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WORLD ORDER

FALL 1971

Commemorative Issue

‘ABDU’L-BAHÁ: FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF HIS PASSING

THE PASSING OF ‘ABDU’L-BAHÁ • THROUGH THE WAR YEARS • PORTRAYALS FROM EAST AND WEST • A GLIMPSE OF THE MASTER • THE WRITINGS OF ‘ABDU’L-BAHÁ • FIVE BOOKS ABOUT ‘ABDU’L-BAHÁ

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World Order

A BAHÁ’Í MAGAZINE • VOLUME 6 NUMBER 1 • PUBLISHED QUARTERLY

WORLD ORDER IS INTENDED TO STIMULATE, INSPIRE AND SERVE THINKING PEOPLE IN THEIR SEARCH TO FIND RELATIONSHIPS BETWEEN CONTEMPORARY LIFE AND CONTEMPORARY RELIGIOUS TEACHINGS AND PHILOSOPHY

Editorial Board:

FIRUZ KAZEMZADEH

BETTY FISHER

HOWARD GAREY

ROBERT HAYDEN

GLENFORD E. MITCHELL

GAYLE MORRISON

Subscriber Service:

MEG LUCKINBILL

WORLD ORDER is published quarterly, October, January, April, and July, at 415 Linden Avenue, Wilmette, Illinois 60091. Subscriber and business correspondence should be sent to this address. Manuscripts and other editorial correspondence should be addressed to 2011 Yale Station, New Haven, Connecticut 06520.

The views expressed herein are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the publisher, the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the United States, or of the Editorial Board. Manuscripts should be typewritten and double spaced throughout, with the footnotes at the end. The contributor should keep a carbon copy. Return postage should be included.

Subscription: Regular mail USA, $4.50; Domestic student rate, $3.50; Foreign, $5.00. Single copy, $1.25.

Copyright © 1971, National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the United States, World Rights Reserved. Printed in the U.S.A.

IN THIS ISSUE

2 ‘Abdu’l-Bahá ‘Abbás (1844-1921)

Editorial

6 The Passing of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá

by Shoghi Effendi and Lady Blomfield

19 ‘Abdu’l-Bahá: Through the War Years

by H. M. Balyuzi

29 ‘Abdu’l-Bahá: Portrayals from East and West

by Marzieh Gail

47 A Glimpse of the Master

from the diary of Juliet Thompson

67 The Writings of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá

by Amín Banání

76 Five Books About ‘Abdu’l-Bahá

a review by Kazem Kazemzadeh

and Firuz Kazemzadeh

Inside Back Cover: Authors and Artists in This Issue

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This issue of World Order is published in memory of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá ‘Abbás, Center of the Covenant Of Bahá’u’lláh and appointed Interpreter of the Bahá’í Teachings, on the occasion of the fiftieth anniversary of His passing at seventy-seven years of age, November 28, 1921

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‘Abdu’l-Bahá ‘Abbás (1844-1921)

‘ABDU’L-BAHÁ ‘ABBÁS, Bahá’u’lláh’s eldest son and successor, was born in Ṭihrán, on May 23, 1844, on the same night that the Báb declared His Mission to Mullá Ḥusayn, inaugurating a new era in the religious history of mankind.

His childhood was brief, coming to an abrupt end in the holocaust of 1852, when thousands of Bábís were martyred. He visited Bahá’u’lláh in the infamous Black Pit and retained for the rest of His life “the ineffaceable vision of a Father, haggard, dishevelled, freighted with chains . . . .” Neighborhood boys now made Him the object of their malice, “pelted Him with stones, vilified Him and overwhelmed Him with ridicule.”

Then came exile: the hardships of an enforced journey over high mountains in the dead of winter, the festering summers of Baghdád, the years of Bahá’u’lláh’s solitary wanderings when ‘Abdu’l-Bahá suffered “inconsolable grief at His separation from an adored Father,” but also the gradual unfoldment of His powers and His emergence as Bahá’u’lláh’s amanuensis, shield, and deputy.

Through the dark years of Adrianople and the horrors of imprisonment in ‘Akká He promoted and watched over the interests of His fellow-exiles and companions. He was instrumental in effecting Bahá’u’lláh’s release from the long confinement in ‘Akká and for the relative peace and security He enjoyed at Bahjí during the closing years of His life.

Selfless service earned Him the title of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, Servant of the Glory—the only title which He cherished, the only name by which He wanted to be known, though Bahá’u’lláh repeatedly addressed Him as the Master, the “sacred and glorious Being,” “the Limb of the Law of God,” and “Sirru’lláh,” the Mystery of God.

Bahá’u’lláh left His nascent Cause in ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s hands, appointing Him the Center of His Covenant, the authorized interpreter of His Teachings, and their Perfect Exemplar.

There ensued years of struggle and pain when ‘Abdu’l-Bahá was assailed by enemies, the most bitter of whom were His own kin. He surmounted every difficulty, overcame every obstacle, conquered every adversity. Under His unerring guidance the Faith spread, enlisting thousands of recruits. He brought to Haifa, and interred in a mausoleum that He had built, the mortal remains of the Báb. He [Page 4] sent the first teachers across the Atlantic to plant the banner of the Cause on the shores of the New World; and, when the despotic regime of Sulṭán ‘Abdu’l-Ḥamíd fell, He traveled in Europe and America, bringing His Father’s Message to the Western world, warning the leaders of the approach of a world war that would signalize the end of an era. He wrote treatises, prayers, meditations, and thousands of letters, expounding, interpreting, amplifying, and completing the great edifice of Bahá’u’lláh’s Faith. He laid the foundations and wrote the Charter of the Administrative Order which has since governed the affairs of Bahá’u’lláh’s Cause.

“‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s great work was now ended. The historic Mission with which His Father had, twenty-nine years previously, invested Him had been gloriously consummated. A memorable chapter in the history of the first Bahá’í century had been written. The Heroic Age of the Bahá’í Dispensation, in which He had participated since its inception, and played so unique a rôle, had drawn to a close. He had suffered as no disciple of the Faith, who had drained the cup of martyrdom, had suffered, He had labored as none of its greatest heroes had labored. He had witnessed triumphs such as neither the Herald of the Faith nor its Author had ever witnessed.”

‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s great work had indeed come to a close. He yearned for release, praying:

‘O Lord! My bones are weakened, and the hoar hairs glisten on My head . . . and I have now reached old age, failing in my powers.’ . . . No strength is there left in Me wherewith to arise and serve thy loved ones . . . O Lord, My Lord! Hasten My ascension unto Thy sublime Threshold . . . and My arrival at the Door of Thy grace beneath the shadow of Thy most great mercy . . .

Release came shortly after one o’clock in the morning on November 28, 1921.

To His bereaved followers ‘Abdu’l-Bahá left a rich legacy. His Will and Testament appointed His eldest grandson, Shoghi Effendi, Guardian of the Cause of God and authorized interpreter of the Teachings. The same document set forth the basic principles of the Administrative Order which is a unique feature of the Bahá’í Faith.

With the passing of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá the Heroic, the Apostolic Age of the Cause had come to an end. Fifty years have passed. Scientific and technological progress, mass education, wars and revolutions, nationalism, class conflict, the collapse of empires, the decline of ancient institutions, and the breakdown of old values have transformed the world almost beyond recognition. Humanity is rushing [Page 5] from catastrophe to catastrophe, from disaster to disaster. Yet the parallel process of the construction of a new world order, invisible to most, is also gaining momentum. The worldwide fellowship forged by ‘Abdu’l-Bahá is growing at an unprecedented rate.

Obeying the instructions contained in His last messages, the Bahá’ís have, since 1937, launched a series of world-embracing campaigns which have established them in over fifty thousand localities scattered through some three hundred countries and dependencies. More than one hundred National Spiritual Assemblies, five great Houses of Worship located on five continents, hundreds of Bahá’í Centers, summer schools and teaching institutes, publishing trusts, newspapers and magazines testify to the success of His Mission.

But the followers of His Father’s Faith know that this is just the beginning. On the fiftieth anniversary of His passing they look with confidence to the years of toil and sacrifice and see a future in which the spirit of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá will triumph over hatred, prejudice, division, and war, and usher in the promised day of peace and of the unity of mankind.

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The Passing of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá

EXTRACTS COMPILED BY SHOGHI EFFENDI AND LADY BLOMFIELD

IT is well known that the loved ones of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, in every part of the world, are anxiously waiting to receive some details of the closing events of His unique and wonderful life. For this reason the present account is being written.

We have now come to realize that the Master knew the day and hour when, His mission on earth being finished, He would return to the shelter of heaven. He was, however, careful that His family should not have any premonition of the coming sorrow. It seemed as though their eyes were veiled by Him, with His ever-loving consideration for His dear ones, that they should not see the significance of certain dreams and other signs of the culminating event. This they now realize was His thought for them, in order that their strength might be preserved to face the great ordeal when it should arrive, that they should not be devitalized by anguish of mind in its anticipation.

Out of the many signs of the approach of the hour when He could say of His work on earth, “It is finished,” the following two dreams seem remarkable. Less than eight weeks before His passing the Master related this to His family:

“I seemed to be standing within a great temple, in the inmost shrine, facing the east, in the place of the leader himself. I became aware that a large number of people were flocking into the temple; more and yet more crowded in, taking their places in rows behind me, until there was a vast multitude. As I stood, I raised loudly the ‘Call to Prayer.’ Suddenly the thought came to me to go forth from the temple.

“When I found myself outside I said within myself, ‘For what reason came I forth, not having led the prayer? But it matters not; now that I have uttered the call to prayer, the vast multitude will of themselves chant the prayer.’”

When the Master had passed away, His family pondered over this dream and interpreted it thus:

He had called that same vast multitude— all peoples, all religions, all races, all nations, and all kingdoms—to unity and peace, to universal love and brotherhood; and, having called them, He returned to God the Beloved, at whose command He had raised the majestic call, had given the divine message. This same multitude—the peoples, religions, races, nations, and kingdoms—would continue the work, to which ‘Abdu’l-Bahá had called them, and would of themselves press forward to its accomplishment.

A few weeks after the preceding dream the Master came in from the solitary room in the garden, which He had occupied of late, and said:

“I dreamed a dream and behold the Blessed Beauty [Bahá’u’lláh] came and said unto me, ‘Destroy this room!’”

The family, who had been wishing that He would come and sleep in the house, not being happy that He should be alone at night, [Page 7]

‘ABDU’L-BAHÁ AND SHOGHI EFFENDI, HIS APPOINTED SUCCESSOR

[Page 8] exclaimed, “Yes, Master, we think Your dream means that You should leave that room and come into the house.” When He heard this from us, He smiled meaningly as though not agreeing with our interpretation. Afterwards we understood that by the “room” was meant the temple of His body. . . .

In the same week He revealed a Tablet to America, in which is the following prayer: “Yá Bahá’u’l-Abhá! [O Thou the glory of glories] I have renounced the world and the people thereof, and am heartbroken and sorely afflicted because of the unfaithful. In the cage of this world I flutter even as a frightened bird, and yearn every day to take my flight unto Thy kingdom.

“Yá Bahá’u’l-Abhá! Make me to drink of the cup of sacrifice and set me free. Relieve me from these woes and trials, from these afflictions and troubles. Thou art He that aideth, that succoureth, that protecteth, that stretcheth forth the hand of help.” . . .

After lunch He dictated some Tablets, His last ones, to Rúḥí Effendi. When He had rested He walked in the garden. He seemed to be in a deep reverie.

His good and faithful servant Ismá’íl Áqá, relates the following:

“Some time, about twenty days before my Master passed away, I was near the garden when I heard Him summon an old believer saying:

“‘Come with me that we may admire together the beauty of the garden. Behold, what the spirit of devotion is able to achieve! This flourishing place was, a few years ago, but a heap of stones, and now it is verdant with foliage and flowers. My desire is that after I am gone the loved ones may all arise to serve the divine cause and, please God, so it shall be. Ere long men will arise who shall bring life to the world.’ . . .

“Three days before His ascension, whilst seated in the garden, He called me and said, ‘I am sick with fatigue. Bring two of your oranges for me that I may eat them for your sake.’ This I did, and He, having eaten them, turned to me, saying, ‘Have you any of your sweet lemons?’ He bade me fetch a few . . . Whilst I was plucking them, He came over to the tree, saying, ‘Nay, but I must gather them with my own hands.’ Having eaten of the fruit, He turned to me and asked ‘Do you desire anything more?’ Then with a pathetic gesture of His hands, He touchingly, emphatically, and deliberately said, ‘Now it is finished, it is finished!’

“These significant words penetrated my very soul. I felt each time He uttered them as if a knife were struck into my heart. I understood His meaning but never dreamed His end was so nigh.”

It was Ismá’íl Áqá who had been the Master’s gardener for well nigh thirty years and who, in the first week after his bereavement, driven by hopeless grief, quietly disposed of all his belongings, made his will, went to the Master’s sister, and craved her pardon for any misdeeds he had committed. He then delivered the key of the garden to a trusted servant of the household and, taking with him means whereby to end his life at his beloved Master’s tomb, walked up the mountain to that sacred place, three times circled round it, and would have succeeded in taking his life had it not been for the opportune arrival of a friend who reached him in time to prevent the accomplishment of his tragic intention. . . .

During the evening ‘Abdu’l-Bahá attended the usual meeting of the friends in His own audience chamber.

In the morning of Saturday, November 26th, He arose early, came to the tea room, and had some tea. He asked for the fur-lined coat which had belonged to Bahá’u’lláh. He often put on this coat when He was cold or did not feel well, He so loved it. He then withdrew to His room, lay down on His bed, and said, “Cover me up. I am very cold. Last night I did not sleep well, I felt cold. This is serious, it is the beginning.”

After more blankets had been put on, He asked for the fur coat He had taken off to be placed over Him. That day He was rather feverish. In the evening His temperature rose [Page 9] still higher, but during the night the fever left Him. After midnight He asked for some tea.

On Sunday morning, November 27th, He said, “I am quite well and will get up as usual and have tea with you in the tea room.” After He had dressed, He was persuaded to remain on the sofa in His room.

In the afternoon He sent all the friends to the tomb of the Báb, where on the occasion of the anniversary of the declaration of the Covenant a feast was being held, offered by a Pársí pilgrim who had lately arrived from India.

