I actually went twice to Eerde in the course of the summer. The first time I could only spend two or three days there, so I decided to visit Krishnamurti again in a month’s time, when I should be able to stay at least ten days, and witness the huge gathering of theosophists and members of Krishnamurti’s movement. There would be many visitors from the United States, from India and even from Australia.

To a writer of fiction the atmosphere at Eerde would probably offer the most attractive material. I could imagine all sorts of books inspired by it - psychological, devotional, religious, romantic, hysterical, lyrical, satirical. How tempting it would have been for a novelist to describe the little castle, an elegant building of the late eighteenth century rising up from a moat and connected with the “mainland” by a delightful semicircular terrace; the romantic canal spanned by a decorative stone bridge; the long low pavilions on each side of the castle; the formal circular garden in front of it. And what opportunities were offered by the ancient park around the castle, its dignified avenues, its magnificent trees, its fields, its river, its water roses on the pond!

And then the guests themselves, wandering reverently along the garden paths, discussing under old trees the deepest problems of life, and greeting one another with smiles of forgiveness and looks of understanding.

There were fair Scandinavian girls with transparent complexions, and voices so soft that they seemed incapable of saying anything but the holiest of things. Some of them helped in the kitchen, others in the offices, and in the evenings they sat together and held one another’s hands. Though I have not found out for certain, I imagine that they were “disciples” who had been driven by faith to leave their comfortable homes in Oslo or Stockholm and come to the castle for the common good. There were several Americans in whose mouth the masters, gurus and astral worlds used to lose all their ethereal qualities and become convincingly matter of fact. There was a very learned French lady with at least three daughters who looked as though they preferred the Cote d’Azur to the Dutch scenery, but had to content themselves with their mother’s knowledge of all sorts of devas, Chinese saints and Tibetan gomtchengs. There was an Italian countess who was always telling me of yet another dream she had about Krishnamurti; and there were several elderly English ladies, quiet, kind, helpful, and wearing a surprising amount of jewelry, though their jewels, even if less obvious, were in a way like the taboos and charms of the African Negroes, made of lions’ teeth or human bones, since although they were mostly of gold and often of precious stones, their triangular or circular shapes showed clearly that they were worn for their symbolical significance and not in order to satisfy a craving after beauty. There were several Indians of indeterminate age but obviously higher education, who at night would sometimes appear in their attractive native coats, with tight white trousers and coloured shoes, the envy of their American, Dutch, British and Scandinavian brethren, many of whom wore homely sandals and looked altogether less picturesque. Some charming Australians and Anglo-Indians and a Scottish couple completed the houseparty.

The writer of fiction would have found even better models and more vivid “local colour” in the large camp, situated in the woods a couple of miles outside the castle. Such readers as have ever attended a theosophical or practically any sort of religious convention will know the type, and I shall refrain from describing it at length. They generally abhor the idea of meat as violently as that of wine or tobacco; they look deep into your eyes when they talk to you; they have a weakness for sandals, for clothes without any particular distinction of shape, for the rougher kind of textiles and such colours as mauve, bottle-green and purple. The men affect long hair, while the women keep theirs short. There were several workmen and farmers among them who had been saving up their money for several years in order to come here. Two German youths had walked for two or three weeks from a distant part of Germany. Indeed, the three thousand visitors would have been worthy of a much more gifted pen than mine.

The organization of the camp lay in the hands of a few Dutch followers of Krishnamurti, experienced business men, who had succeeded in turning out this model camp city in the midst of uninhabited forests and fields. Tourists and journalists from many countries arrived solely to visit the camp, and organizers of similar gatherings would come from distant countries in order to learn form the organization at Ommen. There were rows upon rows of tents of all sizes; there were shower baths, attractive huts with post office, bookshop, photographer, ambulance and information bureau. In huge dining-tents excellent vegetarian meals were served; there was a lecture with seats for three thousand people and there was even an open-air theatre. Everywhere one found helpful guides and interpreters and a fine spirit of fellowship.

