Theosophical University Press Online Edition
January 25th, 1884.
By order of my BOSS I send you the Kingsford letters to fondly read and preserve for Olcott when he comes — he will be with you about March 15th or 20th. Subba Row's answer (by order) to the President and the Vice-President of the London Lodge T.S. is ready and I hurry on the printer to finish it this week. It was impossible to finish it as the Boss wanted the same week, for it is three times as long as the attack and wanted careful revision, Subba Row having lavished such uncultured words as "stupid," "absurd," "misrepresentation" etc. that would never do in a pamphlet destined for the refined ears of the members of the L.L. But I do believe he has settled them both the Vice-President and vicious President — whose shadow be trampled upon! It shows what fools they are with all their culture and genius and conceited idea of themselves. As Boss says she is the most foolish woman to open at once all her weakest points, and thus the fittest to be the President of most of the western would be members.
Last night when I wrote this I was so ill that I could not proceed, and now I am not much better but determined to write if it were to tell you many things. Yesterday Subba Row showed me a letter to him in Telugu from our mutual Boss M. (as you know) with instructions to say some more things in the answer to K. and M. Among other things there was a funny news. It appears that you go against my Boss's advice that there should be 14 councillors in your Lodge — 7 for you and 7 for Kingsford, for it is his dodge. He writes the particulars now for Subba Row's information in writing the pamphlet and his words are: "I thought my Peling friend, Sinnett Sahib more perspicacious — tell him I have advised only 7 councillors on the side of the yellow haired woman because I knew that it was four too many. She is needed in the Society, but not as the head of it if it can be helped."
Now what does all this mean? Do they or do they not want Mrs. K. for je suis au bout de mon Latin, and gave it up long ago. They tell me nothing and — I ask nothing.
And now something that is sure to astonish you, then make you angry and finally cause you to blow me up but I cannot help it.
It appears that I am mortally sick and, as the Masters have cured me repeatedly and have no time to bother with me, and that besides what I want is constant air charged with something (some scientific flapdoodle word) that cannot be got here in India — my Boss ordered Olcott to take me to Southern France — to some secluded village, on the sea shore or to the Alps for a long and entire rest of three months at least. Well I kicked, but the Society wept and cried and asked me to remain alive with them as they did not want me dead, and therefore to go and return. Ragonath Row and Subba Row are to take charge of the Theosophist and Damodar and a new chela who will be sent here in my absence. So I consented with the following condition (imposed upon them moreover by my Boss) I must not, shall not, and will not, go to London. Do whatever you may. I will not approach it even. Had my Boss ordered it to me even — I think I would rather face his displeasure and — disobey him. With the exception of you two, whom I sincerely love, the very idea of London and your groups (Theosophical and Spiritualistic) — is loathsome to me! As soon as I think of M.A. Oxon, of C.C.M., of Wilde, Kingsford, Maitland and some others I feel a feeling of horror, of inexpressible magnetic disgust creep over me. In short I would not approach London to save 17 lives of mine, so, do not ask me to. I will stop at Marseilles for a fortnight or so, go to Paris to meet some cousins and then right to some secluded spot in the Mountains where I can catch hold of my Boss's astral tailcoats whenever I choose. If I die, I will be put out of the way without fuss or scandal and — "addio." If I get better I will come back via the same way Italy or France and resume my work. We will sail towards the 20th of February from Bombay, for I have promised to go to . . . [This word indecipherable. — ED.] before leaving.
Give my love to dear Mrs. Sinnett and kiss "Morsel." I hope he has not turned a Dissenter as yet. Write me to Marseilles, my name Poste Restante -- to await arrival. When Mohini has done his work with the Colonel in London he will join me to be my Secretary — the Madras and Calcutta Societies paying his expenses.
And now goodbye. Send you my photo — the last one I will ever take. Do not speak nonsense. My Memoirs will NEVER appear.
H. P. BLAVATSKY.
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