At four in the afternoon, being on the sofa in His room, He said, “Ask my sister and all the family to come and have tea with me.”

His four sons-in-law and Rúḥí Effendi came to Him after returning from the gathering on the mountain. They said to Him, “The giver of the feast was unhappy because You were not there.” He said unto them:

“But I was there, though my body was absent, my spirit was there in your midst. I was present with the friends at the tomb. The friends must not attach any importance to the absence of my body. In spirit I am, and shall always be, with the friends, even though I be far away.”

The same evening He asked after the health of every member of the household, of the pilgrims, and of the friends in Haifa. “Very good, very good,” He said when told that none were ill. This was His very last utterance concerning His friends.

At eight in the evening He retired to bed after taking a little nourishment, saying, “I am quite well.”

He told all the family to go to bed and rest. Two of His daughters, however, stayed with Him. That night the Master had gone to sleep very calmly, quite free from fever. He awoke about 1:15 am, got up, and walked across to a table where He drank some water. He took off an outer night garment, saying, “I am too warm.” He went back to bed; and, when His daughter Rúḥá Khánum, later on, approached, she found Him lying peacefully; and, as He looked into her face, He asked her to lift up the net curtains, saying:

“I have difficulty in breathing, give me more air.” Some rose water was brought of which He drank, sitting up in bed to do so, without any help. He again lay down, and as some food was offered Him, He remarked in a clear and distinct voice:

“You wish me to take some food, and I am going?” He gave them a beautiful look. His face was so calm, His expression so serene, they thought Him asleep.

He had gone from the gaze of His loved ones!

THE EYES that had always looked out with loving-kindness upon humanity, whether friends or foes, were now closed. The hands that had ever been stretched forth to give alms to the poor and the needy, the halt and the maimed, the blind, the orphan and the widow, had now finished their labor. The feet that, with untiring zeal, had gone upon the ceaseless errands of the Lord of Compassion were now at rest. The lips that had so eloquently championed the cause of the suffering sons of men, were now hushed in silence. The heart that had so powerfully throbbed with wondrous love for the children of God was now stilled. His glorious spirit had passed from the life of earth, from the persecutions of the enemies of righteousness, from the storm and stress of well nigh eighty years of indefatigable toil for the good of others.

His long martyrdom was ended!

Early on Monday morning, November 28th, the news of this sudden calamity had spread over the city, causing an unprecedented stir and tumult, and filling all hearts with unutterable grief.

The next morning, Tuesday, November 29th, the funeral took place, a funeral the like of which Haifa, nay Palestine itself, had surely never seen, so deep was the feeling that brought so many thousands of mourners together, representative of so many religions, [Page 10] races, and tongues.

The High Commissioner of Palestine, Sir Herbert Samuel, the Governor of Jerusalem, the Governor of Phoenicia, the chief officials of the government, the consuls of the various countries, resident in Haifa, the heads of the various religious communities, the notables of Palestine, Jews, Christians, Muslims, Druses, Egyptians, Greeks, Turks, Kurds, and a host of his American, European, and native friends, men, women, and children, both of high and low degree, all, about ten thousand in number, mourning the loss of their beloved One.

This impressive, triumphal procession was headed by a guard of honor, consisting of the City Constabulary Force, followed by the Boy Scouts of the Muslim and Christian communities holding aloft their banners, a company of Muslim choristers chanting their verses from the Qur‘án, the chiefs of the Muslim community headed by the Muftí, a number of Christian priests, Latin, Greek, and Anglican, all preceding the sacred coffin, upraised on the shoulders of His loved ones. Immediately behind it came the members of His family, next to them walked the British High Commissioner, the Governor of Jerusalem, and the Governor of Phoenicia. After them came the consuls and the notables of the land, followed by the vast multitude of those who reverenced and loved Him.

On this day there was no cloud in the sky, nor any sound in all the town and surrounding country through which they went, save only the soft, slow, rhythmic chanting of Islám in the call to prayer, or the convulsed sobbing moan of those helpless ones, bewailing the loss of their one Friend, Who had protected them in all their difficulties and sorrows, Whose generous bounty had saved them and their little ones from starvation through the terrible years of the “Great Woe.”

“O God, my God!” the people wailed with one accord, “Our father has left us, our father has left us!”

O the wonder of that great throng! Peoples of every religion and race and color, united in heart through the manifestation of servitude in the lifelong work of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá!

As they slowly wended their way up Mount Carmel, the Vineyard of God, the casket appeared in the distance to be borne aloft by invisible hands, so high above the heads of the people was it carried. After two hours walking, they reached the garden of the tomb of the Báb. Tenderly was the sacred coffin placed upon a plain table covered with a fair white linen cloth. As the vast concourse pressed around the tabernacle of His body, waiting to be laid in its resting place, within the vault, next to that of the Báb, representatives of the various denominations, Muslims, Christians, and Jews, all hearts being ablaze with fervent love of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, some on the impulse of the moment, others prepared, raised their voices in eulogy and regret, paying their last homage of farewell to their loved one. So united were they in their acclamation of Him, as the wise educator and reconciler of the human race in this perplexed and sorrowful age, that there seemed to be nothing left for the Bahá’ís to say.

THE FOLLOWING ate extracts from some of the speeches delivered on that memorable occasion.

The Muslim voicing the sentiments of his coreligionists spoke as follows:

“O concourse of Arabians and Persians! Whom are ye bewailing? Is it He who but yesterday was great in this life and is today in His death greater still? Shed no tears for the one that hath departed to the world of eternity, but weep over the passing of virtue and wisdom, of knowledge and generosity. Lament for yourselves, for yours is the loss, whilst He, your lost one, is but a revered wayfarer, stepping from your mortal world into the everlasting home. Weep one hour for the sake of Him who, for well nigh eighty years, hath wept for you! Look to your right, look to your left, look East and look West [Page 11] and behold, what glory and greatness have vanished! What a pillar of peace hath crumbled! What eloquent lips are hushed! Alas! In this tribulation there is no heart but aches with anguish, no eye but is filled with tears. Woe unto the poor, for lo! goodness hath departed from them, woe unto the orphans, for their loving father is no more with them! Could the life of Sir ‘Abdu’l-Bahá ‘Abbás have been redeemed by the sacrifices of many a precious soul, they of a certainty would gladly have offered up their lives for His life. But fate hath otherwise ordained. Every destiny is predetermined and none can change the divine decree. What am I to set forth the achievements of this leader of mankind? They are too glorious to be praised, too many to recount. Suffice it to say, that He hath left in every heart the most profound impression, on every tongue most wondrous praise. And He that leaveth a memory so lovely, so imperishable, He, indeed, is not dead. Be solaced then, O ye people of Bahá! Endure and be patient; for no man, be he of the East or of the West, can ever comfort you, nay he himself is even in greater need of consolation.”

The Christian then came forward and thus spoke:

“I weep for the world, in that my Lord hath died; others there are who, like unto me, weep the death of their Lord. . . . O bitter is the anguish caused by this heart-rending calamity! It is not only our country’s loss but a world affliction. . . . He hath lived for well-nigh eighty years the life of the messengers and apostles of God. He hath educated the souls of men, hath been benevolent unto them, hath led them to the way of Truth. Thus He raised His people to the pinnacle of glory, and great shall be His reward from God, the reward of the righteous! Hear me O people! ‘Abbás is not dead, neither hath the light of Bahá been extinguished! Nay, nay! this light shall shine with everlasting splendor. The Lamp of Bahá, ‘Abbás, hath lived a goodly life, hath manifested in Himself the true life of the Spirit. And now He is gathered to glory, a pure angel, richly robed in benevolent deeds, noble in His precious virtues. Fellow Christians! Truly ye are bearing the mortal remains of this ever lamented One to His last resting place, yet know of a certainty that your ‘Abbás will live forever in spirit amongst you, through His deeds, His words, His virtues, and all the essence of His life. We say farewell to the material body of our ‘Abbás and His material body vanisheth from our gaze, but His reality, our spiritual ‘Abbás, will never leave our minds, our thoughts, our hearts, our tongues.

“O great revered Sleeper! Thou hast been good to us, Thou hast guided us, Thou hast taught us, Thou hast lived amongst us greatly, with the full meaning of greatness, Thou hast made us proud of Thy deeds and of Thy words. Thou hast raised the Orient to the summit of glory, hast shown loving kindness to the people, trained them in righteousness, and hast striven to the end, till Thou hast won the crown of glory. Rest Thou happily under the shadow of the mercy of the Lord Thy God, and He, verily, shall well reward Thee.”

Yet another Muslim, the Muftí of Haifa, spoke as follows:

“I do not wish to exaggerate in my eulogy of this great One, for His ready and helping hand in the service of mankind and the beautiful and wondrous story of His life, spent in doing that which is right and good, none can deny, save him whose heart is blinded. . . .

“O Thou revered voyager! Thou hast lived greatly and hast died greatly! This great funeral procession is but a glorious proof of Thy greatness in Thy life and in Thy death. But O, Thou whom we have lost! Thou leader of men, generous and benevolent! To whom shall the poor now look? Who shall care for the hungry? And the desolate, the widow and the orphan?

“May the Lord inspire all Thy household and Thy kindred with patience in this grievous calamity, and immerse Thee in the ocean of His grace and mercy! He, verily, is the [Page 12] prayer-hearing, prayer-answering God.”

The Jew when his turn came, paid his tribute in these words:

“Dans un Siècle de positivisme exagéré et de matérialisme effréné, il est étonnant et rare de trouver un philosophe de grande envergure tel que le regretté ‘Abdu’l-Bahá ‘Abbás parler à notre coeur, à nos sentiments et surtout chercher à éduquer notre âme en nous inculquant les principes les plus beaux, reconnus comme étant la base de toute religion et de toute morale pure. Par ses écrits, par sa parole, par ses entretiens familiers comme par ses colloques célèbres avec les plus cultivés et les fervents adeptes des théories sectaires, il a su persuader, il a pu toujours convaincre. Les exemples vivants sont d’un autre pouvoir. Sa vie privée et publique était un exemple de dévouement et d’oubli de soi pour le bonheur des autres. . . .

“Sa philosophie est simple, direz-vous, mais elle est grande par cette meme simplicité, étant conforme au caractère humain qui perd de sa beauté lorsqu’il se trouve faussé par les préjugés et les superstitions. . . . ‘Abbás est mort à Caiffa, en Palestine, la Terre Sacrée qui a produit les prophètes. Devenue stérile er abandonnée depuis tant de siècles elle resuscite de nouveau et commence à reprendre son rang, et sa renommée primitive. Nous ne sommes pas les seuls à pleurer ce prophète, nous ne sommes pas les seuls à le glorifier. En Europe, en Amérique, que dis-je, dans tout pays habité par des hommes conscients de leur mission dans ce bas monde assoiffé de justice sociale, de fraternité, on le pleurera aussi. Il est mort après avoir souffert du despotisme, du fanatisme et de l’intolérance. Acre, la Bastille turque, lui a servi de prison pendant des dizaines d’années. Bagdad la capitale Abbasside a été aussi sa prison et celle de son père. La Perse, ancien berceau de la philosophie douce et divine, a chassé ses enfants qui ont conçu leurs idées chez elle. Ne voit-on pas là une volonté divine et une préférence marquée pour la Terre Promise qui était et sera le berceau de toutes les idées généreuses et nobles? Celui qui laisse après lui un passé aussi glorieux n’est pas mort. Celui qui a écrit d’aussi beaux principes a agrandi sa famille parmi tous ses lecteurs et a passé à la postérité, couronné par l’immortalité.”

The nine speakers having delivered their funeral orations, then came the moment [Page 13] when the casket which held the Pearl of loving servitude passed slowly and triumphantly into its simple, hallowed resting place.

O the infinite pathos! that the beloved feet should no longer tread this earth! that the presence which inspired such devotion and reverence should be withdrawn!

OF THE MANY and diverse journals that throughout the East and West have given in their columns accounts of this momentous event, the following stand as foremost among them:

Les Temps, the leading French paper, in its issue of December 19, 1921, under the title ‘Un Conciliateur’ (A Peacemaker), portrays graphically the life of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, the following being some of its extracts:

“Un prophète vient de mourir en Palestine. Il se nommait Abdoul Baha, et il était fils de Bahaou’llah, qui créa le bahaisme, religion ‘unifiée’ qui n’est autre que le babisme qu’avait observé le Comte de Gobineau. Le Bab, Messie du Babisme, se proposait modestement de régénerer la Perse, ce qui lui coûta la vie, en 1850. Bahaou’llah et son fils Abdoul Baha, “l’esclave de son père”, n’ambitionnaient pas moins que la régéneration du monde. Paris a connu Abdoul Baha. Ce vieillard magnifique et débonnaire répandit parmi nous la parole sainte il y a quelque dix ans. Il était vêtu d’une simple robe vert olive et coiffé d’un turban blanc. . . . Sa parole était douce et berceuse, comme une litanie. On l’écoutait avec un, plaisir recueilli, encore qu’on ne le comprît point; car il parlait en persan. . . . Le bahaisme, c’est en somme la religion de la charité et de la simplicité. C’est en même temps, amalgamé, le judaïsme, le christianisme, le protestantisme, et la libre pensée. Abdoul Baha se réclamait de Zoroastre, de Moïse, de Mahomet et de Jésus. Peut-être jugerez-vous que cette unification est . . . à la fois trop nombreuse et confuse. C’est qu’on ne comprend rien aux choses sacrées si l’on n’est inspiré par la foi. . . . Sous le turban blanc ses yeux reflétaient l’intelligence et la bonté. Il était paternel, affectueux et simple. Son pouvoir, semblait-il, lui venait de ce qu’il savait aimer les hommes et savait se faire aimer d’eux. Appelé à témoigner de l’excellence de cette religion naïve et pure, nous pûmes honnêtement confesser notre foi par cette formule: “Que les religions sont belles quand elles ne sont pas encore.”

The London Morning Post, two days after His passing, among other highly favorable comments, concluded its report of the movement in the following words:

“The venerated Bahá’u’lláh died in 1892 and the mantle of his religious insight fell on his son ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, when, after forty years of prison life, Turkish constitutional changes permitted him to visit England, France and [Page 14] America. His persistent messages as to the divine origin and unity of mankind were as impressive as the Messenger himself. He possessed singular courtesy. At his table Buddhist and Mohammedan, Hindu and Zoroastrian, Jew and Christian, sat in amity. ‘Creatutes,’ he said, ‘were created through love; let them live in peace and amity.’”

