But G.'s chaff did not affect me. He had given me something very substantial and could not take it back. I did not believe his jokes and did not believe that he could have invented what he had said about recurrence. I also learned to understand his intonations. The future showed that I was right, for although G. did not introduce the idea of recurrence into his exposition of the system, he referred several times to the idea of recurrence, chiefly in speaking of the lost possibilities of people who had approached the system and then had drawn away from it.
Conversations in groups continued as usual. Once G. said that he wanted to carry out an experiment on the separation of personality from essence. We were all very interested because he had promised "experiments" for a long time but till then we had seen nothing. I will not describe his methods, I will merely describe the people whom he chose that first evening for the experiment. One was no longer young and was a man who occupied a fairly prominent position in society. At our meetings he spoke much and often about himself, his family, about Christianity, and about the events of the moment connected with the war and with all possible kinds of "scandal" that had very much disgusted
him. The other was younger. Many of us did not consider him to be a serious person. Very often he played what is called the fool; or, on the other hand, entered into endless formal arguments about some or other details of the system without any relation whatever to the whole. It was very difficult to understand him. He spoke in a confused and intricate manner even of the most simple things, mixing up in a most impossible way different points of view and words belonging to different categories and levels.
I pass over the beginning of the experiment.
We were sitting in the big drawing room.
The conversation went on as usual.
"Now observe," G. whispered to us.
The older of the two who was speaking heatedly about something suddenly became silent in the middle of a sentence and seemed to sink into his chair looking straight in front of him. At a sign from G. we continued to talk without looking at him. The younger one began to listen to the talk and then spoke himself. All of us looked at one another. His voice had become different. He told us some observations about himself in a clear, simple, and intelligible manner without superfluous words, without extravagances, and without buffoonery. Then he became silent; he smoked a cigarette and was obviously thinking of something. The first one sat still without moving, as though shrunken into a ball.
"Ask him what he is thinking about," said G. quietly.
"I?" He lifted his head as though waking up when he was questioned. "About nothing." He smiled weakly as though apologizing or as though he were surprised at anyone asking him what he was thinking about.
"Well, you were talking about the war just now," said one of us, "about what would happen if we made peace with the Germans; do you still think as you did then?"
"I don't know really," he said in an uncertain voice. "Did I say that?"
"Yes, certainly, you just said that everyone was obliged to think about it, that no one had the right not to think about it, and that no one had the right to forget the war; everyone ought to have a definite opinion; yes or no—for or against the war."
He listened as though he did not grasp what the questioner was saying.
"Yes?" he said. "How odd. I do not remember anything about it."
"But aren't you interested in it?"
"No, it does not interest me at all."
"Are you not thinking of the consequences of all that is now taking place, of the results for Russia, for the whole of civilization?"
He shook his head as though with regret.
"I do not understand what you are talking about," he said, "it does not interest me at all and I know nothing about it."
"Well then, you spoke before of your family. Would it not be very much easier for you if they became interested in our ideas and joined the work?"
"Yes, perhaps," again in an uncertain voice. "But why should I think about it?"
"Well, you said you were afraid of the gulf, as you expressed it, which was growing between you and them."
No reply.
"But what do you think about it now?"
"I am not thinking about it at all."
"If you were asked what you would like, what would you say?"
Again a wondering glance—"I do not want anything."
"But think, what would you like?"
On the small table beside him there stood an unfinished glass of tea. He gazed at it for a long time as though considering something. He glanced around him twice, then again looked at the glass, and said in such a serious voice and with such serious intonations that we all looked at one another:
"I think I should like some raspberry jam."
"Why are you questioning him?" said a voice from the corner which we hardly recognized.
This was the second "experiment."
"Can you not see that he is asleep?"
"And you yourself?" asked one of us.
"I, on the contrary, have woken up."
"Why has he gone to sleep while you have woken up?"
"I do not know."
With this the experiment ended.
Neither of them remembered anything the next day. G. explained to us that with the first man everything that constituted the subject of his ordinary conversation, of his alarms and agitation, was in personality. And when his personality was asleep practically nothing remained. In the personality of the other there was also a great deal of undue talkativeness but behind the personality there was an essence which knew as much as the personality and knew it better, and when personality went to sleep essence took its place to which it had a much greater right.
"Note that contrary to his custom he spoke very little," said G. "But he was observing all of you and everything that was taking place, and nothing escaped him."
"But of what use is it to him if he also does not remember?" said one of us.
"Essence remembers," said G., "personality has forgotten. And this was necessary because otherwise personality would have perverted everything and would have ascribed all this to itself."
"But this is a kind of black magic," said one of us. "Worse," said G. "Wait and you will see worse than that"
When speaking of "types" G. once said:
"Have you noticed what a tremendous part 'type' plays in the relationship between man and woman?"
"I have noticed," I said, "that throughout his whole life every man comes into contact with women of a definite type and every woman comes into contact with men of a definite type. As though .the type of woman for every man had been predetermined and the type of man predetermined for every woman."
"There is a good deal of truth in that," said G. "But in that form it is, of course, much too general. Actually you did not see types of men and women but types of events. What I speak of refers to the real type, that is to say, to essence. If people were to live in essence one type would always find the other type and wrong types would never come together. But people live in personality. Personality has its own interests and its own tastes which have nothing in common with the interests and the tastes of essence. Personality in our case is the result of the wrong work of centers. For this reason personality can dislike precisely what essence likes—and like what essence does not like. Here is where the struggle between essence and personality begins. Essence knows what it wants but cannot explain it. Personality does not want to hear of it and takes no account of it. It has its own desires. And it acts in its own way. But its power does not continue beyond that moment. After that, in some way or other, the two essences have to live together. And they hate one another. No sort of acting can help here. In one way or another essence or type gains the upper hand and decides.