19.
MÍRZÁ ABU’L-FAḌL IN AMERICA
BY ‘ALÍ-KULI KHÁN AND MARZIEH GAIL
AFTERNOONS, he and I walked in the old cemetery in up-town New York. We walked up and down under the trees, with the gravestones around us. I would ask him about life after death, and he would not answer. One day I burst out:
“The Master told me that I would learn things from being with you, and now I am not learning. . . . I ask you again: In this world we are known by our physical forms; how will we be known in the next? The Master told me you would teach me.”
He said: “Since you force me, I must answer. But you will not like what I shall say.”
“Why not?”
"Because the answer is this, that you would not understand how life after death will be.”
I said, “But I understand Schopenhauer, and Kant. I understand the Greeks. Why do you say I would not understand?”
He answered: “The proof that you would not understand is this: that you ask.”
Then he told me that on every plane of existence, one needs the use of a language to describe that plane. On earth, he said, there is no language that will tell of the soul’s condition on a higher plane. Then he tried to describe immortality for me, in various ways. One example he used was maturity: There is no language, he said, by which you can describe the conditions of maturity to a child. The child must evolve into maturity before he can understand it.
"How can we evolve into the understanding of immortality?” I asked.
“Through sustained devotion to the Cause,” he said. “One gradually becomes aware. You are serving; you are on the way. I pray Bahá’u’lláh to assist you to understand that station. But it is not to be grasped through study. A man’s knowledge of that condition is expressed through his deeds. People feel that he has attained that knowledge. But no words can describe it.”
This journey to America was not by any
means the first of Mírzá’s travels. Born at
Gulpáygán, Persia, in 1844, Abu’l-Faḍl was
to spend some thirty years of his life in
going from place to place, at the behest of
Bahá’u’lláh and the Master, to spread the
Faith. Eastern readers will not need to be
reminded that he was an outstanding scholar;
that he headed one of Ṭihrán’s leading
Arabic universities, the School of Ḥakím-Háshim,
where he also lectured on philosophy; that he
was referred to as an authority by
professors at the famed Al-Azhar in
Cairo—the thousand-year-old seat of Muslim
learning—who brought him their works
to revise; that he was unexcelled in both
old and modern Persian, was a master of
[Page 856]
Arabic, was thoroughly versed in the cultures
of both East and West. Following his
conversion, the result of eight months of
debate in 1876, he became so fearless an
exponent of the Teachings that he was
several times imprisoned and threatened with
death. Before coming to the United States,
he had traveled, taught and written in
Persia, Turkey, Russia, the Caucasus,
Tartary, Syria and Egypt; and he had even
taken the Faith as far as the confines of
China. He attributed his teaching gift to
a prayer revealed for him by Bahá’u’lláh:
"I beg of God to enable Faḍl to teach His
truth, and to unveil that Which is hidden
and treasured in His knowledge, with wisdom
and explanation. Verily He is the
Mighty, the Bestower!”
If I had never seen ‘Abdu’l-Bahá and Shoghi Effendi, I would consider Mírzá Abu’l-Faḍl the greatest being I ever laid eyes on. When the Master told me I must leave Him, and go to America, I sobbed. My grief took hold of me in the Persian way, and I beat my head against the wall of the Master’s house in ‘Akká. Then ‘Abdu’l-Bahá said, “It is a real opportunity for you to be with Mírzá, because of his great learning and his great devotion to the Cause.”
In those days the Master’s helpers were few, and the burdens of the Faith increasingly heavy. My services as amanuensis and English translator were urgently needed, and I worked for Him night and day, but because He felt the American mission to be of supreme importance, He gave me up to that work. In the spring of 1901, I reached Paris with Lua and her husband, and found Mírzá there, with May Bolles (later Mrs. May Maxwell), Laura Barney, Juliet Thompson, Charles Mason Remey, little Sigurd Russell and other believers. The Master cabled me to go on to the United States immediately. In New York, I received a second cable from Him, to go on to Chicago. Two months later Mírzá joined me there.
What had happened in Chicago was this: the Syrian, Khayru’llah, had been teaching the Cause, adding to the Faith many beliefs of his own, such as reincarnation, dream interpretation, occultism and the like. He had written a book incorporating these beliefs with the Teachings, and had gone to ‘Akká and asked permission to publish it. The Master told him to abandon his superstitious beliefs, saying further that he would become a leading teacher if he would give them up and spread the Faith. But he returned to America and published his book. A rift resulted among the believers; Mírzá Abu’l—Faḍl and I were sent to heal the rift.