The New York World of December 1, 1921, published the following:

“Never before ‘Abdu’l-Bahá did the leader of an Oriental religious movement visit the United States. . . . As recently as June of this year a special correspondent of the World who visited this seer thus described him: ‘Having once looked upon ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, his personality is indelibly impressed upon the mind: the majestic venerable figure clad in the flowing aba, his head crowned with a turban white as his head and hair; the piercing deep set eyes whose glances shake the heart; the smile that pours its sweetness over all.’ . . .

“Even in the twilight of his life ‘Abdu’l-Bahá took the liveliest interest in world affairs. When General Allenby swept up the coast from Egypt he went for counsel first to ‘Abdu’l-Bahá. When Zionists arrived in their Promised Land they sought ‘Abdu’l-Bahá for advice. For Palestine he had the brightest hopes. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá believed that Bolshevism would prove an admonition to the irreligious world. He taught the equality of man and woman, saying: “The world of humanity has two wings, man and woman. If one wing is weak, then the bird cannot fly.” . . .

Nearly all representative American newspapers devoted attention to the passing of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá. The Evening Telegram, New York, December 4th, 1921, found in the international peace movement a complete vindication for the Bahá’í ideals. “In all countries of the world today can be found mourners of the prophet ‘Abdu’l-Bahá. . . . Churches of all denominations in New York City and Chicago were thrown open to him for, unlike the leaders of many cults, he preached not the errors of present religions but their sameness.” The New York Tribune on December 2nd carried an editorial entitled ‘Abdu’l-Bahá. “A prophet, as his followers believe, and the son of a prophet, was ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, who is now at rest with all prophetic souls bygone. He lived to see a remarkable expansion of the quietist cult of which he was the head. . . . Bahá’u’lláh over sixty years ago set forth a peace plan not dissimilar to the aspirations of today.”

The magazine Unity, published in Chicago, included an article on the Master in its issue of December 22nd. “‘Abdu’l-Bahá voiced and made eloquent the sacred aspiration that yearns dumbly in the hearts of men. He embodied in glorious, triumphant maturity that ideal which in others lies imprisoned behind the veil. Men and women of every race, creed, class, and color are united in devotion to ‘Abdu’l-Bahá because ‘Abdu’l-Bahá has been a pure, selfless mirror reflecting only the noblest qualities of each.”

The Sphinx, of Cairo, Egypt, on December 17th described ‘Abdu’l-Bahá as a great leader of men. “In his personality and influence ‘Abdu’l-Bahá embodied all that is highest and most striking in both the Christian and Moslem faiths; living a life of pure altruism, he preached and worked for inter-racial and inter-religious unity . . . When in the presence of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá thoughtful inquirers soon realized that they were speaking to a man of unique personality, one endowed with a love and wisdom that had in it the divine quality.”

The Times of India, in its issue of January 1922, opens one of its editorial articles as follows:

“In more normal times than the present the death of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, which was sorrowfully referred to at the Bahá’í Conference in Bombay, would have stirred the feelings of many who, without belonging to the Bahá’í brotherhood, sympathize with its tenets and admire the life-work of those who founded it. As it is we have learned almost by chance of this great religious leader’s death, but that [Page 15] fact need not prevent our turning aside from politics and the turmoil of current events to consider what this man did and what he aimed at.”

Sketching then in brief an account of the history of the movement it concludes as follows:

“It is not for us now to judge whether the purity, the mysticism and the exalted ideas of Bahá’ísm will continue unchanged after the loss of the great leader, or to speculate on whether Bahá’ísm will some day become a force in the world as great or greater than Christianity or Islam; but we would pay a tribute to the memory of a man who wielded a vast influence for good, and who, if he was destined to see many of his ideas seemingly shattered in the world war, remained true to his convictions and to his belief in the possibility of a reign of peace and love, and who, far more effectively than Tolstoi, showed the West that religion is a vital force that can never be disregarded.”

OUT OF THE VAST NUMBER of telegrams and cables of condolence that have poured in, these may be mentioned:

His Britannic Majesty’s Secretary of State for the Colonies, Mr. Winston Churchill, telegraphing to His Excellency the High Commissioner for Palestine, desires him to convey to the Bahá’í community, on behalf of His Majesty’s Government, their sympathy and condolence on the death of Sir ‘Abdu’l-Bahá ‘Abbás, K. B. E.

On behalf of the Executive Board of the Bahá’í American Convention, this message of condolence has been received:

“He doeth whatsoever He willeth. Hearts weep at most great tribulation. American friends send through Unity Board radiant love, boundless sympathy, devotion. Standing steadfast, conscious of His unceasing presence and nearness.”

Viscount Allenby, the High Commissioner for Egypt, has wired the following message, through the intermediary of His Excellency the High Commissioner for Palestine, dated November 29, 1921:

“Please convey to the relatives of the late Sir ‘Abdu’l-Bahá ‘Abbás Effendi and to the Bahá’í community my sincere sympathy in the loss of their revered leader.”

The loved ones in Germany assure the Greatest Holy Leaf of their fidelity in these terms:

“All believers deeply moved by irrevocable loss of our Master’s precious life. We pray for heavenly protection of Holy Cause and promise faithfulness and obedience to Center of Covenant.”

An official message forwarded by the Council of Ministers in Baghdád, and dated December 8, 1921, reads as follows:

“His Highness Sayed Abdurrahman, the Prime Minister, desires to extend his sympathy to the family of His Holiness ‘Abdu’l-Bahá in their bereavement.”

The Commander in Chief of the Egyptian Expeditionary Force sent through His Excellency the High Commissioner for Palestine these words of sympathy:

“General Congreve begs that you will convey his deepest sympathy to the family of the late Sir ‘Abbás al-Bahá’í.”

The Theosophical Society in London communicated as follows with one of the followers of the Faith in Haifa:

“For the Holy Family Theosophical Society send affectionate thoughts.”

The thousands of Bahá’ís in Ṭihrán, the capital of Persia, remembering their Western brethren and sisters in London and New York assure them of their steadfast faith in these words:

“Light of Covenant transferred from eye to heart. Day of teaching, of union, of self sacrifice.”

And lastly, one of the distinguished figures in the academic life of the University of Oxford, a renowned professor and an accomplished scholar, whose knowledge of the Cause stands foremost among that of his colleagues, in the message of condolence written on behalf of himself and wife, expresses himself as follows:

[Page 16] “The passing beyond the veil into fuller life must be specially wonderful and blessed for One, Who has always fixed His thoughts on high and striven to lead an exalted life here below.”

ON THE SEVENTH DAY after the passing of the Master, corn was distributed in His name to about a thousand poor of Haifa, irrespective of race or religion, to whom He had always been a friend and a protector. Their grief at losing the “Father of the Poor” was extremely pathetic. In the first seven days also from fifty to a hundred poor were daily fed at the Master’s house, in the very place where it had been His custom to give alms to them.

On the fortieth day there was a memorial feast, given to over six hundred of the people of Haifa, ‘Akká, and the surrounding parts of Palestine and Syria, people of various religions, races, and colors. More than a hundred of the poor were also fed on this day. The Governor of Phoenicia, many other officials, and some Europeans were present.

The feast was entirely arranged by the members of the Master’s household. The long tables were decorated with trailing branches of bougainvillea. Its lovely purple blooms mingled with the white narcissus, and with the large dishes of golden oranges out of the beloved Master’s garden made a picture of loveliness in those spacious lofty rooms, whose only other decoration was the gorgeous yet subdued coloring of rare Persian rugs. No useless trivial ornaments marred the extreme dignity of simplicity.

The guests received, each and all, the same welcome. There were no “chief places.” Here, as always in the Master’s home, there was no respecting of persons.

After the luncheon the guests came into the large central hall, this also bare of ornament, save only for the portrait of Him they had assembled to honor and some antique Persian tapestries hung upon one wall. Before this was placed a platform from which the speeches were made to the rapt and silent throng, whose very hearts were listening.

The Governor of Phoenicia, in the course of his address, spoke the following:

“Most of us here have, I think, a clear picture of Sir ‘Abdu’l-Bahá ‘Abbás, of His dignified figure walking thoughtfully in our streets, of His courteous and gracious manner, of His kindness, of His love for little children and flowers, of His generosity and care for the poor and suffering. So gentle was He, and so simple that, in His presence, one almost forgot that He was also a great teacher and that His writings and His conversations have been a solace and an inspiration to hundreds and thousands of people in the East and in the West.”

His [‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s] detailed and powerfully written Will and Testament reveals the following words of general counsel to all His friends:

“O ye beloved of the Lord! In this sacred Dispensation, conflict and contention are in no wise permitted. Every aggressor deprives himself of God’s grace. It is incumbent upon everyone to show the utmost love, rectitude of conduct, straightforwardness and sincere kindliness unto all the peoples and kindreds of the world, be they friends or strangers. So intense must be the spirit of love and lovingkindness, that the stranger may find himself a friend, the enemy a true brother, no difference whatsoever existing between them. For universality is of God and all limitations are earthly. Thus man must strive that his reality may manifest virtues and perfections, the light whereof may shine upon every one. The light of the sun shineth upon all the world and the merciful showers of Divine Providence fall upon all peoples. The vivifying breeze reviveth every living creature and all beings endued with life obtain their share and portion at His heavenly board. In like manner, the affections and loving-kindness of the servants of the One True God must be bountifully and universally extended to all mankind. Regarding this, restrictions and limitations are in no wise permitted.

[Page 17]

FUNERAL PROCESSION WITH ‘ABDU’L-BAHÁ’S CASKET IN THE FOREGROUND

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Wherefore, O my loving friends! Consort with all the peoples, kindreds and religions of the world with the utmost truthfulness, uprightness, faithfulness, kindliness, goodwill and friendliness, that all the world of being may be filled with the holy ecstasy of the grace of Bahá, that ignorance, enmity, hate and rancor may vanish from the world and the darkness of estrangement amidst the peoples and kindreds of the world may give way to the Light of Unity. Should other peoples and nations be unfaithful to you show your fidelity unto them, should they be unjust toward you show justice towards them, should they keep aloof from you attract them to yourselves, should they show their enmity be friendly towards them, should they poison your lives, sweeten their souls, should they inflict a wound upon you, be a salve to their sores. Such are the [Page 18] attributes of the sincere! Such are the attributes of the truthful!

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“O ye beloved of the Lord! Strive with all your heart to shield the Cause of God from the onslaught of the insincere, for souls such as these cause the straight to become crooked and all benevolent efforts to produce contrary results.”

He prays for the protection of His friends:

“O Lord, my God! Assist Thy loved ones to be firm in Thy Faith, to walk in Thy ways, to be steadfast in Thy Cause. Give them Thy grace to withstand the onslaught of self and passion, to follow the light of Divine Guidance. Thou art the Powerful, the Gracious, the Self-Subsisting, the Bestower, the Compassionate, the Almighty, the All-Bountiful!”

For His enemies this is His prayer:

“I call upon Thee, O Lord, my God! with my tongue and with all my heart, not to requite them for their cruelty and their wrong-doings, their craft and their mischief, for they are foolish and ignoble and know not what they do. They discern not good from evil, neither do they distinguish right from wrong, nor justice from injustice. They follow their own desires and walk in the footsteps of the most imperfect and foolish amongst them. O my Lord! Have mercy upon them, shield them from all afflictions in these troubled times and grant that all trials and hardships may be the lot of this Thy servant, that hath fallen into this darksome pit. Single me out for every woe and make me a sacrifice for all Thy loved ones! O Lord, Most High! May my soul, my life, my being, my Spirit, my all be offered up for them! O God, my God! Lowly, suppliant and fallen upon my face, I beseech Thee with all the ardor of my invocation to pardon whosoever hath hurt me, to forgive him that hath conspired against me and offended me, and to wash away the misdeeds of them that have wrought injustice upon me. Vouchsafe unto the Thy goodly gifts, give them joy, relieve them from sorrow, grant them peace and prosperity, give them Thy bliss and pour upon them Thy bounty.

Thou art the Powerful, the Gracious, the Help in Peril, the Self-Subsisting.”

AND NOW, what appeal more direct, more moving, with which to close this sad yet stirring account of His last days, than these His most touching, most inspiring words?

“Friends! The time is coming when I shall be no longer with you. I have done all that could be done. I have served the Cause of Bahá’u’lláh to the utmost of my ability. I have labored night and day, all the years of my life. O how I long to see the loved ones taking upon themselves the responsibilities of the Cause! Now is the time to proclaim the Kingdom of Bahá! Now is the hour of love and union! This is the day of the spiritual harmony of the loved ones of God! All the resources of my physical strength I have exhausted, and the spirit of my life is the welcome tidings of the unity of the people of Bahá. I am straining my ears toward the East and toward the West, toward the North and toward the South that haply I may hear the songs of love and fellowship chanted in the meetings of the faithful. My days are numbered, and, but for this, there is no joy left unto me. O how I yearn to see the friends united even as a string of gleaming pearls, as the brilliant Pleiades, as the rays of the sun, as the gazelles of one meadow!

“The mystic nightingale is warbling for them all; will they not listen? The bird of paradise is singing; will they nor heed? The angel of Abhá is Calling to them; will they not hearken? The herald Of the Covenant is pleading; will they not obey?

“Ah me, I am waiting, waiting, to hear the joyful tidings that the believers are the very embodiment of sincerity and truthfulness, the incarnation of love and amity, the living symbols of unity and concord. Will they not gladden my heart? Will they not satisfy my yearning? Will they not manifest my wish? Will they not fulfill my heart’s desire? Will they not give ear to my call?

“I am waiting, I am patiently waiting.”

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An abridged version of the compilation The Passing of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá published privately in 1922 by Lady Blomfield with the approval of Shoghi Effendi and reprinted with emendations in Bahá’í Year Book (New York: Bahá’í Publishing Committee, 1926), I, 19-31.