As the Dutch summer was at times trying - with incessant rain and icy winds - the nerves of the people must have been somewhat strained. Harmony could be achieved only by self-discipline. Ignorance of the language was, no doubt, a tiresome handicap for many people. Some of them must have come merely for the sake of a new experience and for human fellowship, for the Serbs and Russians, South Americans, Rumanians, Turks and Greeks who hardly knew one word of English could not understand one word of the lectures. And yet most of them remained happy till the very last day. This was undoubtedly due, to a very great extent, to the efficiency of the organization.

As I did not live in the camp, which I visited only for the lectures and an occasional meal, I knew the routine of life at the castle much better.

Since the castle itself was not large enough to accommodate the twenty or more personal guests of Krishnamurti, most of us were put up in a long pavilion flanking the castle. Besides Krishnamurti and his closest friend Rajagopal, the head of the whole organization, only a few friends stayed within the castle itself. The dining room, library, reception rooms and offices were on the ground floor. In the reception rooms were several attractive pieces of Dutch furniture, and the main room, called the state room, contained, besides some fine panelling, four handsome Flemish tapestries specially made for the castle. An ingeniously constructed wooden Louis XIV staircase led from the entrance hall to the first floor and to the bedrooms.

The former owner of the castle, Baron von Pallandt, was a quiet middle-aged gentleman, who had kept for himself only one or two of the castle rooms. He went on administering the big estate, and all the secretarial, clerical and household work, besides that of organizing the movement itself, was done voluntarily.

I stayed in one of the two pavilions, where all the rooms were alike - simple, attractive and comfortable. Every visitor had to look after his own room and make his own bed. When, however, after a day or two some kind spirit had discovered that my talent for manual domestic work was more original than effective, my services in this direction were no longer expected, and for the remainder of my stay there, whenever I returned to my room after breakfast, I found that my bed had already been made with enviable skill.

In the morning we assembled in the big state room. We took off our shoes - more experienced guests than myself would appear in bedroom slippers - and sat down on the floor to meditate. Perhaps it was my native cynicism that prevented my enjoying the morning meditation as much as I ought to have done. It always put me in the wrong frame of mind.

There were several problems connected with the morning meditations about which I wished to be enlightened. Of course I might have asked any of the other twelve or fifteen fellow guests attending this service, but I could never summon the courage to do this, for fear lest they might find out how ignorant I really was. I wanted to ask them whether they considered it necessary to meditate in a crowd. I sincerely believed in meditation, but I always found it much more successful in solitude or with a single companion. Just when I was getting into the right frame of mind, one of the meditators must needs sneeze or cough, and thereupon all my limited powers of concentration would be dissipated.

And I should have liked also to ask whether it was essential to sit on the floor without having been instructed previously how to do it. Most of us had been brought up in the Western world, and were not used to Eastern attitudes. I found that my attention had to be directed towards my aching spine and ankles, and a good deal of the energy that was wanted for a better purpose was thus wasted. Eastern postures for meditation are taught solely by the yoga of body control, and can be learnt successfully only in the far East. Of the eighty-four different postures for the various meditations, only the first few have ever been achieved by any European. Even the elementary “lotus posture” which is indispensable to meditation done in the pose adopted by my fellow meditators, can only be comfortably assumed after many patient and painful exercises. How, then, could I expect all these people, most of whom had never been to the East, or undergone the essential training, to have the necessary command over their bodies? I could see for myself that hardly one of them was sitting in the correct attitude - that of intertwined ankles and straight spine. Possibly the worst indication of my own immaturity was to be found in the fact that sight of all these people sitting there in stocking feet always evoked in me a schoolboy propensity for practical joking.

Had it not been for my shortcomings, the morning mediations would undoubtedly have provided me with a source of inspiration. Someone read aloud a few words - I believe it was always one of Krishnamurti’s sayings - and after that we were meant to meditate upon it. The tightly shut eyes of the other guests made me feel very envious of the wonderful ten minutes they were spending on some blissful plane.