In Chicago we found Asadu’lláh, who had come to America with the two devoted Bahá’í merchants of Egypt, Ḥájí ‘Abdu’l-Karím and Ḥájí Mírzá Ḥasan-i-Khurásání; although still a recognized teacher he was busily interpreting dreams for the believers and hemming them in with superstition. After listening to Mírzá for awhile, some of the believers said he was “cold and intellectual.” They said Asadu’lláh was "spiritual,” because he interpreted their dreams. They would walk down the hall, past Mírzá’s door, and go on to Asadu’lláh. They would come and tell us that they were personally led by the spirit, or had had a vision warning them against a fellow-believer, and so forth. (Mírzá’s name for them was jinn—gír—"spook chasers.”)
We saw that all this occult confusion would lead to divisions among the Friends, especially as many of them were not yet well grounded in the Cause. We talked the matter over and decided on the following procedure: when anyone came to us, saying he was guided by the spirit to do thus and so, we would answer, “The Universal Spirit is manifested today in Bahá’u’lláh. If you have visions or experiences urging you to some action, weigh this action with the revealed Teachings. If the act conforms with the Teachings, it is true guidance. If not, your experience has been only a dream.”
Mírzá held classes three times a day in
Chicago, and in addition we taught: once a
week at the Masonic Temple. Our house,
a headquarters for Eastern Bahá’í teachers,
was on West Monroe Street. Some of the
firm and devoted believers whom we met
there were Thornton Chase, his secretary,
Gertrude Buikema, Miss Nash, Dr. Bartlett,
Dr. Thatcher, Arthur Agnew, Mr. Leish,
[Page 857]
Albert Windust, Mrs. Brittingham, Mr. and
Mrs. Charles Ioas, Greenleaf, the brilliant
attorney, and his young wife, Elizabeth. At
the Master’s written direction, Mr. Peter
Dealy came up from Fairhope, Alabama, to
study scriptural prophecies and other
aspects of the Cause with Mírzá.
My first memory of Thornton Chase, America’s first Bahá’í, is his taking me to the corner drugstore opposite our house and introducing me to Coca-Cola, which I hated. “This is medicine,” I told him. “No,” he said, "this is a good drink; you will like it later on.” His prophecy has since been realized.
When my father, the early believer ‘Abdu’r-Raḥim Khán, was Lord Major (kalántar) of Ṭihrán, and also head of the police, Mírzá had known him well. Once he told me the following story: when he, Abu’l-Faḍl, became a believer, he was on fire with the Faith. He used to go to a coffee shop in the afternoons, sit there in an alcove a few feet off the ground, and publicly teach the Cause. One day an Armenian convert to Protestantism, who was connected with the Protestant Mission at Ṭihrán, entered the coffee shop and said some evil thing of Bahá’u’lláh. Mírzá was so incensed that he jumped down out of his alcove and struck the Armenian. The man appealed to the Board of Foreign Missions, who sent to the Police and demanded that Mírzá be punished. My father, the kalántar, said, "This is the sort of case which I must handle myself.” He then took Mírzá into his own custody; he told him that the offense was serious; that he appreciated the nature of Mírzá’s faith, but that the times were dangerous and that in any event a man should control himself. He placed Mírzá in his own office and sent for the Armenian. “Do you remember,” he said to him, “how His Majesty closed the Catholic Mission just a little while ago? Now you know what a high position Mírzá Abu’l-Faḍl enjoys among the clerics of Islám. His Majesty might well be angered at any complaints against him, and then he would surely close the Protestant Mission as well, and you would lose your job. Which do you prefer? That I punish Mírzá Abu’l-Faḍl or that you keep your job?” The charges were hastily withdrawn.
One day Mírzá called me to him and spoke to me in a very humble way. He said that, being acquainted with my family and background, it was only with the greatest hesitation that he was going to exact a promise from me: that I would cooperate with him in all matters pertaining to the Cause, but that I would never interfere in his private affairs. I said, "Dear Mírzá, since you know my family, you know well that none of its members would interfere in the private concerns of such a glorious being as yourself.” He answered, “Anyhow, promise.” So I promised, but I did not know what was coming.
In December, 1901, we left for Washington where Miss Laura Barney had arranged quarters for Mírzá and myself. Our rooms were on the top floor of a four-story apartment house. He could not endure noise; in fact, during the three or four years when we spent the fall, winter and spring in Washington, he changed his residence many times, escaping from noise. He had to concentrate on the book he was writing, and dreaded the downstairs, where there might be dogs (he was very fond of cats, however) or other confusion.