[Page 19]

‘Abdu’l-Bahá: Through the War Years

BY H. M. BALYUZI

From early childhood ‘Abdu’l-Bahá lived His life in public. Devoted followers recorded His sayings and His movements. Cruel and relentless enemies kept Him under an unceasing watch. However, some periods and episodes in ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s life have received more attention than others. His travels in Europe and America, for instance, have been set down in great detail in memoirs, diaries, newspaper and magazine stories, private correspondence, and books. Much less is known of His life in Baghdád, Constantinople, and Adrianople. Relatively little is known about Him during the First World War, when Palestine was isolated and the flow of pilgrims to ‘Akká and Haifa ceased.

The gap is large and unfortunate, for the years 1914-1918 witnessed the first of the great catastrophes of which ‘Abdu’l-Bahá had repeatedly warned humanity, particularly during His visits to Europe and America in 1911-1912. Those were the years during which ‘Abdu’l-Bahá fashioned the tools for the administration and propagation of the Faith of Bahá’u’lláh. It is therefore with a sense of satisfaction and joy that, beginning on the next page, WORLD ORDER offers its readers an extract from Mr. Hasan Balyuzi’s new book ‘Abdu’l-Bahá: The Centre of the Covenant of Bahá’u’lláh. The chapter entitled “The War Years” begins to fill the gap.

[Page 20]

THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE had always had subjects who sought to destroy it. In return for their unruliness they had received condign punishment. As far back as the sixteenth century, under Sulṭán Selim I, “The Grim” (reigned 1512-1520), the Shí’ahs of Anatolia, who favored Selim’s rival, Sháh Ismá’íl I, the Ṣafavid ruler of Irán, were massacred in their thousands. Greeks and Slavs, Macedonians and Albanians had, in the course of years, rebelled, met with harsh suppression and finally obtained their freedom. With the overthrow of despotism, new hopes had arisen, but were soon dashed by the Young Turks.

Within a few weeks of Turkey’s entry into the war, the British occupied the port of Baṣrah, deposed the Khedive of Egypt, proclaimed a protectorate over the country, and set policies in motion which would affect profoundly the future of the Ottoman realms. Arabs, the largest minority in the Ottoman Empire, had already shown signs of restiveness and were to pay for it dearly in Damascus at the hands of Jamál Páshá. Uprisings among them, particularly the revolt of the Sharíf of Mecca, were still far off, but signs were discernible and the Turks were suspicious. It was also apparent that the call for a holy war (Jihád), coming from Istanbul, would go unheeded. Except for a tiny number, the Muslims of the Indian subcontinent ignored it and, even more, did not hesitate to fight the Turks.

Spies were everywhere in the Holy Land and authorities were becoming increasingly repressive. Fear was abroad, a fear which could sweep over the population like an epidemic, a fear such as was felt in Great Britain and France at the outbreak of the Second World War, when the opening of hostilities brought the prospect that whole towns and cities might be razed to the ground. An enemy warship did bombard the railway bridges between ‘Akká and Haifa. On that occasion a shell came down in the garden of Riḍván but did not explode. One day, when the sea was calm with hardly a ripple on it, and rocks, far from the shore, were clearly visible under a sunny sky, the people of ‘Akká took them for warships and fled en masse.

It was against such a background that ‘Abdu’l-Bahá decided to move the Bahá’ís of Haifa and ‘Akká away from the hysteria of the officials and the people around them. As a temporary home for them He chose the Druze village of Abú-Sinán, situated to the east of ‘Akká. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá Himself stayed in ‘Akká with one attendant, and occasionally spent a night or two in Abú-Sinán. Shaykh Ṣáliḥ, the Druze chief, had put his own house at the disposal of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, and that was where His family lived. Quarters were found for the other Bahá’ís in the homes of villagers. Bahá’u’lláh had once lived for three months among these friendly people in the foothills of Galilee. The room in the house of Shaykh Mazrúq, which He had occupied, was always left untenanted.

Dr. Ḥabíbu’lláh Khudábakhsh (Dr. Mu’ayyad) ran a dispensary at Abú-Sinán, to which people who were not members of the Bahá’í community soon came for treatment. They received equal attention but paid according to their means. For most of them the treatment was free. Dr. Mu’ayyad performed operations as well and was assisted by Lua Getsinger. Badí‘ Bushrú’í, another graduate of the Syrian Protestant College, ran a school, side by side with the dispensary, for the children of the Bahá’ís. Life was naturally rather primitive in this isolated village in the hills. On Mount Carmel, the sole occupant of the pilgrim house was the veteran, Ḥájí Mírzá Ḥaydar-‘Alí.

Mírzá Faḍlu’lláh Khán Banán reached Haifa from Shíráz with the offerings of the [Page 21] Bahá’ís of that city, on January 19th 1915. His arrival was the last link with the outside world for a long time. Banán’s journey was fraught with considerable difficulty, for he had to make his way from India to Haifa. To have succeeded was indeed an achievement. However, sometime during the war years an Arab Bahá’í, advanced in years, named Ḥájí Ramaḍán, braving all hazards, managed to reach Ṭihrán. His perilous journey included walking for forty-five days. He delivered to the Bahá’ís a Tablet entrusted to him by ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, and returned bearing gold and letters. A second time he attempted that heroic feat, but he did not reach his destination, and no trace of him was ever found.

EARLY IN 1915, Jamál Páshá appeared on the scene, Commander of the 4th Army Corps, whose mission was to overrun the Suez Canal and drive the British out of Egypt. With him came a reign of terror. The whole of Syria (including the Holy Land) was under his martial control. Throughout 1915 and into the following year, Jamál Páshá was bringing Arab nationalists to trial in his military courts. Thirty-four of them were executed, and many more were deported. Mírzá Muḥammad-‘Alí and his associates, long discredited and cowed into silence, now found fresh opportunities to plot against ‘Abdu’l-Bahá. They went to Jamál Páshá with various tales. Majdi’d-Dín told him that ‘Abdu’l-Bahá was hostile to the Committee of Union and Progress. The tent which Bahá’u’lláh had used, the violators gave to Jamál Páshá. It was a tent under which, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá is reported to have said, ”representatives of the Most Great Peace” should have met. Then in order to create confusion, the violators set rumors afoot that the military government had banished ‘Abdu’l-Bahá to Damascus.

When Jamál Páshá encamped in the vicinity of ‘Akká, he told the Governor that he must see ‘Abdu’l-Bahá at once. Riding His donkey ‘Abdu’l-Bahá went to the military cantonment. Jamál Páshá received Him courteously, but told Him that He was a religious mischief-maker, which was the reason He had been put under restraint in the past. It happened that, in the days of ‘Abdu’l-Ḥamíd, Jamál Páshá himself had been known as a political mischief-maker. So ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, to humor him, now replied that mischief—making was of two kinds: political and religious; and then, pointing at the arrogant Páshá, He said that so far the political mischief-maker had not caused any damage, and it was to be hoped that the religious mischief-maker would not do so either.

Lady Blomfield has recorded another encounter between ‘Abdu’l-Bahá and Jamál Páshá, the story being related by Mírzá Jalál, a son-in-law of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá:

At the beginning of the year 1916, at about seven o'clock one morning, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá sent me for His faithful coachman. ‘Tell Isfandíyár to have my carriage brought, and you and Khusraw be ready to accompany me to Nazareth in half an hour.’ We did as He commanded, and at the appointed time ‘Abdu’l-Bahá left His home in Haifa, accompanied by Khusraw and me. That day the health of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá was not very satisfactory, as one could see by the signs of weariness on His blessed face. However, the Commander-in-chief of the Syrian and Palestine fronts was in Nazareth. He was Jamál Páshá, and ‘Abdu’l-Bahá was determined to meet him there, so in spite of His great fatigue and physical weakness, the Beloved started on His journey.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

‘Abdu’l-Bahá . . . arrived at Nazareth in the evening at seven o’clock, and took up His residence at the German Hotel.

The next day the Master was invited to lunch at the home of one of the notables of the town of Nazareth. He was one of the Fahúm family. On that day Jamál [Page 22] Páshá, and nearly two hundred of the war leaders, were present at the lunch where the Master sat down at one o’clock and arose from the table at four.

During all those hours ‘Abdu’l-Bahá was speaking in Turkish on philosophical and scientific subjects, and on heavenly teachings. So intense was His utterance that all stopped eating while they listened to His blessed words.

. . . Jamál Páshá, who had been His great enemy because of false accusations, had not paid the proper respect to ‘Abdu’l-Bahá when He had first arrived. Now, however, having heard the Master speak so learnedly and wisely, he was most deferential and full of all kinds of politeness. When the time came for the Master to rise, Jamál Páshá most courteously held the Beloved’s arm to assist Him to leave the table, and himself led the way to the reception room, and seated the Master comfortably.

Finally, after answering more questions, and giving wondrous light on many subjects, the Master arose to bid farewell to His host. Jamál Páshá accompanied Him out of the house, and to the bottom of the steps, and would have gone further with the Master, but was thanked with great kindness and urged by ‘Abdu’l-Bahá to return. This was that Jamál Páshá who was not accustomed to rise from his seat to pay respect to any one. . . . ‘Abdu’l-Bahá was excessively fatigued, and remained that night at the German Hotel at Nazareth . . .

But in time the constant insinuations of the violators had their effect. Jamál Páshá stated that he would crucify ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, when he returned victorious from his campaigns. When he did come back, however, he was in full flight, defeated and humiliated, and could not stop to carry out his threat.

IN THE EARLY MONTHS of the war, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá said one day that, if it had not been for the intrigues of the violators, He would have gathered together some of the leading men amongst the Muslims and Christians of the Holy Land and would have counseled them to concert their efforts to prevent disorder. But the actions of the violators prevented this.

Relative inactivity and increasing isolation, in the opening months of 1915, made ‘Abdu’l-Bahá remark, on another occasion, that He wished He had gone to India, where His presence had been fervently requested. Not having work to do, He said, had an adverse effect on His physical condition. But although pilgrims could no longer come and correspondence was almost halted, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá was kept occupied with local affairs, and soon the task of raising and providing food for the Bahá’í community and many others in need faced Him. The mismanagement and the impositions of the Ottoman overlord were gradually leading to a state of near famine.

No matter how relaxed or arduous life might be, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá always found or recalled a humorous situation. A cat purring beside His chair would amuse Him: this cat, He remarked, is indeed joyous, so carefree, so free of fear. A donkey standing in the street made Him remember that He saw no donkeys anywhere in the United States, and reminded Him of a polar bear in the Paris Zoo. People were staring at the bear, He said, and the animal was staring back, as if wanting to say: how did I get entangled with these folk? A man passing by the gates of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s house in Haifa, carrying a basket, put it down as soon as he saw Him, saying that he could not find a porter and had to carry the basket himself. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá remarked afterwards that a man should not feel ashamed of doing useful work. Someone had written to ask where ‘Abdu’l-Bahá was. Tell him, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá replied with a smile: in front of a cannon.

The war fever slowly abated and life in [Page 23]

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A VIEW OF ‘ABDU’L-BAHÁ’S HOUSE IN HAIFA DURING HIS LIFE TIME

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‘Akká and Haifa, although not back to normal, became calmer and more sedate as the year advanced. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá felt then that the Bahá’ís could return to their homes. Edith Sanderson, who had remained behind when other Western Bahá’ís had gone, and had moved to Abú-Sinán, left as early as January 1915. Well before Italy’s entry into the war on the side of the Allies in May 1915, she obtained a passage on an Italian boat. On May 5th the sojourn of the Bahá’ís at Abú-Sinán came to an end. On that day, the box that contained the portraits of the Báb and Bahá’u’lláh, which was always kept in the room of the Greatest Holy Leaf, was brought back to Haifa by Badí‘ Bushrú’í and Dr. Mu’ayyad. Ten days later the doctor himself, who had tendered sterling services, set out for Persia by the Baghdád route. From Persia, where the Bahá’ís were still being persecuted, news had come of a fresh martyrdom. Shaykh ‘Alí-Akbar-i—Qúchání, a highly learned and respected Bahá’í teacher, who had served the Faith with distinction in the Caucasus and India, was shot while making purchases in the bazaar of his native town. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá sent this cable to a Bahá’í of Mashhad: “[May] My life be a sacrifice unto ‘Alí-Akbar. I am well. ‘Abbás.”

Írán fared very badly during the war. None of the belligerents respected her declared neutrality. Her own people adopted active partisan attitudes, the majority favoring Turkey and Germany. German and Turkish, Russian and British agents were everywhere. Russia and Turkey fought their battles in the north and the northwest of the country, each side receiving substantial aid from the Iranians. The British occupied the port of Bushire (Búshihr) in August 1915, and landed a small force at Bandar ‘Abbás in March 1916, under Brigadier-General Sir Percy Sykes who, driving inland to Kirmán, Yazd, and Iṣfahán, reached Shíráz in November. The central government was powerless. Bandits and highwaymen, as long as they did not get in the way of the belligerents, had the freedom of the roads and caravan routes. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá had foreseen these lamentable events and had spoken of [Page 24] them to His countrymen in Paris. Bahá’ís had their share of tribulation. For them tragedy was never far off, and it was easy to make them suffer in order to appease others. The martyrdom of Mírzá Faḍlu’llah, the Mu‘ávinu’t-Tujjár, a well-known merchant of Naráq (near Káshán), was a case in point. In Sulṭánábád (now Arák) a family of seven were slain in their home, in the dead of night.

With the Bahá’ís back in Haifa, weekly gatherings were resumed in the house of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, and it was in that latter half of the year 1915 that the Memorials of the Faithful took shape. These short biographies of early Bahá’ís, so eloquent and pellucid, animated and moving, were spoken by ‘Abdu’l-Bahá in these meetings. Each one, a sparkling gem, will remain unmatched. Seventy-nine people are mentioned, and most of them are those who were exiled with Bahá’u’lláh to ‘Akká. But others are included such as Ḥájí Mírzá Muḥammad-Taqí, the Vakílu’d-Dawlih (the builder of the Mashriqu’l-Adhkár of ‘Ishqábád) and his brorher, Ḥájí Mírzá Muḥammad-‘Alí. Ṭáhirih, although a luminary of the Bábí Dispensation, also features in that galaxy. These talks of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá were compiled into a book which was published in Haifa in 1924, with the title: Tadhkiratu’l-Vafá—the Memorials of the Faithful.

