“I got the impression that there was something on your mind.”
Rowland nodded.
“Is it a question of faith?” the holy man enquired encouragingly. “You know, if you open your mind it is not necessary to reject your old beliefs in order to entertain new
ideas.”
“Oh… sorry… it’s not that I’m afraid…” Rowland ran his hand through his hair as he regarded Krishnamurti awkwardly. “I wanted to ask you about
Charles Leadbeater.”
Krishnamurti’s smile vanished. His dark eyes shifted nervously.
“Why do you ask?”
Rowland dishevelled his hair again. This was difficult.
“Annie’s given me a letter of introduction. She thinks highly of him…”
“Amma’s judgement is usually impeccable.”
“In this case?”
“She is not infallible.”
“Look Jiddu, you’ve known Leadbeater for many years. Tell me, man to man—do I want to know him?”
Krishnamurti shrugged, and then he said very slowly, “I think Charles Leadbeater is evil. If I were you I would destroy Amma’s letter of introduction.” He looked intently at
Rowland. “Amma genuinely believes he is innocent, you know.”
For a moment Rowland held his gaze and then looked away, regretting that he had intruded into something so appalling, so personal. His enquiries seemed so trivial now. “I know. I’m
sorry.”
Jiddu Krishnamurti shrugged again. “It was a long time ago. We have all moved forward.”
9
Speech by Houdini, the great Mystifier
Can the Dead Speak to the Living?
“The first step towards the lunatic asylum is the Ouija board. Anyone who claims to be able to talk with the dead is either a self-deluded person or a cheat. Can
the dead speak to the living? I say they do not. I am particularly well qualified to discuss this subject, as I have always been interested in spiritualistic and psychic phenomena. I have
personally known most of the leading spiritualists of the last quarter of a century and it is a strange fact that they have been intensely interested in me.”
R owland stepped back from the canvas to survey his work. Daniel Cartwright was singing some dreadful French ballad from behind his own easel. The
American was, of course, both artist and model.
Both Clyde and Rowland were happy for the opportunity to paint. Clyde had set out early that morning for Central Park, inspired by the colour of the American Fall. Milton had gone with him.
Rowland didn’t even try to paint landscapes anymore, and he was not fond of working outdoors in any case. Instead, he had elected to use Cartwright’s studio. Edna had stepped out
with Archibald Leach once again, and consequently Rowland was forced to use his host as a model. And so it was that both men spent the day painting Daniel Cartwright.
“Danny, turn this way, will you,” he requested as he highlighted the points of light in Cartwright’s eyes and on the tip of his nose.
“I say, Rowly, this is rather like the old days at Oxford,” Cartwright said happily. “Two chums, Les Frères d’Art …”
Rowland really wished his friend would stop trying to speak French. Still, he’d enjoyed painting Cartwright. The American stood in a wine-red smoking jacket and beret, between a canvas and
a mirror, once again in pursuit of the perfect self-image. Rowland’s depiction caught Cartwright as he peered intently at his own reflection, paintbrush and palette in hand. He captured the
slight curious smile that showed a man both pleased and fascinated by what he saw in the glass.
“So what did you make of Annie Besant?” Rowland asked in an attempt to bring an end to the French folk songs.
“A perfectly charming woman,” Cartwright replied, glancing from his canvas to the mirror to check that he had done himself justice. “The epitome of cultured hospitality. I
found her delightful. Quite the gracious contrast to that Waterman woman, but I suppose that’s to be expected.”
Rowland looked up. “Expected? Why?”
“By George—don’t you
Rowland nodded.
“Is it a question of faith?” the holy man enquired encouragingly. “You know, if you open your mind it is not necessary to reject your old beliefs in order to entertain new
ideas.”
“Oh… sorry… it’s not that I’m afraid…” Rowland ran his hand through his hair as he regarded Krishnamurti awkwardly. “I wanted to ask you about
Charles Leadbeater.”
Krishnamurti’s smile vanished. His dark eyes shifted nervously.
“Why do you ask?”
Rowland dishevelled his hair again. This was difficult.
“Annie’s given me a letter of introduction. She thinks highly of him…”
“Amma’s judgement is usually impeccable.”
“In this case?”
“She is not infallible.”
“Look Jiddu, you’ve known Leadbeater for many years. Tell me, man to man—do I want to know him?”
Krishnamurti shrugged, and then he said very slowly, “I think Charles Leadbeater is evil. If I were you I would destroy Amma’s letter of introduction.” He looked intently at
Rowland. “Amma genuinely believes he is innocent, you know.”
For a moment Rowland held his gaze and then looked away, regretting that he had intruded into something so appalling, so personal. His enquiries seemed so trivial now. “I know. I’m
sorry.”
Jiddu Krishnamurti shrugged again. “It was a long time ago. We have all moved forward.”
9
Speech by Houdini, the great Mystifier
Can the Dead Speak to the Living?
“The first step towards the lunatic asylum is the Ouija board. Anyone who claims to be able to talk with the dead is either a self-deluded person or a cheat. Can
the dead speak to the living? I say they do not. I am particularly well qualified to discuss this subject, as I have always been interested in spiritualistic and psychic phenomena. I have
personally known most of the leading spiritualists of the last quarter of a century and it is a strange fact that they have been intensely interested in me.”
R owland stepped back from the canvas to survey his work. Daniel Cartwright was singing some dreadful French ballad from behind his own easel. The
American was, of course, both artist and model.
Both Clyde and Rowland were happy for the opportunity to paint. Clyde had set out early that morning for Central Park, inspired by the colour of the American Fall. Milton had gone with him.
Rowland didn’t even try to paint landscapes anymore, and he was not fond of working outdoors in any case. Instead, he had elected to use Cartwright’s studio. Edna had stepped out
with Archibald Leach once again, and consequently Rowland was forced to use his host as a model. And so it was that both men spent the day painting Daniel Cartwright.
“Danny, turn this way, will you,” he requested as he highlighted the points of light in Cartwright’s eyes and on the tip of his nose.
“I say, Rowly, this is rather like the old days at Oxford,” Cartwright said happily. “Two chums, Les Frères d’Art …”
Rowland really wished his friend would stop trying to speak French. Still, he’d enjoyed painting Cartwright. The American stood in a wine-red smoking jacket and beret, between a canvas and
a mirror, once again in pursuit of the perfect self-image. Rowland’s depiction caught Cartwright as he peered intently at his own reflection, paintbrush and palette in hand. He captured the
slight curious smile that showed a man both pleased and fascinated by what he saw in the glass.
“So what did you make of Annie Besant?” Rowland asked in an attempt to bring an end to the French folk songs.
“A perfectly charming woman,” Cartwright replied, glancing from his canvas to the mirror to check that he had done himself justice. “The epitome of cultured hospitality. I
found her delightful. Quite the gracious contrast to that Waterman woman, but I suppose that’s to be expected.”
Rowland looked up. “Expected? Why?”
“By George—don’t you
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