His meals were to be provided by the landlady, but as time went on I discovered he was living on practically nothing at all. He brewed, and drank all day long, a delicate Oriental tea; he smoked Egyptian cigarettes (later he gave these up because some of the Friends criticized his smoking and he did not wish to be a test to them); once in a while he ate a thin biscuit. This was his nourishment. Naturally, in the unaccustomed cold and the strange surroundings, he grew frailer and frailer. I had to beg him to keep on with his book—the Bahá’í Proofs—which the Master had commanded him to write; but it was obvious that he was getting too weak for the task, and meanwhile, since I had promised to keep out of his private affairs, there was nothing I could do.
Mírzá was almost continually in a state
of prayer. His mornings, noons and evenings
were taken up with devotions. Once
I went to his door and found it locked. I
rapped, there was no answer. We forced
the door, and found that Mírzá had fainted
[Page 858]
away as he prayed, and that his jaws were
locked together. The reason he prayed
with such fervor, and such weeping, was his
concept of the greatness of God and his
own nothingness; his belief that his very
existence, bestowed on him by Divine
mercy, was a sin in this Day "whereon
naught can be seen except the splendors of
the Light that shineth from the face of Thy
Lord. . . .” I would say to him, “You, a
holy being, weeping like this. If you are a
sinner, then what hope is there for the rest
of us?” He would answer: "The day will
come when you, too, will know the degree
of devotion worthy to serve as a language
by which we can praise Bahá’u’lláh.”
Finally, a time came when Mírzá was dying. I went to Mrs. Barney, Laura’s mother, for whom Mírzá had great respect. I told her of my promise, explaining that I had not understood why he exacted it; she promptly had a chicken cooked, and brought it to the house on De Sales Street. On arriving, she asked the landlady if Mírzá had been accepting any food. “No,” was the answer, ”he pays for it but does not eat.” She then went up to Mírzá. ”They tell me downstairs,” she said, “that you are refusing food. How can you write your important book unless you eat?” From under his eyebrows, Mírzá darted his very small, very keen black eyes at me.
As soon as Mrs. Barney left he began: “You promised—”
I said, "The landlady told her.”
Mírzá said, “You had a hand in it.”
I answered, “I can’t see you die.”
Mírzá said, “I shall ask you a question: which of two people would know better about a house? The man who has lived in it sixty years, or the one who has just eume upon it?”
I answered, “Yes, the man may have lived in it sixty years, but he has never had any repairs made, and the roof and walls are falling to ruin, and the house is now almost unlivable.”
That is how it was. Mírzá sick from not eating, and unable to adjust to American food and American life. He would not let me serve him in any way. If we went shopping, he would not even let me carry the packages. Finally I wrote to the Master, because the responsibility for his life and work was more than I could bear, and I told of the difficulty of expediting Mírzá’s book and described everything just as it was. Then I added that it might be a Persian attendant, who could prepare food for Mírzá and look after his needs, would solve the problem. When I had come through Port Sa‘id on my way to America, there was a boy around fifteen who worked in Aḥmad Yazdí’s store there. His name was Aḥmad-i-Iṣfáhání (later he took the name of Sohrab). This boy had begged me to request the Master to send him to America. I now suggested that he come here to look after Mírzá. The Master sent him here, to serve Mírzá and return with him to the East. However, when Mírzá sailed for home in 1904—with the MacNutts, Mrs. Julia Grundy, and the Woodcocks and their daughter—Aḥmad-i-Iṣfáhání did not accompany him. He remained in the United States until 1912, when the Master Himself took him back to the East, although he seemed loath to go.
Somehow, our work went on. Besides our classes, we would address Bahá’í gatherings in the old Corcoran Building opposite the Treasury Department. Mírzá would stand as he spoke, with me at his side. He was a great, spontaneous speaker; he talked with ardor, his voice varying according to his subject, and sometimes very loud. He knew no English, but had an uncanny way of finding out whether my translation was as he wished, and whether it was clear; he could tell from my gestures, and from the effect on the audience. He would speak perhaps five minutes at a time, before pausing for the translation.
When explaining a difficult point, he
would repeat himself, to drive it home. One
day a young believer came to him and said,
"‘You know, dear Mírzá, we are an
intelligent people. If you tell us a thing once,
we grasp it. But if you keep repeating
yourself, the way you did last night, people
will surely criticize you, and us.” He
thanked her, very humbly. “It was only to
make the matter clear,” he said. “But I
appreciate what you have told me. Now,
just one question. What was I repeating,
last night?” The young woman thought for
[Page 859]
a while; then she said, “I don’t remember.”
“That is why I repeat myself,” said Mírzá.