To this period (and a little beyond) also belongs a slim volume: Risáliy-i-Tis‘a-‘Asharíyyih —Nineteen Discourses on the lives of the Báb and His two heralds: Shaykh Aḥmad-i-Aḥsá’í and Siyyid Káẓim-i-Rashtí. These discourses were written by Aḥmad Sohráb, at the instruction of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, for the use of the Bahá’í youth at meetings in the pilgrim house on Mount Carmel. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá Himself corrected and emended them. Nineteen Discourses, together with a short autobiographical monograph by Áqá Muḥammad Muṣṭafáy-i-Baghdádí (who in his childhood went to Persia with his father, Shaykh Muḥammad-i-Shibl, in the company of Ṭáhirih) was published in Cairo in 1919, by Shaykh Muḥiyyi’d-Dín-i-Kurdí, an outstanding pupil of Mírzá Abu’l-Faḍl.

As the war years followed their weary course, the depredations and misgovernment of Ottoman authorities, to which was added devastation caused by locusts, led to increasing scarcities and hardships. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá now arose to alleviate suffering. There were properties and lands in the Jordan Valley and beyond, at Samrah and ‘Adasíyyah, and by the shores of the Sea of Galilee (Lake Tiberias), which ‘Abdu’l-Bahá could cultivate for food. Some of these were part of the endowments of the Shrines of Bahá’u’lláh and the Báb. Sons of Mírzá Muḥammad-Qulí, the faithful half-brother of Bahá’u’lláh, owned land at Nuqayb, on the northern shore of the Sea of Galilee, where Mírzá Muḥammad-Qulí was buried.

IN THE PAST, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá had stayed at Tiberias from time to time, whenever He needed a respite from the humidity of the coast. But in summer time the heat in Tiberias, and in the lands that lie below it, is intense and onerous. Until the return of normal conditions, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá had to spend days and weeks in and around Tiberias. The wheat He sent to ‘Akká was given into the care of a lady named Sakínih Sulṭán, in whom He had great confidence. In a Tablet addressed to her, dated Shavvál [Page 25] 15th 1336 A.H. (July 26th 1918), ‘Abdu’l-Bahá says that because it has been very hot, so hot as to affect His breathing, perforce He has had to return to Tiberias. If He obtains relief in Tiberias, He will stay until the wheat is secured; otherwise He will have to return to ‘Akká and Haifa. He has sent some wheat for the time being, to be distributed according to the list enclosed. He also states that prices have gone up considerably, more than threefold, in comparison with the previous year; the cost of transport is also doubled and trebled. It is indicated that there was a shortage of camels for transport, because ‘Abdu’l-Bahá states that much more wheat will be dispatched when camels are available. In another Tablet, in which Sakínih Sulṭán is told to give two kayls of wheat to Áqá Jamshíd, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá says that He yearns to visit the Shrine of Bahá’u’lláh; He has been so heavily occupied that He has been prevented from going there.

Most of the communications to Sakínih Sulṭán, regarding the distribution of wheat, consist of a list of names and quantities. The brevity of the following may be indicative of how pressing time was:

	Raṭls
Neighbors’ daughters	25
‘Abdu’r-Raḥmán the son of Aḥmad Effendi	30
Ḥanná’s wife	15
The fat woman	25
Rafí‘ih	25
	120

Although at ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s table, both before and after the war, His guests were provided with choice dishes, and there were times when He Himself cooked them, His own food was often a very simple fare. He took little meat, and hardly any fruit. His preference was for milk, cheese, and herbs such as mint, tarragon, and basil.

The ravages of war were mounting. The British-Indian army was pushing forward in Mesopotamia, and in spite of its grave setback in April 1916, at Kút-al-‘Amárah, it retrieved its position and captured Baghdád in March 1917. A month later the United States declared war on Germany. The isolation of the Holy Land was almost complete.

Shoghi Effendi said of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá in these days:

Agony filled His soul at the spectacle of human slaughter precipitated through humanity’s failure to respond to the summons He had issued, or to heed the warnings He had given. Surely sorrow upon sorrow was added to the burden of trials and vicissitudes which He, since His boyhood, had borne so heroically for the sake, and in the service, of His Father’s Cause.

And yet during these somber days, the darkness of which was reminiscent of the tribulations endured during the most dangerous period of His incarceration in the prison-fortress of ‘Akká, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, whilst in the precincts of His Father’s Shrine, or when dwelling in the House He occupied in ‘Akká, or under the shadow of the Báb’s sepulcher on Mt. Carmel, was moved to confer once again, and for the last time in His life, on the community of His American followers a signal mark of His special favor by investing them, on the eve of the termination of His earthly ministry, through the revelation of the Tablets of the Divine Plan, with a world mission, whose full implications even now, after the lapse of a quarter of a century, still remain undisclosed, and whose unfoldment thus far, though as yet in its initial stages, has so greatly enriched the spiritual as well as the administrative [Page 26] annals of the first Bahá’í century.

THE TABLETS OF THE DIVINE PLAN are fourteen in number and were revealed at two separate times: eight of them in 1916, and six in 1917. . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

In all, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá mentioned by name in these Tablets some 120 territories and islands, to which the message of Bahá’u’lláh should be carried. When He did so, there were Bahá’ís in only 35 countries. Immediate response came from loving and devoted hearts, but before “the proclamation of the oneness of humanity” could be raised to all the world “systematically and enthusiastically,” the Administrative Order had first to be developed as an instrument of collective teaching—a tremendous labor of sixteen years initiated by the Guardian of the Faith after ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s passing—so that by 1937 the first stage in fulfilling the Tablets of the Divine Plan could be inaugurated in the First Seven Year Plan of the American Bahá’í community. Since then, the launching of a number of teaching plans of limited scope in all continents, and the undertaking of two successive world-encompassing projects in which the Bahá’ís of the whole world have participated, have revealed the potentialities of the master-plan which the mind of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá conceived in those years of sorrow and stress. But much still lies in the lap of the future, for the Tablets of the Divine Plan are no less than ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s charter for the teaching of the Faith of Bahá’u’lláh throughout His Dispensation.

ON DECEMBER 9th 1917, General Allenby entered Jerusalem. It now seemed certain that the days of the Ottoman rule in the Holy Land were numbered. But the life of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá was still in danger. Let those who helped to avert that danger speak. First, Lady Blomfield:

In the spring of 1918, I was much startled and deeply disturbed by a telephone message: “‘Abdu’l-Bahá in serious danger. Take immediate action.” It came from an authoritative source. There was not a moment to be lost. Every available power must be brought to bear to save the Master.

I went at once to Lord Lamington. His sympathetic regard for ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, his understanding of the ramifications and “red tape” necessary for “immediate action” were of priceless value.

A letter was immediately written to the Foreign Office explaining the importance of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s position, His work for true peace, and for the spiritual welfare of many thousands of people. Through the influence of Lord Lamington, and his prompt help, the letter, with its alarming news, was at once put into the hands of Lord Balfour.

That very evening a cable was sent to General Allenby with these instructions, “Extend every protection and consideration to ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, His family and His friends, when the British march on Haifa.”

So a terrible tragedy was averted, by the promptness and understanding of Lord Lamington and the power of Lord Balfour, his colleagues in the Cabinet here in London, and by the devotion, efficiency, and promptitude of Major Tudor-Pole at the Turkish end, for Haifa was still in the hands of the Turks.

The Turks had been so aroused by the enemies of the Master that they had threatened to crucify Him, and all His family, on Mount Carmel.

When General Allenby took Haifa, several days before it was believed possible for him to do so, he sent a cablegram to London which caused everybody to wonder, and especially filled the hearts of the Bahá’ís in all the world with deep gratitude [Page 27] to the Almighty Protector.

The cable of General Allenby was as follows: “Have to-day taken Palestine. Notify the world that ‘Abdu’l-Bahá is safe.”

Major Tudor-Pole writes:

It must have been in the early spring of 1918 that I began to feel acute anxiety for ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s safety at Haifa, and that of His family and followers there. I came out of the line in December 1917 during the attack on Jerusalem, and being temporarily incapacitated for active service, was transferred to Intelligence, first at Cairo and later at Ludd, Jaffa, and Jerusalem.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

With an advance base at and around Jaffa, we were beginning to prepare for a move towards Haifa and the north at that time. For several reasons, including shortage of men and munitions, the British advance was delayed well into the summer of 1918.

Meanwhile, the news reaching me concerning ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s imminent danger became more and more alarming. I tried to arouse interest in the matter among those who were responsible for Intelligence Service activities . . . . I also brought the matter before my own chief, General Sir Arthur Money (Chief Administrator of Occupied Enemy Territory). . . .

At this time chance brought me into touch with an officer whose social and political connexions in London were strong. Through his courtesy and interest I was enabled to get an urgent message through to the British Foreign Office.

Through friends associated with the Bahá’í Cause in England, an independent avenue of approach to the ruling powers in London was discovered.

By these means Lord Balfour, Lord Curzon, and others in the Cabinet were advised as to the critical situation at Haifa. Lord Lamington’s influence proved of special help at this time. The upshot of these various activities bore fruit, and the Foreign Office sent a despatch to General Allenby instructing him to ensure the safety of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá and His family and entourage so soon as the British Army captured Haifa.

This despatch passed through my hands in Cairo en route for Army Headquarters at Ludd . . . . and Intelligence was requested to make urgent inquiry. In due course this demand for information reached the Headquarters of Intelligence at the Savoy Hotel, Cairo, and ultimately (when enquiries elsewhere had proven fruitless) was passed to me for action. As a result, General Allenby was provided with full particulars in regard to ‘Abdu’l-Bahá . . . and the history of the Movement of which He was the Master.

Allenby at once issued orders to the General Commanding Officer in command of the Haifa operations to the effect that immediately the town was entered, a British guard was to be posted at once around ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s house, and a further guard was to be placed at the disposal of His family and followers. Means were found for making it known within the enemy lines that stern retribution would follow any attempt to cause death or injury to the great Persian Master or to any of His household.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

When Haifa was ultimately taken, these instructions for posting a guard were duly carried out, and all dangers of death or accident were thereby averted.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It was a wonderful experience in the midst of the chaos of war conditions to visit the Master at His Mount Carmel home, which even at that time was a haven of peace and refreshment.

I can remember Him, majestic yet gentle, pacing up and down His garden whilst He spoke to me about eternal realities, at a time when the whole material world was [Page 28] rocking on its foundations. The divine power of the spirit shone through His presence, giving one the feeling that a great prophet from Old Testament days had risen up in a war-stricken world, as an inspirer and spiritual guide for the human race.

One or two incidents which happened shortly afterwards, connected with the capture of Haifa, are worthy of record.

During the British advance from the south, field batteries were placed in position on high ground immediately to the south-east of Mount Carmel, the intention being to shell Haifa at long range over Mount Carmel itself. Some of the Eastern Bahá’ís living on the northern slopes of Mount Carmel becoming agitated, went to ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s residence and expressed fear as to the tragic course of possible events. According to an eye-witness of this scene (from whom I obtained the story when I reached Haifa), ‘Abdu’l-Bahá calmed His excited followers and called them to prayer. Then He told them that all would be well, and that no British shells would cause death or damage to the population or to Haifa and its environs. As a matter of historical fact, the range of the field batteries in question was inaccurate, the shells passing harmlessly over the town and falling into the Bay of ‘Akká beyond.

Another incident of those stirring times is worthy of record, although I am not able to vouch for its complete accuracy at first hand. Before the fall of Haifa, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá was discussing the British campaign with a few of His followers in His garden one day. He then predicted that, contrary to the general expectation, the taking of Haifa and the walled town of ‘Akká would come about almost without bloodshed. This prediction was verified by the facts. He also stated that the Turks would surrender ‘Akká (supposed to be impregnable) to two unarmed British soldiers. The resultant has so far as I was able to gather them were as follows:—

Subsequent to the entry of our troops into Haifa, the front line was pushed forward half-way across the Bay of ‘Akká, and outposts were placed in position on the sands of the Bay some four miles from ‘Akká itself. ‘Akká, as a fortified and walled town, was believed to be filled with Turkish troops at this time. Very early one morning two British Army Service soldiers, who had lost their bearings in the night, found themselves at the gates of ‘Akká, believing erroneously that the town was already in British hands. However, the Turkish rearguard troops had been secretly evacuated only eight hours earlier, and the Mayor of the town, seeing British soldiers outside the gates, came down and presented them with the keys of the town in token of surrender! It is credibly stated that the dismayed Tommies, being unarmed, dropped the keys and made post haste for the British lines!

On September 23rd, British forces coming along the coastal road, rounded the promontory of Mount Carmel and appeared before Haifa. The Mayor and the notables went out to offer their submission. The first question that the British commanding officer put to the Mayor of Haifa was: “Is ‘Abdu’l-Bahá in this city? Is He safe?” ‘Abdu’l-Bahá was sitting calm and unperturbed in the forecourt of His house. Bahá’ís were there around Him, tense and awaiting news. Indian army outriders arrived posthaste at the gates of the house. The next evening, the Governor of Jerusalem came in person to pay his respects. Lt. Colonel (later Sir) Ronald Storrs was not a stranger. He had known ‘Abdu’l-Bahá as far back as the days of His incarceration within the city walls of ‘Akká. He came again, the following morning— September 25th—before returning to Jerusalem.

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* This chapter from ‘Abdu’l-Bahá: The Centre of the Covenant of Bahá’u’lláh is reproduced by permission of the author, and by arrangement with the publisher, George Ronald, London, England. © H. M. Balyuzi 1971.