From the state room we moved into the dining room for breakfast, which was always an enjoyable meal, with excellent honey and delectable nut pastes. Lunch, too, was a very attractive meal, not only by virtue of the quality of the vegetarian dishes but equally because hunger, and the pleasure of satisfying it, induced many of the guests to cast off their reserve and to show a greater individuality of character than conversation at other times had led one to expect.

As a rule everyone attended to his own wants, but I was often permitted to wait on Annie Besant, and I several times had the privilege of sitting next to her at meals, and each time it was a joy to be near this exceptional woman. There was a childlike quality about her - not the childishness of old age, but rather the essential simplicity and happy disposition of childhood itself. You felt that she knew so much more than anybody else present; but her greater wisdom and experience never interfered with her manner of treating even the youngest members of the party as her equals.

The saintliness that hung over Eerde, like a pink cloud in a play, made me somewhat skeptical; and yet the first meeting between Annie Besant and Krishnamurti on her arrival at the castle had greatly impressed me.

Krishnamurti had been waiting for the car that was bringing his guest, in the circular garden in front of the castle. He was by himself, and we, his other guests, kept in the background. One could see that he was nervous. When the car arrived, Krishnamurti walked up to it to open the door. Annie Besant appeared, dressed in white Indian robes with white shoes, and a white shawl over her snow-white hair. Krishnamurti bowed his head and kissed the old lady’s hand. She in her turn put both her hands on his black hair and whispered a few words to him. In her face there was the expression of the deepest tenderness, and I could see that she was crying. It was obvious that their welcome was an expression of their personal affection for each other and had nothing to do with their theosophical relationship. Krishnamurti took Annie Besant’s arm and led her slowly towards the castle. We were introduced to her and shook hands. Her eyes were still moist and the loving smile was still lingering on her lips.

Krishnamurti hardly ever came down to breakfast. Generally he remained in his bedroom. It was a very simple bedroom, and must have been the smallest in the castle. Each morning after breakfast some of his most intimate fellow workers used to walk up the staircase and disappear into a room which connected with Krishnamurti’s bedroom. My curiosity was pricked by these morning processions. I imagined mysterious happenings behind the doors: special initiations or mental exercises of a higher order, reserved only for the “inner circle”. I never found out what went on behind the doors - probably household bills and questions of daily routine were discussed.

In the mornings and on most afternoons there were lectures in the big tent in the woods. Krishnamurti spoke almost every day; and then there followed speeches by Annie Besant, Mr. Jinarajadasa, the vice-president of the Theosophical Society, a Frnechman Prof. Marcault, a Dutch scholar Dr. van der Leeuw, and one or two other followers of Krishnamurti. The main tenor of Krishnamurti’s talks was that the kingdom of happiness lies within ourselves, and the other lecturers spoke on very much the same lines. Krishnamurti’s principal talks were of an autobiographical kind, and he tried to explain in them how he himself had found truth by giving up all conventional conceptions of one life after another.

There were several meetings at the castle in the afternoon, and often at these there were visitors, both legitimate and also of a less legitimate but more intrusive kind. Many people from the camp would come to see the home in which their prophet lived. They were taken inside the castle and along the quiet garden paths, and they often hardly dared utter a word. There were also sightseers and tourists, who had heard of the new messiah from India and who would peep through the gates as though expecting strange miracles to occur at any moment. They looked at Krishnamurti’s guests, apparently convinced that we were the disciples of a magician or of a yogi. Each time I left the castle or came back, I noticed the inquisitive glances of the occupants of some motor car, and I would hear their interested chatter. This embarrassed me and made wish that I had the power to produce white rabbits from my coat pocket or flames from my mouth, since I always felt as though the people in the cars were not being treated with that consideration to which they believed themselves entitled.