Mírzá was a master of reasoning—he built a wall around people and trapped them so that they had either to accept his statements or acknowledge their ignorance. All kinds of scholars matched their minds with him here, but I never saw him defeated. He was deeply read in Church history, European theology and metaphysics, works on which he had studied in Arabic at Al—Azhar. I remember once a churchman came to him and violently attacked the Prophet Muḥammad. Mírzá said to him: “Your leading authorities state that none of the Jewish or Roman historians of the First Century even mention Jesus, and many do not believe in the historicity of Christ. Certain Christians inserted a reference to Christ in the writings of Josephus, but the forgery was exposed. Others buried a tablet in China, which said that Christianity had been brought to that country in the First Century. This, too, was exposed. But as for the Prophet Muḥammad, He not only proclaimed the existence of a historical Christ, but He caused three hundred million people to believe in Him; to accept Him not only as a historical figure but also as the Spirit of God (Rúḥu’lláh). Was not Muḥammad, whom you condemn, a more successful Christian missionary than your own?”
Mírzá never encouraged any talk which might lead to inharmony. Once, a friend came to him and said that another believer was doing harm to the Faith. Mírzá listened carefully. Then he told me to translate his answer word for word:
"Do you believe that Bahá’u’lláh is the promised Lord of Hosts?”
”Yes.”
“Well, if He is that Lord, these are the Hosts. What right have we to speak ill of the Hosts?”
I had a hard time of it, getting Mírzá to write the Bahá’í Proofs. It seemed to me that I had to extract every line and every page of it by force. The American Friends wonder why it consists of "Introductions.” This is not only the classic convention of Eastern scholars, but in addition, Mírzá contemplated a greater book. What we have here is nothing compared to the flow of his knowledge. The Master directed Mírzá to write the book and me to translate it, and in spite of failing health and every difficulty he did not leave America until it was finished. He was a careful, painstaking stylist, and yet he wrote very rapidly, with no corrections, no crossing out. He would put up one knee, and lean his paper on it in the Persian way, and write with a reed pen.
Mírzá was truly a divine scholar. He told me that he had read the Íqán with "the eye of intellect” seventeen times through, and it had seemed to him a meaningless string of words. That later, he had read it with "the eye of faith,” and had found it the key with which he could unlock the secrets of all the sacred books of past religions. His work, the Fará’id, which deals with these subjects, has not yet been translated into English. The Master, in a tablet to the Washington believers written after Mírzá’s death in 1914, says of him, “His blessed heart was the spring of realities and significances, allaying the thirst of every thirsty one.”
That the work went forward slowly was not always Mírzá’s fault. We had a great deal to do—classes—meetings—innumerable visitors to see. Speaking of visitors, whenever they brought flowers and fruit to him, he was violently displeased. He would say: “Why do they bring these things for me? I am only the slave of the slaves of Bahá’u’lláh!” I would not translate these expressions of his humility, because I knew that our guests would only attribute them to pride. I would thank the givers, and explain to Mírzá why I could not translate what he had said.
On trains and in other public places people
would look at Mírzá and he would smile
at them, with those keen, deeply set,
jet-black eyes. I never knew a man who saw
every corner of a thing the way he did. And
he was never mistaken. I remember one
year I was reading Lavater, the German
physiognomist, although I knew that
Goethe himself had given the subject up,
saying it was not a science. That year I
saw an old man at Green Acre who looked
something like Emerson; he had the same
high forehead and projecting nose, although
[Page 860]
his jaw was weak. I told Mírzá that according
to the principles of Lavater the man
was a genius. Mírzá looked at me and
smiled. "He is far from being a genius,”
Mírzá told me. “He does not even have
the intelligence of an average man.” ”How
do you know?” "By my knowledge of physiognomy.”
“Well, judging by my knowledge
of physiognomy, he has both high intelligence
and philosophic grasp.” The next
morning, following our class, the man asked
a question which at once exposed his
remarkably low mental level.
The future must evaluate what Mírzá brought to the Cause in America. I have written these lines only to suggest a little our life here together; only to set down phases of his journey that hardly anyone else was aware of. The future will appreciate how, when Mírzá returned East, I was overwhelmed by the Master’s command to carry on his work in this country.
It is a long time now since he died, and the Master and the believers mourned his going. But I can see him still, as if he were here before me. A rather tall, spare figure, in a white turban and light-brown robes. Beautiful hands—artistic and sensitive, but at the same time intellectual and executive hands. A high forehead, somewhat high cheek bones, an ascetic look, a faint smell of rose water. And then the small, very black, very keen eyes.
Yes, but really to know his greatness, you had to watch him when he was in the presence of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá. Then his knowledge reduced him to nothingness, and you thought of a pebble on the ocean shore.