[Page 29]

‘Abdu’l-Bahá: Portrayals from East and West

MATERIALS FROM THE PAPERS OF ALI-KULI KHAN AND THE CONVERSATIONS OF JOHN AND LOUISE BOSCH EXCERPTED, AMPLIFIED, AND ARRANGED BY MARZIEH GAIL

ALI-KULI KHAN (Nabílu’d-Dawlih) was born in Káshán, Persia, about 1879. His father was Mírzá ‘Abdu’r-Raḥím Khán Ḍarrábí. About the year 1898, Ali-Kuli Khan became a Bahá’í and from that time on served the Faith for almost seventy years, till his death in Washington, D.C. April 7, 1966. In 1901 he was sent by ‘Abdu’l-Bahá to the United States as a Bahá’í translator and teacher. Later, marrying an American lady, he headed the Persian Legation at Washington. It was he who selected and dispatched W. Morgan Shuster to Persia to reorganize, as Treasurer-General, the country’s fiscal structure; and who persuaded President Woodrow Wilson to make it possible for Persia to send a mission to the Peace Conference at Versailles. A member of that mission, Ali-Kuli Khan later served his country in various other capacities and became Head of the Court of the then Crown Prince Regent (Qájár). His life goal, the linking of Persia and America, can be summed up in these words of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, from The Promulgation of Universal Peace:

“For the Persians there is no government better fitted to contribute to the development of their natural rerources and the helping of their national needs . . . than the United States of America; and for the Americans there could be no better industrial outlet and market . . . . It is my hope that the great American democracy may he instrumental in developing these hidden rerources . . . . May the material civilization of America find complete efficacy and establishment in Persia, and the spiritual civilization of Persia find acceptance in America. . . . Surely there will be great harvests of results . . .”

WHEN I WAS SEVEN we lived in Ṭihrán, where my father was Mírzá ‘Abdu’r-Raḥím Khán the Kalántar (Mayor). A mullá taught us children in school. We sat in a row on the floor, each with his book before him on a bookstand. We read the Qur’án without knowing what it meant, and Sa‘dí, and Ḥáfiz. The mullá had a long, slim, flexible pole (falak); whenever he thought best, a child’s feet would be strung to it by a rope; each end of the pole was held by boys who twisted it so the feet were held fast, soles up; the mullá himself did the whipping, beating the soles of the victim with his club (chúb) till, sometimes, the blood came. This was the bastinado. The children were terrified of it; panic made me study extra hard.

Like most boys everywhere, the boys were cruel enough. They used to carry black Japanese reeds that had a string-like fibre inside; with this fibre, they would, when the mullá’s attention wandered, thread a live fly, and watch it fly off, trailing its thread. Sometimes they were punished for that. Another favorite thing was, using the two forefingers, to shoot white beans at the mullá or another boy. Nobody would ever give anybody away; the source of the bean was impossible to trace. Since we always read our lessons aloud in a kind of murmuring chant, the boys, whatever else they might be up to, would keep on with their murmuring, to convince the mullá that all was well. There was a public bath nearby and outside it were piles of manure for fuel. When one of the boys needed the privy he would say, “I want to go out back,” or “I want to go over to the bath.”

I was born with a tooth, which in Persia is supposed to mean precocity. I was always the youngest. This was bad enough, but later on when we were sent to the Sháh’s college my studious habits, coupled with the fact that I [Page 30] always told the truth, got me into real trouble: the others would beat me for studying. A teacher would ask a question, and each boy would say in turn, man balad nístam—“I don’t know.” The teacher would get to me and I would come out with, “I don’t know,. . .” and then I would weep and say, “I know but I'm scared of them . . .” One time this led to twenty of them being bastinadoed—all my older brother’s—Ḥusayn-Qulí Khán’s— best friends. That night I didn’t dare sleep at our house. When it seemed wisest I would sleep over at my uncle’s; he and his wife, a granddaughter of Faṭḥ-‘Alí Sháh, treated me as their son. In any case I kept on memorizing most of the pocket edition of Samuel Johnson’s dictionary and after a while the others realized that my industry could be put to practical use: in our English class they would force me to write compositions for the whole class; thirty compositions, each one different. However, on their outings, they wouldn’t take me along, saying I was too little.

By then, our father was dead. He had become a Bahá’í, but our mother continued to be a strict Muslim throughout her life. Father used to say, “I know my boys will become Bahá’ís.” And we did, but our two sisters remained Muslim. My brother was, to begin with, a strict Muslim himself, and he was an athlete and very strong. Then another athlete, Ustád Qulám Ḥusayn-i-Banná, taught him the Bahá’í Faith. My case was different. Because of all that schooling I had no interest in religion at all. What engrossed my mind—crushed me, in fact—was the way foreigners were exploiting my country. I could see how they were setting up their puppets, making use of the mullás, and preventing the Sháh from sending students abroad. By now, what with speaking English and French and being known as a serious scholar I had become a kind of student leader, with my own little group. At the time I was one of five Persians who were fluent in English, and received an appointment as chief translator to the Prime Minister. But my brother began to draw my friends away.

In those days I would drink my fill of ’araq—ardent spirit. It looks like water but there the resemblance ends. By night my friends and I would visit an old graveyard strewn with rocks and planted with clover. We used to sit there in the bright moonlight, breathe the crystal air, recite poems, and drink, and play the tár—a kind of guitar with six strings, played by plectrum—and beat the dunbak or one-headed drum, played with the fingers and palm. Our poems were our own, or from the classics—Rúmí, perhaps (“I drunk and you crazed, who will carry us home?”). There were no girls; the girls were all veiled, all shut away in the andarún (the “within”; that is, the gynaeceum or women’s apartments, often, in Persia, a separate house).

Náṣiri’d-Dín Sháh had a handsome son-in-law, Prince Ẓahíru’d-Dawlih. This prince had inherited the mantle of the great murshid or spiritual guide, Ṣafí-‘Alí Sháh; he was a dervish, and belonged to the order of the Sháh Ni‘matu’lláhí. His dervish headquarters, that is his seminary or takyih, had become a fashionable retreat; and learning the mystical dervish terminology was now the style. When frequenting them I would use all their terms but with my own—and I am afraid often ribald—meanings. For example to their term “Gazer,” (one who contemplates mystic beauty, ahl-i-dídár) I would append my secret definition: voyeur. The dervishes who conversed with me noted that my terms were always perfectly correct; the code meanings were only for me and my fellows. I also invented meaningless but impressive terms which gained respect; words, say, like khusvázíyár. If anything, I was a kind of diabolist in those days; it was my défi to the world. My fellows and I used to say that all those Muslim believers sitting around killing fleas in Paradise were good-for-nothings, and that the progressives were all in Hell.

Meanwhile the Dervish Prince and his intimates would foregather and repeat their [Page 31] Dhikr (remembrance or mentioning; the plural is adhkár; Shoghi Effendi translates dhákirín, from the same root, as rememberers). “Alláh-hú,” they would recite, “Alláh-hú:” God—He! God—He! And they would smoke their hashish, either in hubble-bubble pipes or ordinary pipes or cigarettes. The drug was made essentially of chars, Indian hemp-juice, and the users were called charsí.

I KNEW where my brother was leading my friends astray. At night, after the curfew, they were crowding in with him to secret meetings in remote houses along the back lanes of Ṭihrán. Obviously, if we were to keep on with our excursions and parties, I would have to act. I decided to attend their meetings, expose the foolishness of the teachers who addressed them and win back my friends. We had had good sport with the mullás and the dervishes; now I would show up the Bahá’ís. And so, hurrying along with the others, in almost total darkness, single file, I felt my way through the walled, uneven, pot-holed lanes of the city. If the youth at the front chanced to stumble into a hole, it was a point of honor with him to say nothing about it; the rest should also have their chance to stumble in.

For something like six months I attended these clandestine meetings. My servant waited at the door with my bottle of ‘araq, and once in a while I would stroll over to the door. Following hours of talk, the hosts would bring in pulaw. I would grumble: “Must I listen all night, for one dish of pulaw?” But the truth was, after a while the Bahá’í teachers began to make sense; and I fell in love with ‘Abdu’l-Bahá.

I made a secret vow, not ever to sleep in a bed till I should see the Master. This vow I kept for over a year, always sleeping on the ground, or the floor. With two friends I wandered off, all three disguised as dervishes, hoping to reach the Holy Land. We avoided the main caravan routes, and sometimes our lives were in peril. Then I was forced back to Ṭihrán because the way was barred by what seemed to be “political plague”—plague, often non-existent, but conjured up by the colonial powers to close this or that frontier. Then in the dead of winter I simply walked off without saying good-bye to anyone. Somehow I got across the Caspian to Baku and lived there in the cellar of the not-yet-built Bahá’í Travelers’ Hospice. Ḥájí Mírzá Ḥaydar-‘Alí (the Angel of Carmel) was there, aged prematurely because of his terrible imprisonment in the Sudan. He used to let me address the meetings there, and I spoke in Turkish. At last permission came for me from the Master. I went steerage, and disembarked from the ship by a rowboat, off Haifa. The believers met us there and took us to a coffee house where we were served tea, bread and cheese. I asked them, “Where is the Master? Do we go to ‘Akká now?” “No,” they told us. “The Master is in Haifa. He is now laying the foundation of the Holy Tomb on Mt. Carmel, and He spends a week in ‘Akká and a week in Haifa.” They told me He had recently rented a house on an avenue roughly parallel to the sea, near a sort of embarcadero where the German Emperor, visiting Haifa, had landed the year before, in 1898. This avenue led to the street of the German Colony. (By 1906 when I was again on pilgrimage, the house was gone, or changed into an apartment house.)

I began to shake. “The Master is here in Haifa? Am I going to see Him? Am I about to look upon His face?” “Yes,” they told me. “But how can I gaze upon the Master?” “You will be happy to see Him,” they said. “But when I look at myself, I know I do not deserve to enter His presence.” “He invited you to come,” they said. “And the Master is forgiving; and once you are in His presence your worries will be over.” We started out for the Master’s house, I weeping all along the way. We got there and went up the steps. Then came His voice, calling for the travelers. I never heard a sweeter voice; and yet it had authority; there was a ring to it; it was the kind of voice that would grow and reach out and still it was so melodious. At every [Page 32] moment, even now, that voice is in my ears. And I remember it together with the faint scent of attar of rose that He used; He had the attar, and the essence of rose too—they would send it to Him from places like Káshán and Iṣfahán and Shíráz.

He had come over early from the small house in the German Colony, where He would spend the night, looked after by one or another of His daughters in turn, or by His sister, the Most Exalted Leaf. Very early, He had come over to receive the pilgrims. It was about sunrise, and not yet fully light. Following the others, I entered His room. I saw Him standing there. And suddenly, in my own mind, I was seeing Bahá’u’lláh, Who had passed away seven years before. I did not expect this age, this beard and hair (though there was still much black in it, mixed with the steel gray). The only picture we had ever seen of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá was the one taken in His youth. Still, this was not an aged man who stood before us, but lithe and powerful. He wore a white turban, like a fez, only white, with a crisp white cloth wound about the base of it; usually He had on light gray robes, or beige or light brown. I think that day He wore a mantle called jubbih (not an ‘abá; an ‘abá has no sleeves), and it was gray. Only half-conscious, I fell to my knees and kissed His feet. He lifted me up and embraced me, kissing me on both cheeks. And seeing that I could not bear the intense power of His presence, He told His servant, Ustád Muḥammad-‘Alí, to lead me to the travelers’ room and give me refreshments. There I had some tea, and hardly ten minutes afterward, I felt strong again. At that moment Ustád Muḥammad-‘Alí came in and said, “The Master wants you.” This time when I entered His room the scene had changed. I was strong now; I heard Him say, “Khush ámadíd. Marḥabá, marḥabá. . . .” A blessed arrival—welcome, welcome. Then He addressed me, speaking words such as these:

“The Blessed Beauty, Bahá’u’lláh, may my soul be offered up for Him, promised this Servant that He would succor me from His All-Highest Realm; that He would raise up souls who would assist me to spread far and wide this Covenant and Cause. You are one of these souls, raised up to this end. The Cause of God has reached America. Thus far, however, only a few pages of the sacred Writings have been translated into English, and not in the best way. Now that you have arrived, your knowledge of the English language and your eagerness to serve the Faith —expressed in so many letters—will enable you to accomplish this important work. I therefore wish you to remain in the Holy Land with this Servant, to translate the sacred Tablets of Bahá’u’lláh and to serve as my amanuensis and interpreter. There are many letters which come in from America, and a number from American and other Bahá’ís in France and other parts of Europe. I wish you to translate these so that I may dictate the answers.”

“How wonderful that He desires me to stay on,” I thought to myself. For I had believed that like other pilgrims I would, after the long journey, be permitted to remain [Page 33] for a time and afterward I would return to my own country or leave for some other place which He might indicate. Then from the table He gathered up a sheaf of Tablets —written in glossy, black ink on cream-colored paper, folded in three—placed them in my hands, and directed me to retire to the travelers’ room and translate them. I looked at them. They were addressed to American believers and as was customary in those days, when the Master had had only occasional Syrian translators to serve Him, they were written in Arabic.

I found there were times when I could speak to the Master; there were other times when one did not dare. I never saw Him in the same condition: on occasion He was most approachable; again He was majestic, inaccessible, and one hardly dared breathe in His presence. But always He showed a great dignity, combined with courtesy and humility. For example when He desired to impress a person with the necessity of obeying the Teachings and rectifying his life, He never said: You must do thus and so, be self-sacrificing, see no fault in others, and so on—He always said: We must . . .

Now I could speak and I said to Him: “But these are in Arabic!” He smiled in a divine way; His face beamed with light. He reached over to His table (throughout this interview He remained standing)—on which He had flowers, papers, rock candy, rose water—and with both hands full of candy He told me to hold out my hands. I laid the Tablets on the table edge, stretched out my cupped hands and He filled them with candy; and still smiling, He took my face in His two hands and said: “Go and eat this candy, and by the grace and power of the Blessed Beauty thou shalt be enabled to translate from Arabic into English. Indeed, thou shalt in time find it easier to translate from the Arabic than from the Persian.”

I cannot describe what strength was bestowed on me by that action of His, and those words. All I know is, I withdrew to the next room and then and there began to translate the Tablets. And yet—although the script is the same—Arabic is a foreign language to Persians, and my training had been in other tongues. In time I procured Arabic-English dictionaries but I found them so limited that they were of little help. Then I drew on translations made by Professor E. G. Browne and other Occidentals, and I discovered that their work touched only the surface; and I came to the conclusion that the first essential for a translator of Bahá’í sacred Writings is that he be a believer, a follower of this Faith.