In the hall of the castle there was a very large and very new gramophone, given to Krishnamurti by one of his admirers and placed here for the enjoyment of the guests. I knew that Krishnamurti was a great lover of music, and I caught him one evening sitting by himself in the corner of a little study off the main hall. It was after dinner and the room was quite dark. I can still remember the record: it was the slow movement of the G Minor Quartette by Debussy - that almost unreal piece of strangely coloured cascades and sudden melancholy halts. Whenever I hear that movement I see the night over the castle and Krishnamurti sitting by himself in the little room and listening joyfully to the violins.

Several members of our houseparty were fond of music, and would spend the evening listening to the gramophone. The prevailing taste seemed to be Parsifal, Gotterdammerung and Siegfried. The listeners would sit in just those attitudes in which you would expect to find them, when reveling in the superior boredom of Kundry’s endless laments or Siegfried’s narratives. Their eyes were closed, their souls no doubt very wide open, in their faces a mixture of happiness and reverence, and you could see all the silver and mauve ethereal pictures that the music painted for them. Perhaps I was too frivolous for them, and at times I would become genuinely alarmed by my cynicism, and would decide never again to make critical comments even to myself. And yet there was one thing which gave real cause for irritation.

My inability to find the true meaning of Krishnamurti’s teaching led to the anxiety that my visit must be an utter failure. Krishnamurti’s lectures were too vague to give me clear answers to many of my questions.

I had been hoping to find those answers among the people who stayed at the castle and who must have known exactly what was to be understood. They were only too willing to help me; but it seemed that they had all sacrificed their personalities in order to become members of the Order of the Star in the East. I talked to many of them in the course of the day, but they left too little impression to enable me distinguish them in my mind later on. They all met me halfway; and they would talk of reincarnation and karma with an understanding smile on their lips and as though they were speaking of the next train from Ommen to the Hook of Holland. They did their very best to copy Krishnamurti, to be kind and sincere or to make jokes and show how jolly they were. But I was not among doctors, farmers, schoolmasters, politicians, housewives; I was just among theosophists and members of the Order of the Star. I had expected that their new spiritual experience would have made them more enlightened about their former problems; that they would talk with greater understanding about the world at large. They were political and economic congresses, religious disputes, naval conferences going on all over the world; new movements in art, in literature, music, the theatre, the cinema were being experimented with; the world talked of unemployment and reparations; there were thousands of things that had to be discussed, improved upon - but none of them seemed to have penetrated the woods of Eerde.

One day I was told that the moment had arrived when Krishnamurti’s message would be heard by the outside world which had hitherto known it only through distorted newspaper reports. A new organ was to be founded. My opinion was sought, since I had some experience and enjoyed press connections that might be helpful. The publications of the Order of the Star - periodicals, pamphlets and news-sheets - were run by amateurs. I knew that the outside world could only be reached if one were to use a language intelligible to it. Devotional poetry, accounts of personal visions were not likely to convince men and women used to a matter-of-fact world. Those lawyers, business men, theologians and scientists of the outside world would only grasp Krishnamurti’s ideas if they could be presented in a clear and sober way. People must see that they were dealing not with dreamers but with men who knew the world and her needs better than others did, and who therefore might be able to solve some of the most pressing problems.

The few people with whom the plans were discussed listened patiently to my suggestions; they nodded obligingly, and assured me that this was the right way to proceed. In actual practice not one of these suggestions was adopted, and the events of the following months showed that a metaphorical and semi-theosophical jargon was still being employed for enlightening the world at large about the “World Teacher”.

I am sure that none but myself was to blame for my intellectual disappointment. The general atmosphere of adoration had put me into a state of expectancy which simply could not be satisfied anyhow or by anyone. My intellectual upbringing had made me expect a clearer message than Krishnamurti was willing or able to offer. I had not yet found in his friends and followers that inner readjustment to life that would have allowed me to accept the new message in the form in which it was offered.

