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XXIII
VERY EARLY ONE
Spring morning, I awakened while it was
still dark, with only the very faint light of the sun beginning
to be visible on the horizon. Something troubled me that
morning, but I could not imagine what it was; I had a vague
feeling of restlessness, a sensation that something unusual was
happening. In spite of my usual, lazy, comfortable habit of
staying in bed until the very last moment -- which was about
six o'clock -- I got up with the dawn and went down to the
still-silent, cold kitchens. As much for my comfort as to help
whoever was assigned to kitchen-boy duty that day, I began
to build the fire in the big iron cook-stove, and while I was
stoking it with coke, my buzzer rang (it rang simultaneously
in my room and in the kitchen). It was early for Gurdjieff, but
the ring fitted my sense of uneasiness, and I raced to his room.
He was standing in the open doorway to the room, Philos at
his side, and he looked at me urgently. "Go bring Dr. Schern-
vall right away," he commanded, and I turned to leave, but he
stopped me, saying: "Madame Ostrovsky is dead. Better tell."
I raced out of the building, and ran to the house where
Dr. Schernvall lived; a small house, not far from the chicken
yard, which was named, probably by the French years before,
"Paradou". Dr. and Mme. Schernvall, together with their
young son, Nikolai, lived on the top floor of this building.
The rest of the building housed Mr. Gurdjieff's brother,
Dmitri, and his wife and four daughters. I awakened the
Schernvalls and told them the news. Mme. Schernvall burst
into tears, and the doctor began to dress hastily, and told me
to go back and tell Mr. Gurdjieff that he was on his way.
When I got back to the main house, Mr. Gurdjieff was not
in his room, so I went down the long hall to the opposite end
of the building and knocked, timidly, on the door of Madame
Ostrovsky's room. Mr. Gurdjieff came to the door, and I told
him the doctor was on his way. He looked impassive, very tired,
and very pale. He told me to wait near his room and tell the
doctor where he was. The doctor appeared a few minutes later
and I directed him to Mme. Ostrovsky's room. He had only
been there a few minutes when Mr. Gurdjieff came out of the
room. I was standing in the corridor, undecided, not knowing
whether to wait for him or not. He looked at me without
surprise and then asked me if I had the key to his room. I said
that I did, and he said that I was not to come in and also that
I was not to let anyone else in the room until he sent for me.
Then, followed by Philos, he went down the long hall to his
room, but did not allow Philos to go in with him. The dog,
looking angrily at me, settled himself against the door as
Mr. Gurdjieff locked it, and growled at me for the first
time.
It was a long, sad day. We all performed our assigned tasks
but a heavy cloud of sorrow hung over the school. It was one
of the first real Spring days that year, and even the sunshine
and the unaccustomed warmth of the day seemed inappro-
priate. All our work was done in a hushed silence; people
spoke to each other in whispers, and an air of uncertainty
spread through all the buildings. Presumably, the necessary
arrangements for the funeral were being handled by someone,
Dr. Schernvall, or Madame de Hartmann, but most of us were
unaware of them. Everyone waited for Mr. Gurdjieff to appear,
but there was no sign of life from his room, he had not had
breakfast, did not ring for lunch or for dinner, or for coffee at
any time during the entire day.
The following day, in the morning, Madame de Hartmann
sent for me and said that she had knocked on Mr. Gurdjieff's
door and had received no answer and asked me to give her my
key. I said I could not give it to her and told her what
Mr. Gurdjieff's instructions had been. She did not argue with
me, but said that she was worried because they were going to
move Madame Ostrovsky's body to the study-house where it
would remain overnight until the funeral the following day;
she thought that Mr. Gurdjieff should know about this, but
in view of what he had told me she decided that she should
not disturb him.
Late that afternoon, when there had still been no sign from
Mr, Gurdjieff, I was sent for again. This time, Mme. de Hart-
mann said she would have to have the key. The Archbishop,
presumably from the Greek Orthodox Church in Paris, had
arrived, and Mr. Gurdjieff would have to be notified. After an
inner struggle with myself, I finally gave in. The Archbishop's
appearance was almost as forbidding as Gurdjieff's could be
at times, and I could not stand up against his apparent
importance.
A short while later, she found me again, She said that even
with the key she was unable to get into the room. Philos would
not let her come close enough to the door to get the key in the
lock; that I would have to go, since Philos knew me well,
and tell Mr. Gurdjieff that the Archbishop had arrived and
must see him. Resigned and fearful of the consequences, I went
up to his room. Philos looked at me without friendliness when
I approached. I had tried to feed him the day before and also
that morning, but he had refused to eat or even to drink water.
Now, he watched me as I got the key out of my pocket, and
seemed to decide that he would allow me to pass. He did not
move, but as I opened the door he did allow me to step over
him into the room.
Mr. Gurdjieff was sitting in a chair in his room
-- the first
time I had ever seen him sitting in anything other than the
bed -- and looked at me without surprise, "Philos let you in?"
he asked.
I nodded, and said that I was sorry to disturb him and that
I had not forgotten his instructions but that the Archbishop
had arrived and that Madame de Hartmann ... He inter-
rupted me with a wave of his hand. "Is all right," he said
quietly, "must see Archbishop." Then he sighed, stood up,
and said: "What day today?"
I told him that it was Saturday and he asked me if his
brother, who was in charge of the fires at the Turkish bath,
was preparing for the baths as usual. I said that I did not know,
but that I would find out. He told me not to let him know,
simply to tell Dmitri to have the baths ready as usual, and also
to tell the cook that he would be down for dinner that night
and that he wanted a very special meal to honour the Arch-
bishop. Then he told me to feed Philos. I said that I had tried
to feed him but that he had refused to eat. Gurdjieff smiled.
"When I leave room, will eat. You feed again." Then he left
the room, walking slowly and thoughtfully down the stairs.
This was my first experience with death and while Gurdjieff
had changed -- he seemed unusually pensive and extremely
tired -- more so than I had ever seen him -- he did not fit my
preconceived notions of grief. There were no manifestations of
sorrow, no tears, just an unusual heaviness about him, as if it
required great effort for him to move.
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