After that, the Master said: “This is your bed. Sleep in it.” And I remembered my vow. He meant the bed in His corner room, facing the street, at the front of the rented house, the room where He received guests and would occasionally rest. But for four or five nights I still slept on the floor. I was afraid to sleep in the bed of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá. Then Ustád Muḥammad-‘Alí, the Master’s servant who had been a builder, came to me and said: “Do you know, Jináb-i-Khán, that you are disobeying the Master?” “What do you mean?” I cried. “Here I am, working night [Page 34] and day translating the Tablets. That is not what I mean,” he said. “You haven’t slept in the bed.” So, for some time, I did. And often, in later years, I thought over a Muslim ḥadíth which says that a day would come when God would appear in His Divinity and all men would be struck with awe and flee away. Then He would disappear, and reappear in the garment of Servitude; for it is written: “Servitude is an essence the substance of which is Divinity.”

Back of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s reception room, at the rear of the building, was the travelers’ room, a kind of hospice. Next to it in back, with a barred window giving on another street, was the room of Siyyid Taqí Manshádí, to whom the Master entrusted all the mail. Manshádí’s handwriting was well known everywhere; and with the Tablets he sent out, he would enclose a brief, bare account of all the Bahá’í news. Between ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s reception room and the travelers’ room at the rear, was a kind of storeroom, about fourteen by sixteen feet. All kinds of things were stored in there: brooms, odds and ends, and especially the beautiful marble sarcophagus sent from Rangoon, Burma, to contain the remains of the Báb (destined at last, fifty lunar years after His execution in Tabríz, to be entombed “in spite of the incessant machinations of enemies both within and without,” on the Holy Mountain of Carmel in 1909. Close to the one barred window, which gave onto the courtyard, there stood against the wall an unpainted wooden table and beside it a backless bench. This storeroom was my room in Haifa. On the wall were a few pegs for my few spare clothes. Here I slept, on the wooden bench. Years later I learned that the casket containing the sacred remains of the Báb and His companion, who was shot while trying to shield Him, was hidden in that very room of mine, at that very time.

I remember several occasions when the Master dictated five different Tablets—often in different languages: Turkish, Arabic, Persian, Old Persian—answering five different letters from as many parts of the world: Persia, India, the United States, Europe. He would dictate one paragraph to me, one to the first son-in-law, one to the second son-in-law, one to Mírzá Ḥabíb, then back to me. To each, without the slightest hesitation, He would follow up the sentence last dictated, as if He were reading it all from a book. One afternoon in Haifa he was receiving the great Muslim Judge of ‘Akká. An urgent letter had to be answered, in Arabic. Courteously explaining to the Judge that He had to finish the letter, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá kept on dictating. I was a very rapid writer; the Judge was surprised to see how rapid. He asked the Master if I could read what I had written. “Certainly,” replied the Master. He then asked the Master to bid me read it back; and so I did, at top speed. Often, as He was on His way to Mt. Carmel He would stop and dictate, and I had to be ready. I learned to write with the paper on my lap or the palm of my hand.

Once when I dropped from weariness, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá referred me to the story of the cruel blacksmith and his apprentice. It was the child’s task to blow the bellows, hour after hour. The exhausted boy would cry out, “I die! I die!” and the blacksmith would answer: “Die and blow! Die and blow!”

[Page 35]

JOHN DAVID BOSCH was a Swiss from Canton St. Gall who emigrated to the United States in 1879. Later he returned to Europe and studied wine-making in Germany, France, and Spain. He became a Bahá’í in 1905; with his wife Louise he pioneered in Tahiti (see The Bahá’í World, New York: Bahá’í Publishing Committee, 1930, III, 368-71), and they were present in Haifa at the time of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s passing. In 1927 he and Louise dedicated their northern California property to the formation of the Geyserville Bahá’í Summer School. The material we give here consists of conversations with John at Geyserville, written down as he spoke, and of documented information supplied by him and Louise, often copied in their presence, in preparation for a (as yet unpublished) biographical account which they desired me to write and which is currently on file in the archives of the National Spiritual Assembly of Switzerland. We begin these excerpts with the days shortly before he became a follower of this Faith.

JOHN investigated everything, looking for truth, but could not seem to find what he wanted. Every two or three weeks he traveled from Geyserville to San Francisco, in connection with his work for the Northern Sonoma County Wineries. One day in 1903, coming home on the Cloverdale train, John saw an acquaintance—a Mrs. Beckwith of Chicago, a woman of about his age (forty-seven), who used to go up to a sanatarium near Santa Rosa, and whom he had also met at Theosophical meetings in San Francisco. She called to him. He saw that she had a book.

“I said, ‘If I sit alongside of you, I’m not going to let you read—we’re going to talk.’ She laid the book down. I picked it up and started to read. I forgot to talk to her. I said to myself: ‘This is just what I wanted. The connecting link I was missing.’”

The book was Myron H. Phelps’ Life and Teachings of Abbás Effendi (New York: Putnam’s, 1903), just published. Mrs. Beckwith told him, “To hear of this is the greatest of privileges, but will be followed by the greatest obligations. You had better not know of it if you cannot follow it up.” She referred John to Mrs. Goodall of Oakland for further investigation.

It was his busy season, the time for picking grapes. For three months he couldn’t go. Then, one November afternoon, he went to Mrs. Goodall’s; he had no introduction, but mentioned Mrs. Beckwith and Phelps’ book, and that was enough. Kathryn Frankland was there. The two women talked to him. He bought all the available pamphlets, mostly by Thornton Chase (the first American Bahá’í), and the book The Hidden Words.

From that day on, he attended meetings. He told me that sometimes he had to choose between his Masonic club ( he was a thirty-second degree Scottish Rite Mason), the saloons in San Francisco, and the Oakland meetings.

“I would have one foot on the ferry and one on the wharf, but something inside would say, ‘I’d better go over to Oakland.’ Sometimes they had from twenty-five to forty-five women there and I was the only man and never said a word. I let them all talk by themselves. I kept going; I stuck with it.”

In those days Thornton Chase had an important insurance position in Chicago, with a salary of $750 a month which diminished every year because the Faith meant more to him than his business. Whenever he was coming to San Francisco he wired John; they would stop at different hotels, but dined together. “He was very tall—about six feet two. He always ate two or three ice creams after supper; he always dug a big bite right out of the middle of it to start with. Around eleven o’clock, he used to say, ‘Now, John, I guess it’s about time to take you home.’” Arm in arm, they would go to John’s hotel, talking steadily about the Cause. They would sit in the parlor. “About one o’clock I used to say, ‘Now, Mr. Chase, I guess it’s about time to take you home.’ We used to wonder what [Page 36] the policeman on the beat thought about us. One night we brought each other home till four in the morning.”

And John became a Bahá’í. On May 29, 1905, he went down to the winery office very early and wrote ‘Abdu’l-Bahá: “ . . . may my name be entered in the Great Book of this Universal Life . . . My watchword will be ‘Justice.’ Humbly Thy servant . . .” Afterward it turned out that the Master sent John a message on June 11, in care of Mrs. Goodall: “O thou John D. Bosch: Raise the call of the Kingdom and give the glad tidings to the people, guide them to the Tree of Life, so that they may gather the fruits from that Tree and attain the great bounty.”

Luther Burbank was one of those to whom John gave the Bahá’í Message. In 1907 John asked him for an appointment to tell him something new; he said to John and Mrs. Brittingham, “I can only give you five minutes.” “We were there an hour and a half,” John told me. Burbank read the books, and was addressed jointly with John in at least one Tablet (June 24, 1912). Another visit to Burbank which John remembered took place March 30, 1913, when he called on the scientist with the Howard MacNutts and Julia Grundy. The Governor of Colorado and his wife were there, sitting in the parlor; Mr. Burbank took the Bahá’ís through folding doors into an adjoining room, and an hour later he was still carrying on an animated conversation with them. John glanced into the other room and saw the Governor and his wife fast asleep in their chairs.

There were many Tablets and messages for John Bosch, through all the years. On August 17, 1909, the Master wrote to Mrs. Goodall: “Exercise on my behalf the utmost kindness and love to John D. Bosch. With the utmost humility I pray . . . that that soul may become holy, find capacity to receive the outpouring of eternity and become a luminous star in the West.” Early in 1910 (the date on the envelope is May), the Master wrote to John: “According to the texts of the Book of Aqdas both light and strong drinks are prohibited. The reason for this prohibition is that it [drink] leads the mind astray and is the cause of weakening the body . . . I hope thou mayest become exhilarated with the wine of the love of God . . . The after-effect of drinking is depression, but the wine of the love of God bestoweth exaltation of the spirit.” John had forty men in four wineries under him. In one year, he crushed up fifteen thousand tons of grapes, which makes over two and a quarter million gallons of wine. “I thought it over,” he said. It was not long before he decided to retire.

From a Tablet jointly addressed to John Bosch and Luther Burbank, and dated June 24, 1912, at Montclair, New Jersey, an extract reads: “As to my coming to California it is a little doubtful, for the trip is far and the weather hot and from the labors of the journey the body of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá hath not much endurance. Nevertheless we shall see what God hath decreed.” On August 1, the Master wrote John from Dublin, New Hampshire: “O thou who art longing for the visit of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá! Thy yearning letter was wonderfully eloquent and its effect on ‘Abdu’l-Bahá was inexpressible. I greatly long to fulfil the request of the friends, but am as yet in these parts, until later the requirement of wisdom will be revealed. If the western cities demonstrate their infinite firmness in the Covenant, this will act as a magnet to draw ‘Abdu’l-Bahá . . .” On August 10 John wired: “I made special trip to San Francisco today. A great spirit of prayer, thankfulness, joy and hope filled the Assembly. Tonight anticipating the coming of the Center of the Covenant unity and firmness are manifest. This supplication begs earnestly for Thy personal presence, from D’Evelyn, Lua [Getsinger], [Bijou] Straun, Bozark and [Thornton] Chase, John D. Bosch.” ‘Abdu’l-Bahá answered John by wire August 13, from Dublin: “Your telegram was the cause of much happiness. God willing I will depart for the western part. Give these glad tidings to each and all.” John told me this was the first telegram announcing [Page 37] the Master’s journey West. Mrs. Goodall received the second. John’s was sent him in care of Mrs. Goodall’s daughter, Mrs. Ella G. Cooper (wife of the noted San Francisco physician, Charles Miner Cooper), who forwarded it to him with this note: “Awful temptation to open this! Do let us know if it is very encouraging—Greetings, E.G.C.”

But it was not the same with Thornton Chase. That great man, who had been a captain in the Civil War, a student at Brown University, and later Superintendent of Agencies for the Union Mutual Life Company, and was “the first to embrace the Cause of Bahá’u’lláh in the Western world”—felt that the Bahá’ís, himself included, were not worthy of the Master’s visit.

“John, don’t you think it’s too soon? The Bahá’ís aren’t ready.”

“Well, I’m ready for Him,” said John.

As the Master reached San Francisco, down in Los Angeles Thornton Chase died. “It was too much for him,” John told me.

All Thornton Chase’s Bahá’í papers and books, and five or six calligraphies by Mishkín-Qalam, were willed to John. Mr. Chase had sent on most of his Tablets to the Chicago archives, but John received about ten of them in a tin box. Mrs. Chase burned some fifteen hundred of her husband’s letters (not Tablets) before John could get to Los Angeles.

John remembered the minutest details of the things that were important to him, and generally in the same words. Papers were in carefully marked envelopes, Louise would be called in for more memories and documentation; they had long since worked out between them how their life had been.

Before urging the Master to come West, John, unable to wait, had been East to see ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, and this journey was always present in his mind. When he heard that ‘Abdu’l-Bahá was on the high seas, he went to San Francisco to get permission from the president of the California Wine Association, Percy T. Morgan, to go East. Morgan said, “Why do you want to go, in this bad April weather?” John said: “Because I feel like it.” “Very well,” said the president, “if the wineries are in shape.”

John took the first train East, fretting because it didn’t go fast enough. In Washington he phoned one of the believers and learned that the Master was still in New York. John left on the night train. At five-thirty the next morning he was at the Hotel Ansonia, and he went upstairs to see the door of the Master’s room. Dr. Getsinger (Lua’s husband) was there and recognized John from a photograph. John asked for an appointment and ‘Abdu’l-Bahá sent word, “In a few minutes.” Then Dr. Getsinger called John in.

“I went as a business man. I had some questions to ask. When I saw Him I forgot everything. I was empty.” Then, in the conversation that followed, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá told John all the things he had wanted to know.

“Foolishly I said, ‘Oh, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, I came three thousand miles to see you.’ He gave a good hearty laugh—you know what a wonderful laugh He had (here John laughed as the Master had, that faraway morning, and I caught the sound of that world-shaking laughter: Olympian—knowledgeable—the laughter of omniscience—I don’t know how to say it. This was not the only time John seemed to me like a reflection of the Master. There was something about his presence; something spotless or fragrant, but not as we know the words. I had noted this in Ḥájí-Amín, too, in Persia). And He said, ‘I came eight thousand miles to see you.’

“I told Him I was in the wine business and grossed fifteen thousand tons of grapes in one season, which makes over two million gallons of wine. ‘Oh, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá,’ I said, ‘I am a foreigner, born in Switzerland, and have not the command of the English language. I would love to be a speaker. All I am doing is to give away pamphlets and as many books as are printed.’

“He looked serious. He said, ‘You are [Page 38]

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‘ABDU’L-BAHÁ ON MOUNT SALVAT, GREEN ACRE

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doing well. I am satisfied with you. With you it is not the movements of the lips, nor the tongue. With you it is the heart that speaks. With you it is silence that speaks and radiates.’

“We had tea together. I was there about half an hour. He said, ‘You are one of the family; you come in and out anytime you want to.’”

It was a cold, snowy day. In the forenoon John was in and out of the room, watched people coming by the dozens to see ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, listened to ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s words to them. Around noon, he circled the block to look at the Hotel Ansonia. Back at the front door, he saw many people rising in the lobby:

“When His majesty came—how straight He walked!—they all rose.

“‘Abdu’l-Bahá walked to the first of three waiting automobiles. The other two were already filled with Bahá’ís and their friends. All at once I saw the Persian in the first machine pushing the air at me so I backed up, thinking he wanted me to go away [this Persian gesture for “come here” looks much like the American one for “go away”; it often confused the early American Bahá’ís]. Then I saw Mountfort Mills standing there making a pulling gesture at me so I went forward. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá grabbed my hand and pulled me into the rear seat; Mountfort closed the door and I was alone with ‘Abdu’l-Bahá.

