"This is why our travels, our work as Theosophists, must always take us to the East. That is where the knowledge is. From where it has always emanated forth. Fortunately, the
Adepts of the East had the sound historical sense to conceal their sources from these Western marauders, Holy Crusaders intent on their own parochial destiny, oblivious to the true concern of man: human spiritual evolution. And so you ask yourself, why has this knowledge of the Secret Science remained hidden from the Western masses? Would it not be in the best interests of these alleged Enlightened Ones to share their secrets with the emerging civilizations? Let me ask you this: Would you give a candle to a child in a roomful of gunpowder? These truths have been passed down by spiritual leaders, from generation to generation, since time began. They remain secret because contained within are the keys to understanding the essential mysteries of life. Because they are Power! And woe betide us all if they should ever fall into the wrong hands."
Her eyes rested on Doyle for the first time, then moved on.
"So this is our lot; even as we labor endlessly to bring these truths, in their reduced, acceptable form, before the court of public opinion we should not delude ourselves that our efforts will be welcomed in our lifetimes. Quite the contrary. We must expect to be rejected, attacked, ridiculed. No scholar or scientist will be permitted to regard our efforts with any degree of seriousness. It is simply our job to open the door, if only this much." She held up two slightly parted fingers. "It will fall to each generation of fellow explorers who succeed us to open that door a little wider."
Now she seemed to turn her attention directly to Doyle. He felt the force of her eyes as she held him benignly in her gaze.
"How is this to be done? you ask. Imagine you are a tourist, and you are traveling in a country that is very well known to you, a country in which you have spent your entire existence. You are familiar intimately with its roads, rivers, cities, people, and customs. It represents the sum of all you know, and so you therefore, quite naturally assume it represents the sum of all that is. Imagine then that while upon your travels, you have quite unexpectedly arrived at the border of another land. A land not identified anywhere on your most impressive collections of maps. This country is ringed, on every side, by insurmountable mountain ranges, so you are unable to see down into this strange land from your position. But you are
determined to go there. You are enthusiastic. You have courage. You have, for lack of a better word, a certain faith. What must you do?"
Scale the mountain, Doyle thought. Blavatsky nodded.
"And remember," she said, "when the path appears impassable, when your prospects are ruined, when even death seems imminent, you will have no other choice but to destroy the mountain. In this way, and this way only, will you enter the New Country."
With this perplexity, her presentation was at an end. Applause was brief and polite. Blavatsky bowed slightly, a slight smile not without irony on her lips, which seemed to Doyle to say, You are not applauding me, because these are not truly my words, but I acknowledge the divinity and comedy of our collective spiritual-physical paradoxical condition and commend you for your recognition of it.
Most of the crowd drifted out, satisfied with their evening, some smugly dismissive, others self-congratulatory on the subject of their own open-mindedness, a few stimulated to greater thought that would result in soul-searching to last the better part of the evening, or even, for one or two, into the next day, before the blanket of routine muffled that restless stirring back down to the parade of days.
Knowing he must speak with the woman, Doyle lingered on the edge of the circle of acolytes who pressed in around her, hungry for more direct experience of the truths she was peddling. An assistant—Doyle presumed he was an assistant by his habitually clerical nature—male, early twenties, set up a table of HPB's books nearby, offering the volumes Doyle was already familiar with at extremely reasonable prices.
The questions she fielded were earnest, if predictable, and she answered with wit and brevity that bordered on the discourteous. She was clearly not one of these charismatics Doyle had occasionally come across, whose express objective was to inspire a dependency, emotional and inevitably financial, among their faithful. She was, if anything, impatient with her standing as a figure of social curiosity and emphatically disinterested in the glamorous, self-aggrandizing aspects of the teacher-student dynamic. This is her gift, Doyle thought. She stirs the pot. What the individual does with the
information there was not her responsibility. Sensible anc pragmatic and not a little appealing.
"What do you have to say about the various religions?"
"Nothing. There is no religion higher than truth."
Why do you think elders in other religions are afraid oi what you are saying?"
"Bigotry and materialism."
"Are you saying Jesus was not the Son of God?"
"No. We are all sons and daughters of God."
"But are you saying he wasn't divine?"
"Quite the contrary. Next question."
"What about the Freemasons?"
"Whenever anyone asks about the Freemasons, I must say good night. Read my books, and to the greatest extent that you can manage, remain awake. Thank you."
With that, she withdrew through a door at the side of the stage, and the remainder of the crowd dispersed. A short, nattily dressed woman with a monocle and walking stick appeared at Doyle's side.
"Dr. Doyle?"
"Yes."
"My name is Dion Fortune. HPB would like to speak with you. Would you come this way please?"
Doyle nodded and followed. The woman's name was familiar; she was a founding member of the London branch of the Theosophical Society and an author of some note in the esoteric world. Doyle noticed the Indian woman lingering at the book table as Fortune led him through the door.
Her handshake was firm and cool. She looked him right in the eye with concern and warm support.
"I am most pleased to meet you, Dr. Doyle."
Having vouchsafed the initial introductions, Dion Fortune took a seat by the door. They were in a cramped dressing room next to a rumbling furnace. A spacious, well-traveled satchel stood open on a table—HPB's only luggage, her possessions and appointments were as utilitarian and utterly lacking in ostentation as her wardrobe.
Doyle returned the salutation, knowing he would feel remiss without telling her immediately of the events in London.
"Petrovitch is dead," he said.
Her features hardened. She asked immediately for exhaustive, specific details. He recounted the tale exactingly, as well as his conclusions, finally producing the tin of poison tablets from his bag. Blavatsky examined them, sniffed them, nodded.
"Would you like to drink with me?" she asked. "I recommend something stiff."
She pulled a bottle from her bag. Fortune produced some glasses.
"Vodka," she said, offering him the first glass.
"I thought spiritual teaching argued against the use of hard liquor," Doyle said lightly.
"Most spiritual teaching is hogwash. We must still move through the world as the personality into which we were born. I am a Russian peasant woman, and vodka has a most agreeable effect upon me. Na zdorovia."
She downed the drink and poured another. Doyle sipped. Fortune abstained. Blavatsky dropped into a chair, slung a leg over one of the arms, and lit a cigar.
"There is more you would like to tell me, yes?"
Doyle nodded. He was grateful for the vodka, as it seemed to elicit a smoother recitation of his story. She stopped him only once, to ask for a more detailed description of the wounds and external arrangement of the organs of the fallen prostitute.