I had gathered enough to see that Krishnamurti’s teaching was not Eastern - that it repudiated passivity. Everyone should find truth for himself; should listen to no one but himself; should consider unification with happiness as the final goal. But when I asked how this could be achieved I received no clear answers. It is not enough to see the summit of Mont Blanc. If we want to reach the top, we must be informed as to the most advantageous season, the best route, and such details of equipment as the most suitable boots to wear. Most of Krishnamurti’s answers would be dissipated in similes and metaphors. You asked him about your personal troubles, your religious beliefs, your intellectual doubts, and he would talk to you about mountain peaks and streams running through fields. When asked about his own road and the road along which one might find happiness, he would answer: “The direct path, which I have trodden, you will tread when you leave on one side the paths that lead to complications. That path alone gives you the understanding of life… If you are walking along the straight path, you need no signposts.” But where, exactly the direct path lay, or how we were to find it, he did not disclose. The very same day Krishnamurti might renounce all paths and say that no one path was better than any other.

I had several talks with him, and each time I eagerly looked forward to our meeting. We would talk as we walked through the woods and across the fields of Eerde. One afternoon we suddenly found ourselves in front of a charming little house, flat roofed and rather modern, surrounded by high trees but with a view on one side across the fields. It was Krishnamurti’s retreat, a self-contained little home, where he could get away from people, meditate and rest in solitude. He must have been very sensitive to solitude. He was not very strong physically, and though he went in for all sorts of games and was a great lover of lawn tennis, he remained rather delicate. The camp with its thousands of people, with its daily lectures, interviews and visitors, must have been a heavy strain on his health.

I found no further intellectual satisfaction either in Krishnamurti’s lectures or in his books, and I wondered whether this was not due to his Eastern origin. On the other hand, I had experienced no similar difficulties when reading the writings of Eastern sages. Even if one did not grasp their full meaning, there still remained enough to provide intellectual contentment. Among the books by Krishnamurti that I tried to read were Temple Talks, The Kingdom of Happiness and The Pool of Wisdom. There was also a few volumes of poetry. I admired their oriental beauty and their deep ring of sincerity, but I was baffled by their vagueness. It is certainly unfair to judge lyrical poetry by the same rules as those by which we attempt to judge scientific books. On the other hand Krishnamurti’s poetry was supposed to contain not only the lyrical confession of a sensitive youth with the gift for poetry but also the account of a deep spiritual experience. When I read:

“As the flower contains the scent, So I hold Thee, O world In my heart. Keep me within the heart, For I am liberation And happiness. As the precious stone, Lies deep in the earth, So I am hidden Deep in thy heart…”

I enjoyed the beauty of the poem and I felt the truth in it. But this poem, called “I am with thee” and written in 1927, was considered by Krishnamurti’s followers and even his biographer Lilly Heber as of great importance. I seemed to remember having seen poems of that kind in various anthologies containing Eastern poetry. At times you would even find such poems in those slender volumes published by young men who had come down from Oxford and Cambridge and had been greeted by some of the London critics with prophecies of a splendid literary future.

But we were not dealing with a talented young man whose earlier poems had been accepted by the Editor of the Oxford Outlook. We were dealing with a teacher who did not repudiate this title; who allowed thousands to come and listen to him and to expect guiding principles from him, and who must have been conscious of the immense responsibility that all this implied. I felt that I had a right not only to expect answers but even to expect them in a language that was common to people of the Western world. I even felt entitled to expect perfection in everything he said or did. The unity between the content and the form was of great importance in a person like Krishnamurti. When I read:

“Thou must cleanse thyself Of the conceit of little knowledge; Thou must purify thyself Of thy heart and mind; Thou must renounce all Thy companions, Thy friends, thy family, Thy father, thy mother, Thy sister and thy brother; Yea, Thou must renounce all; Thou must destroy Thy self utterly To find the beloved,”

I could see a glimpse of Krishnamurti’s philosophy, but I felt that the same truth might be expressed less pretentiously: “Thou must purify thyself of thy heart and mind. Thou must renounce all thy companions, thy friends, thy family, thy father, thy mother, thy sister and thy brother…” If we write these lines without the lineal demarcation of poetry we acknowledge at once the fine statement contained in them, but we do not maintain that they are poetry. And yet I wanted Krishnamurti to write poetry that would convince people, and such as I might show to my skeptical friends.

