this time. I hope another time to live with him some days.
I expect to see some of our old friends and say good day to them.
I hope to see you in America sure. Either I may unexpectedly turn up in Ottawa in my peregrinations or you come to N.Y.
Good-bye, all luck be yours.
Ever yours in the Lord,