Mr dear Mr. Sinnett,
I send you the translation of these few pages from my sister's pamphlet or book — as described on the pages that follow. Whether they will be of any use or not, they are still an addition to what you have. You will see there that (a) as early as 1860 I maintained that the shadows (or astral bodies) that came daily and constantly and walked about the house so unceremoniously as to be seen by every one (my father, whoever knew him — at any rate — cannot be taken for a credulous fool, and this is why I translated that portion of her work that relates to him) — were not sweet "spirits" but astral forms; (b) that it was no mediumship; (c) that I could have no confederates in my father's house, where there was no one to help me, except my sister a bigot now with her St. Nicholas, her two babies, the governess of our younger sister, the latter, a child of ten years and myself. The rest — all serfs, trembling before my father who was very strict, and who certainly would not have consented to deceive and bamboozle their master. And there, no "Russian spy" theory, no motive can be found to explain facts at that time. There are hundreds of witnesses to these facts yet living — in Petersburg and Pskoff. I tell you, write to my sister and ask her to give some details as far as she remembers about my childhood.
Details about my marriage Well now they say that I wanted to marry the old whistlebreeches myself. Let it be. My father was 4,000 miles off. My grandmother was too ill. It was as I told you. I had engaged myself to spite the governess never thinking I could no longer disengage myself. Well — Karma followed my sin. It is impossible to say the truth without incriminating people that I would not accuse for the world now that they are dead and gone. Rest it all on my back. There was a row already between my sister and aunt — the former accusing me of having slandered my dead relatives in the question of my marriage and that my aunt had signed their and her own condemnation. Let this alone. I know one thing: I cannot write the Secret Doctrine with all ------- [The original is damaged here. — Ed.] constant agony about me. I know Hubbe, psychologised by Sel . . . [The original is damaged here. — Ed.] is shaky. He is an unfortunate little nervous, weak man. Sellin made him believe that it was Olcott who cheated him with Mahatma's letter in the railway carriage!! Unfortunate Olcott. Where's the line of demarcation between his being a credulous fool and a knave! I saw Damodar last night, and the Countess sees constantly Master. Whenever I see him or listen to what He says — she asks, with her eyes staring at Him "What does He say?" She is a terrible clairvoyante. She tells me (this in strict confidence) that during her stay at the Gebhard's last year and this one, they had a number of phenomena and saw Master. But that they had kept it back from yourself and the L.L. not to create gossip and in some cases envy. I did not thank her for such discretion. There's something wrong going on at the Gebhards, I feel it. D. N. is terribly mad and quite likely, in order to screen his Master and the Matham in Tibet, to deny things and leave the same impression on them as he did on Hodgson, mixing up the dates purposely and refusing to give him correct information. It is this perpetual balancing on a tight rope between the abyss of divuldging that which is not lawful, and either telling what people call lies or being accused of having things to conceal — that has ruined the whole situation, and given a handle to the enemy. Ah, dear Mr. Sinnett, how well it would have been had we all never pronounced Masters' names except in rooms with closed doors and doing as the Brahmin chelas do. You will read Hartmann's "Theosophical Fable" and our answer to it sent to you with a few more explanations.
I hope this heart will last until I finish the Secret Doctrine. Have you thought well over the problem of sending my protest to the Times. Dangerous thing! Are the papers talking of it? There's the whole danger. What can be done?
Yours, in blank idiotcy.
H. P. B.