When after a certain time I was able to perceive the main idea of Krishnamurti’s teaching I understood hat it was complete liberation, which means complete happiness. It is achieved by love and it rests within our own inherent power. Krishnamurti defined it in later years when he said: “The goal of human feeling is love which is complete in itself, utterly detached, knowing neither subject nor object, a love which gives equally to all without demanding anything whatever in return, a love which is its own eternity”.

As far as I understand, this is the teaching of Christ, the teaching of Buddha. We all heard these words when we given our first religious instruction. I asked myself, therefore: If Krishnamurti’s teaching is just a repetition of the teaching of Christ, or of Buddha, then why all this theosophical background; why the Star in the East, that huge organization; why the talk of a new path; why the followers, camps and labels? Would it not have been easier to remain in our old-established Churches which give us clearer words for all these messages? Is it all humbug?

I was very fond of Krishnamurti, otherwise I should have left Eerde after the first few days. But I wanted Krishnamurti to be able to help me in my own way, and to help the other three thousand people in their own way. I wanted to be able to convince the cynic within myself that Krishnamurti was right and capable of helping, and that he had fulfilled my highest expectations. Instead, I felt uncomfortable when the Saul within myself would say to the Paul after every talk I had with Krishnamurti: “Wasn’t I right? Did you grasp more today than yesterday? Didn’t I tell you it would be a waste of time? Why don’t you talk instead to the rivers and the trees? Their language will be more intelligible.”

And yet there were people, with less intellectual resistance, who perceived Krishnamurti’s message quite clearly. Looking back on those days I am particularly struck by the impression Krishnamurti made on a man brought up in the rough school of English working-class life, a man matured in political battles. I mean George Lansbury. This is what the old labour leader wrote after one of their meetings at Ommen: “I have seen the glorious march of the Socialists in Paris, in Brussels, in Stockholm and in our own country, and I have seen them sitting and standing around our platform. But I think that those gatherings round the camp fire… are somehow the most wonderful of all… When we Socialists come together, we come pledging ourselves to fight in order to raise the material conditions of ourselves and our fellows. Round this camp fire we were listening to one who is teaching us the hardest of all truths… that if mankind is to be redeemed it must be redeemed through the individual action of each of us… There must be great hope for the future… whilst there are living in our midst those who are inspired by a great ideal - to work and toil for impersonal causes.”

I hoped that Mr. Lansbury was right, and that some of the characteristics that I seemed to have found among some of Krishnamurti’s followers were only evident when they were all together. They may have talked and behaved in quite a different manner when left to themselves in their normal surroundings. Perhaps all these people were really leaders in their various professions, efficient and capable of reforming their individual worlds in a direction that had disclosed itself to them during their visit to Eerde. Perhaps it was only due to blindness on my own part that even when I saw them later in London at one or two gatherings and in several offices, I again had the impression they had given me at Ommen.

Though my intellect remained critical, I felt that I was indeed becoming happier every day through my contact with Krishnamurti, and that only intellectual barriers within myself prevented me from accepting him as wholeheartedly as I longed to do. But even this reaction irritated me. I knew that the three thousand people who had come here were as anxious to catch his smile and were almost in a fever every time Krishnaji, as they called him affectionately, addressed or approached them. I had imagined myself more critical than they.

