On gratitude
A tale by the Mother
I just cross-posted Timothy Snyder’s post Gratitude to Ukraine. This here is a companion piece.
In 1904 Mirra Morisset wrote “a tale for young and old” called “The Virtues.” Before reproducing it, I would like to say a few words about her situation at the time.
For ten years, between 1897 and 1908, Mirra (who later became Sri Aurobindo’s spiritual collaborator and known as “the Mother”) lived as an artist among artists. She knew “all the greatest artists” alive at the turn of the 20th century. Some of her paintings were accepted by the jury of the Salon de la Société Nationale des Beaux-Arts, which was then the foremost official art show in Paris, not to say in the world. Her paintings were exhibited in 1903, 1904 and 1905. Later she remarked on a certain occasion:
I am reminded of the annual opening of the Arts Exhibition in Paris, when the President of the Republic inspects the pictures, eloquently discovering that one is a landscape and another a portrait, and making platitudinous comments with the air of a most intimate and soul-searching knowledge of painting. The painters know very well how inept the remarks are and yet miss no chance of quoting the testimony of the President to their genius.1
Mirra seems to have known Auguste Rodin fairly well for she would tell later how he asked her advice in an affaire de coeur: “How can one prevent two women to be jealous of each other?” (He was 40 years older than Mirra.)
Before sculpting his statues in marble or casting them in bronze, he usually moulded them in clay. To prevent the clay models from drying up and crumbling when the master was absent for a couple of days, they had to be covered with wet cloth, and this cloth had to be sprinkled with water every day. Both his wife and his “favourite model” had the key to the studio and both rivals sprinkled water on the clay models, although it was obvious for the woman who entered second that the job had already been done. The result was that on his return Rodin would find that the clay had run and that his work was spoiled. (The Mother did not remember what advice she gave him.)2
Another aspect of Mirra’s life at the time was of a decidedly more occult nature. Even before she discovered the teaching of the Cosmic Movement, of which Max Théon and his wife Alma were the leaders and inspirers,
she had “certain experiences at night, certain types of nightly activities, caring for people who had just left their body.” ... “Every night at the same hour, my work consisted in constructing between the purely terrestrial atmosphere and the psychic atmosphere a sort of path of protection across the vital, so that people wouldn’t have to pass through it. For those who are conscious but don’t have the knowledge it’s a very difficult passage, it’s infernal. I was preparing this path—it must have been around 1903 or 1904, I don’t exactly remember—and working at it for months and months.”3 Afterwards, she would be told by Madame Théon: “It is part of the work you have come on Earth to do. All those with even a slightly awakened psychic being and who can see your Light will go to it at the moment of dying, wherever they may die, and you will help them to pass through.” And the Mother said later that this was a “constant work” she had been doing and continued to do.4
So, this is her tale5:
ONCE UPON a time there was a splendid palace, in the heart of which lay a secret sanctuary, whose threshold no being had ever crossed. Furthermore, even its outermost galleries were almost inaccessible to mortals, for the palace stood on a very high cloud, and very few, in any age, could find the way to it.
It was the palace of Truth.
One day a festival was held there, not for men but for very different beings, gods and goddesses great and small, who on earth are honoured by the name of Virtues.
The vestibule of the palace was a great hall, where the walls, the floor, the ceiling, luminous in themselves, were resplendent with a myriad glittering fires.
It was the Hall of Intelligence. Near to the ground, the light was very soft and had a beautiful deep sapphire hue, but it became gradually clearer towards the ceiling, from which girandoles of diamonds hung like chandeliers, their myriad facets shooting dazzling rays.
The Virtues came separately, but soon formed congenial groups, full of joy to find themselves for once at least together, for they are usually so widely scattered throughout the world and the worlds, so isolated amid so many alien beings.
Sincerity reigned over the festival. She was dressed in a transparent robe, like clear water, and held in her hand a cube of purest crystal, through which things can be seen as they really are, far different from what they usually seem, for there their image is reflected without distortion.
Near to her, like two faithful guardians, stood Humility, at once respectful and proud, and Courage, lofty-browed, clear-eyed, his lips firm and smiling, with a calm and resolute air.
Close beside Courage, her hand in his, stood a woman, completely veiled, of whom nothing could be seen but her searching eyes, shining through her veils. It was Prudence.
Among them all, coming and going from one to another and yet seeming always to remain near to each one, Charity, at once vigilant and calm, active and yet discrete, left behind her as she passed through the groups a trail of soft white light. The light that she spreads and softens comes to her, through a radiance so subtle that it is invisible to most eyes, from her closest friend, her inseparable companion, her twin sister, Justice.
And around Charity thronged a shining escort, Kindness, Patience, Gentleness, Solicitude, and many others.
All of them are there, or so at least they think.
But then suddenly, at the golden threshold, a newcomer appears.
With great reluctance the guards, set to watch the gates, have agreed to admit her. Never before had they seen her, and there was nothing in her appearance to impress them.
She was indeed very young and slight, and the white dress which she wore was very simple, almost poor. She takes a few steps forward with a shy, embarrassed air. Then, apparently ill at ease to find herself in such a large and brilliant company, she pauses, not knowing towards whom she should go.
After a brief exchange with her companions, Prudence steps forward at their request and goes towards the stranger. Then, after clearing her throat, as people do when they are embarrassed, to give herself a moment to reflect, she turns to her and says:
“We who are gathered here and who all know each other by our names and our merits are surprised at your coming, for you appear to be a stranger to us, or at least we do not seem to have ever seen you before. Would you be so kind as to tell us who you are?”
Then the newcomer replied with a sigh:
“Alas! I am not surprised that I appear to be a stranger in this palace, for I am so rarely invited anywhere.
“My name is Gratitude.”
Georges Van Vrekhem, The Mother The Story of Her Life, pp. 34–35 (Rupa & Co., 2004).
Loc. cit.
Sujata Nahar, The Mother's Chronicles III, pp. 166–67.
Georges Van Vrekhem, Op. cit., pp. 47–48.
The Mother, Words of Long Ago, p. 5 (Sri Aurobindo Ashram Publication Department, 2004).