Only the evenings round the camp fire were really impressive. After dinner we would drive out in cars belonging to members of our houseparty to the camp fire in the woods. A large amphitheatre had been built there, with innumerable circular rows of seats; in their midst was Krishnamurti’s own seat. This was made of large tree trunks and suggested some huge Nibelungen throne. Each time I saw this seat I imagined that Wotan and Hunding and the many substantial valkyries must have sat in such chairs when attending a family party in Valhalla. Krishnamurti, slender, dark, rather shy, looked strange and lost on his Wagnerian throne.

Most of the people who had come to the camp at Ommen looked upon the evening gatherings, quite rightly, as the climax of the day. Krishnamurti, stepping into the center of the amphitheatre where a huge heap of wood for a beacon had been prepared, would kindle it and stand in front of it for a few minutes watching the fire grow higher and higher. The he would walk back slowly to his seat. Smoke would begin to rise to the sky and the flames would suffuse thousands of eager faces with a red glow. Many members of the audience were sitting with their hands resting quietly in their laps and their eyes shut, and you could see how deeply they enjoyed the moment. In the evenings there was a festive feeling, there was an atmosphere of human fellowship and spiritual satisfaction. It was a real holiday to the three thousand people. On one or two occasions the light of the flames and the last pink of a sun that had disappeared more than an hour ago would merge into each other and would produce striking colour effects in which, I daresay, some of the people present discovered symbolical meaning.

I have never heard Krishnamurti speak so well as he did in the evenings round the camp fire. On the whole he was not a very effective speaker; he often repeated himself; he often halted; and many of his sentences were too long. His hold over the masses was not due to any forensic talents. In the evening time his words seemed to come more easily to him, and his voice would carry melodiously across the silent crowd, the pictures evoked by his words becoming more clearly visible and the whole atmosphere more convincing.

Now and then he would begin to chant an Indian chant at the end of the evening, and on such occasions he was even more impressive than during his speech. Though he spoke English with mastery, you could not help feeling that English was not his language. It was, I remember thinking at the time, the melodious quality of his voice that may have given that impression. At the evenings round the camp fire the contrast between his entire personality and the English language would become more striking. In the evenings he wore Indian clothes, a simple brown coat reaching below the knees and buttoned up to the neck, tight white trousers and white shoes, and his appearance would only emphasize the emotion produced by his voice. During the Indian chants the precise meaning of his words seemed to matter little, and there was no longer a gulf between the man and his words. In the unintelligible language there was the magic sound that words assume in a strange tongue.

After his chants Krishnamurti would sit silently for a few minutes, with an expression of great serenity on his face. He would then leave his seat and walk away to the car that took him back to the castle.

One or two experiences may help to show what a real influence Krishnamurti had on my life. It may be considered a mere coincidence that when I met Krishnamurti for the first time, on that rainy Sunday morning in Westminster, I gave up smoking. I had smoked since I was seventeen, usually thirty cigarettes a day, and I had become something of a slave to the habit. Nevertheless I had never tried giving up smoking, because I had never seen any convincing reason for so doing. Even today I cannot explain clearly why I should have given it up the day I met Krishnamurti. We did not discuss this subject; I did not know that he himself did not smoke. And yet to give up smoking at once seemed the most natural thing. Though I carried a cigarette case in my pocket for many days I never felt tempted to light another cigarette. Nor have I smoked since.

The other incident is more difficult to describe. I had been trying for a long time to meditate in the evenings on a particular subject. I used to do it in bed before going to sleep. For months on end I would reach a certain point in my meditation after which it would break up. Either my attention would falter or else I fell asleep before getting beyond the particular point. A few days after I had met Krishnamurti I succeeded for the first time. I experienced the feeling of sinking into a deep well. Though the well seemed bottomless I had simultaneously the two opposed sensations of going on sinking and yet of having reached the bottom. This was accompanied by a very vivid impression of light. The strongest impression, however, was of receiving at once an emotional shock and a mathematical revelation. It is difficult to describe this last sensation; no metaphor or comparison represents it correctly. Though I do not claim any mystical significance for my experience, I can best translate it into words by quoting an abler pen than my own. When Dean Inge once described mystical experiences he said: “What can be described and handed on is not the vision itself but the inadequate symbols in which the seer tries to preserve it in his memory… But such experiences, which rather possess a man than are possessed by him, are in their nature as transient as the glories of a sunset… Language, which was not made for such purposes, fails lamentably to reproduce even their pale reflection.” What, however, can be said is the fact that the culminating point of my experience made me unspeakably happy. It was such an acute happiness that it was almost like a feeling of of physical delight or physical pain. The division between delight and pain seemed lifted. How long the moment lasted I could not tell; but I imagine it to have been no more than the fraction of a second. When it was all over, I was awake and fully conscious, and I recorded my experience to myself with a feeling of deep gratitude.

The above experiences showed me that Krishnamurti’s effect upon me was vital enough to act even against my intellectual resistance.

In the summer of 1929 I found in a newspaper a report which described at some length how Krishnamurti had suddenly dissolved the Order of the Star, broken deliberately all connection with the Theosophical Society and their teaching about himself, and renounced all claims that had been made in his name. He had, then, at last summoned the courage to sever all the ties that had held back his won spiritual convictions through so many years, and that had forced him to act in the shadow of what looked like spiritual usurpation.

The recent rupture had taken place on 3 August 1929 at the yearly summer camp at Ommen. Krishnamurti decided to renounce all authority that thousands of people had been using as comfortable crutches for their own spiritual incapacity. This is how Mr. Theodore Besterman described the critical meeting in his biography of Mrs. Besant: “One morning Mr. Krishnamurti rose to deliver his address to the assembled campers. It could be seen at once that he was now speaking for himself and not merely as a mouthpiece; and his words confirmed the impression in no dubious manner… He announced the dissolution of the Order of the Star and at one blow laid low the whole elaborate structure so painfully and painstakingly built up by Mrs. Besant during the past eighteen years. ‘I maintain’, Krishnamurti said, ‘that Truth is a pathless land, and you cannot approach it by any path whatsoever, by any religion, by any sect. This is my point of view and I adhere to that absolutely and unconditionally… A belief is purely an individual matter, and you cannot and must not organize it.’ He declared that he did not want followers… he made it unmistakably clear that his words were directed against those who had built up the elaborate structure for him during those eighteen years. Krishnamurti added: ‘You have been preparing for this event, for the coming of the World Teacher. For eighteen years you have organized, you have looked for someone who would give a new delight to your hearts… who would set you free… In what manner has such a belief swept away all the unessential things in life? In what way are you freer, greater?…’ Mr. Krishnamurti continued: ‘You can form other organizations and expect someone else. With that I am not concerned, nor with creating new cages… My only concern is to set men absolutely, unconditionally free’. After this Mr. Krishnamurti gave up all the possessions heaped upon him, and gradually severed his connection with all organizations.”

It was not difficult to perceive what enormous courage it needed to make such a far-reaching decision. To understand its magnitude one has to remember what Krishnamurti was renouncing. There existed an organization with many thousands of members; there were platforms from which to speak on the four most important corners of the globe; there was an independent commercial organization with its magazines, its books and various publications in a dozen different languages; there were helpers among all classes of society, willing to make practically any mental or material sacrifice; there was, in short, a working machine for the transmission of a spiritual message, as powerful as any institution had been. To understand what it must have meant to give it all up, one has to visualize the money, the worry, the energy, the time needed for the establishment of an organization for the disseminating of non-commercial ideals, no matter whether of a religious, social, political, intellectual or any other kind. To throw it overboard as though it meant nothing required personal courage, moral purity and spiritual conviction.

I was glad that I doubted neither Krishnamurti’s sincerity nor his intrinsic spiritual value. The events of August 1929 strengthened the impression I had received when the young Indian entered the dark paneled room in Westminster. Had I not suddenly seen that it mattered little what his life had been up till then? And had I not felt that his personality had nothing in common with the striking headlines in the newspapers?

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