“The believers had planned to show the city to the Master; the stores, hotels, banks; to give Him a good time seeing New York. Just as I stepped into the machine and was seated, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá looked at me. He just looked at me, and all at once with an immense sigh—or what you call it better than a sigh—like the whole world would be lifted from Him so He could have a rest, He put His head on my left shoulder, clear down as close as He could, like a child, and went to sleep.

“I was still as a mouse; I didn’t want to move—I didn’t want to wake Him up. The trip was nearly a half hour and often I wondered what the others thought—that ‘Abdu’l-Bahá was looking out of the window all the time. He woke up just as we stopped at the Kinneys’ home.”

John had not been invited, he told me, but he went in, met the Edward B. Kinneys for the first time, and remained for lunch. At three the Master addressed about one hundred and fifty people in the large studio, speaking perhaps a quarter of an hour. Edward Getsinger placed an armchair in the middle of the room for Him but the Master did not sit [Page 39]

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‘ABDU’L-BAHÁ REVIEWS BOY SCOUTS VISITING HIM IN HAIFA

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in it. People were standing along the walls and ‘Abdu’l-Bahá walked from one to the other, and took their hands to say good-bye. A young girl was on John’s right. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá smiled at her and walked past John to another young woman on his left. “He just turned His head and He didn’t look at me, just passed me and took the girl’s hand. If I ever had cold feet and weak knees it was then. It took me a few seconds till I remembered the words He had said in the morning: ‘You are one of the family now.’ That was why He didn’t say good-bye to me. It was one of the worst punishments I ever had in my life, till I remembered.”

I asked John to describe the Master. He told me that ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s eyes had a luminous white ring around the iris; that He had a wonderful smile and also a very serious look. John looked in the glass, trying to explain the Master’s complexion: “His skin was the color of my forehead.” John’s fair skin was lightly tanned by the California sun; I would have described his skin with a Persian term—“wheat-colored.”

“I never paid any attention to how He looked. I only know every time I was with Him I was way down below Him—way down in the bottom. Like nothing. His hair was gray and white and shining; a little curly. You always felt a nearness to Him even when He was far across the room.”

John said a person’s atmosphere or presence affected him strongly; he called it their aura.

John went to most of the meetings for about five days in New York and then someone put him in the same pullman car on which the Master traveled to Washington. The Master would leave His compartment and come out into the main “palace” car. Going through Pennsylvania an interpreter called John. All at once the interpreter called out and addressed John as Núrání, and John requested the Master to write his new name down. John would linger on the vowels when he said the word, and I could hear the Master’s echo; vigorous, positive, in the Persian way. It means filled with light.

Again, John was on the same pullman when the Master left Washington for Chicago. For three days John attended meetings. He was present when ‘Abdu’l-Bahá laid the cornerstone of the Bahá’í House of Worship at Wilmette, but with his usual diffidence he let “an elderly woman” represent Switzerland on that occasion, neither of the two, however, taking an active part. Many Californians had come to Chicago to see ‘Abdu’l-Bahá. He called them all to Him and they were with [Page 40] Him about an hour.

Just before leaving for the West Coast— John did not give me the date; I assume it was May 2, a day when the Master had delivered five public addresses—he was paying his hotel bill at the Plaza when ‘Abdu’l-Bahá came in. “One of the Persians in His party called to me. The man at the desk said, ‘Those people want you.’ I stepped over to the elevator, and ‘Abdu’l-Bahá seized my hand and wouldn’t let go, and pulled me into the elevator and up to His room on the fifth floor.” Nobody was there except Dr. Baghdádí. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá did not speak until they were in the room. Then he went to His bed, lay down, and began talking with Baghdádí; He told how He had addressed four-hundred women, and described how the ladies looked. The Master had found them terribly funny; with keen enjoyment, He described them to John and the Doctor. Anyone who remembers the ladies of 1912, not as Hollywood films them but as they were, mostly plain and dumpy, with stiff skirts, jutting bosoms, “rats,” (these were hair pads with tapering ends) and to crown all, hats that were wedding cakes and nesting birds, knows. Then He said, “Now it’s time for you to go.” Somebody had given Him a big cake. He put that in John’s arms, with apples and bananas, so many that John had to get somebody else to push the elevator button, and John left.

JOHN BOSCH was one of those whom ‘Abdu’l-Bahá chose as a companion for the time when He should leave the world. Afterward, the friends saw that the Master knew the moment of His passing and had prepared for it. Some who had asked permission to visit Him at that time, He had gently turned away. But to John He had written, “I am longing to see you,” and when John and Louise, responding, asked to come, His cable replied: “Permitted.” They reached Haifa about November 13, 1921.

John was present on November 19 at the Master’s last public talk; ‘Abdu’l-Bahá pointed to John on this occasion and addressed the talk to him: He spoke of divine love, and how different it is from human love, which fails in the testing and in which there is no element of self-sacrifice. He told John that the Persian believers loved him, although they could not speak their love, and that if John went to Persia they would if necessary give up their own lives to protect his. He said: “When lovers meet it may be that they cannot exchange a single word, yet with their hearts they speak to one another. Thus do the clouds speak to the earth and the rain comes down; the breeze whispers to the trees; the sun speaks to the eyes of men. Although this is not actual speech yet this is the way in which the hearts of the friends communicate . . . . For instance, you were in America and I was in the Holy Land. Although our lips were still yet with our hearts we were conversing together.”

Surely besides the universal meaning, there was a special message here for John, something for him to remember over the long future before he could again be in the presence of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá. “You were in America and I was in the Holy Land . . . yet with our hearts we were conversing together.”

Three days before the last, John was in the garden and all at once he saw the Master. “He walked as straight as if He had been a young man. He looked well and Strong. He walked like a general. When we had made one short round, about fifty steps, He left me. He went up to the garden, and came down and brought me a tangerine. In English He said: ‘Eat . . . Good.’ I didn’t do like the Americans and put it away for a keepsake. I peeled it and ate it and put the peelings in my pocket.”

IT WAS in the early hours of Monday, November 28, that John and Louise were [Page 41] awakened to the agonizing news that ‘Abdu’l-Bahá was suddenly gone from their midst. Curtis Kelsey with another believer was sent to ‘Akká with the terrible word. John saw people weeping as he went to the Master’s bedroom. He kneeled down beside the bed. Then the Most Exalted Leaf, the daughter of Bahá’u’lláh, took his hand and placed him beside her on the built-in divan along the window. With her he kept a vigil there from two until four o’clock. Once, he rose, walked the two steps to the bed, took the Master’s hand and said, “Oh, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá!” It was about three o’clock then. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s hand was still warm. He seemed alive. “I still hoped He lived,” John told me.

The Most Exalted Leaf wept far less than the others, at all times maintaining her great dignity and composure. But many times she sighed, through the night, and many times uttered the words, Yá Iláhí—“O God, my God!” Two years younger than her beloved Brother, Bahíyyih Khánum was the “most precious great Adorning” of Bahá’u’lláh’s house. “. . . all her days she was denied a moment of tranquillity,” ‘Abdu’l-Bahá had written; “Moth-like she circled in adoration round the undying flame . . . .” Her life had spanned the Conference at Badasht, the martyrdom of the Báb, the birth of the Bahá’í Faith as her Father lay chained in the Black Pit of Ṭihrán, the peril, destitution and humiliation of years of captivity and exile, the death of Bahá’u’lláh in 1892, the Great War—when the enemy had determined to crucify ‘Abdu’l-Bahá and all His family on the heights of Carmel. She had stood by her Brother when their Father left the world, and ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, because He was named the Successor, was deserted by His people, “Forsaken, betrayed, assaulted by almost the entire body of His relatives . . . .” Now, for a brief period, Khánum at seventy-five was the de facto head of the Bahá’í world; she was the custodian of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s Will and Testament, and her loving, sorrowing messages rallied the grief-obliterated Bahá’ís of East and West. Now she was destined to stand beside and support yet another crucial Figure in Bahá’í history, destined to be, Shoghi Effendi want; the “sole earthly sustainer, the joy and solace of my life.” Small wonder that her Father had revealed for her lines such as these: “Let these exalted words be thy love-song . . . O thou most holy and resplendent Leaf: ‘God, besides Whom is none other God, the Lord of this world and the next! . . . How sweet thy presence . . . how sweet to gaze upon thy face. . . .”

Three days later John was up on Mt. Carmel at the Shrine when he saw a veiled lady walking slowly, painfully from the Shrine to the gardener’s house. She seemed inexpressibly weary. He wondered if it would be permissible to help her. He went forward, took her left arm and helped raise her a little up the steep hill. Suddenly she swung her veil back and looked deep into John’s eyes. “I looked back into the most beautiful blue eyes. Like an angel’s. It’s very hard to express or define the looks of an angel. I really thought she was a young woman.” Later Riḍváníyyih Khánum came over to the Pilgrim House. “I am going to tell you something,” she said. John thought it might be something very serious, since he, a western man, had taken the arm of a veiled lady. Instead, Riḍváníyyih conveyed to John the thanks of the Most Exalted Leaf.

THEY HAD WRAPPED the Master in five separate folds of white silk and on His head they had placed a black mitre given to Him by Bahá’u’lláh. His coffin had been placed on two chairs beside the bed. John was present when His sheeted form was lifted into the coffin; while others held the Master’s head

(continued on page 44)

[Page 42]

OH, HOW I LONG THAT IT COULD BE MADE POSSIBLE FOR ME TO TRAVEL THROUGH THESE PARTS, EVEN IF NECESSARY ON FOOT AND WITH THE UTMOST POVERTY AND WHILE PASSING THROUGH THE CITIES, VILLAGES, MOUNTAINS, DESERTS, AND OCEANS, CRY AT THE TOP OF MY VOICE “YÁ BAHÁ’U’L-ABHÁ!” AND PROMOTE THE DIVINE TEACHINGS.

—‘ABDU’L-BAHÁ

[Page 43]

[Page 44] (continued from page 41)

and shoulders and arms, Mírzá Jalál held His feet, and John His knees. His body seemed natural, John said, not rigid. John helped the others to close the coffin down. He said he knew the living Master was there. “I felt He was there. Not in the body—even now I feel that again—His presence. I am sure He was there.” When others started to raise the casket up, John didn’t understand at first, but did as they did, and lifted it to his right shoulder. Then all at once he remembered that time in New York, long past, when ‘Abdu’l-Bahá had leaned down on his left shoulder and gone to sleep.

ON THE LONG WAY UP Mt. Carmel, Sir Herbert Samuel, the British High Commissioner, walked directly ahead of John. Once John looked back, and saw all the carriages, empty and left behind: the ten thousand mourners were all coming on foot, although the cortège took an hour and five minutes to reach the Shrine. Once when the tall Sir Herbert stopped suddenly, John stubbed against his heel; afterward he recalled the gentleness with which Sir Herbert asked his pardon.

John told me that already by seven that Tuesday morning soldiers were lined up on both sides of the street and some were in the Master’s compound. As John entered, on the left going up the steps, he saw an Arab soldier standing guard; the man was leaning on his gun and the tears streamed down his face.

SOME TIME AFTER THAT, Louise Bosch was in the “Tea Room” at the Master’s house, alone. The ladies had disappeared. Preparations had been completed for the arrival of Shoghi Effendi, expected home from Oxford University that day. “Then I heard what must have been his footsteps coming up to the front door and coming in; when he gave—I don’t know how to describe that cry—an outcry of greatest grief—pain— ache. It was loud. And then I remained in the room. Although I did not see Shoghi Effendi I knew for certain it was he. So I remained quiet in the Tea Room. Then I heard some further footsteps of his, and the closing of a door.”

On Wednesday, the day after the funeral, the mother of Shoghi Effendi told Louise that the Most Exalted Leaf and the Consort of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá had opened a sealed letter left by the Master. This letter bore Shoghi Effendi’s name; in his absence they were obliged to open it, not knowing where to bury the Master or what, for a waiting, despairing Bahá’í world, His instructions might be. Thus they found out that Shoghi Eerndi was the Guardian even before he did. Shoghi Effendi’s mother confided this to Louise, not under a seal of secrecy but just as one believer to another, sharing the provisions of the Will and Testament of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá. Both the institution and the term—Guardian—were new to the Bahá’ís of that day.

“They didn’t show him the Will at first. He was all right. He came to lunch at the Pilgrim House. But from the third day on, I didn’t see him. Then on the fifth day past sunset I went over, and what I saw I shall never forget. He was coming out of a room and walking through the door of the Most Exalted Leaf. He was like an old man, bent over and he could barely speak, but he shook hands with me, and looked at me for a moment. He spoke like a person who cannot hear anything now or doesn’t want to see any one now. He was wholly changed and aged and walking bent and he had a little light or candle in his hand. I think he said to me, ‘It is all right.’

“But I saw something terrible had happened. He had reacted just the way the Family had known he would. That’s why he didn’t come back to the Pilgrim House. He got ill. He couldn’t eat; he couldn’t drink or sleep.

“After the first three days had passed and he had seen the Will he couldn’t at all accept it. He seemed to make such remonstrances that his mother felt called upon to recite to [Page 45]

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‘ABDU’L-BAHÁ DESCENDING MOUNT CARMEL WITH A GROUP OF PILGRIMS

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him a history of a similar time after Muḥammad when one of the Holy Imáms would not serve. [Louise was not sure which Imám; we assume it was Ḥasan.] So Shoghi Effendi’s mother said: ‘Are you going to repeat the history of that Imám, who also felt that he was not qualified?’ I felt extremely privileged that the mother of Shoghi Effendi told me of this.”

Shoghi Effendi was then twenty-four years old. He had gone to Oxford to better prepare himself as a translator to serve ‘Abdu’l-Bahá. Already reeling from the blow of his Grandfather’s passing, he was dealt this “second blow . . . in many ways more cruel than the first . . . .” A vital office, described by him in later years as carrying a staggering weight of responsibility, was suddenly loaded onto his young shoulders. In the opening pages of his book Bahá’í Administration there are brief references to his prolonged illness, during the early days of what became a ministry lasting thirty-six years.

Although the Guardianship-to-be was a well-kept secret, it was, strangely enough, not a total one. A Tablet of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s to Miss F. Drayton of New York City contains a strong clue; it states: “. . . Verily that [Page 46] Infant is born and exists and there will appear from His Cause a wonder which thou wilt hear in future . . . there are signs for it in the passing centuries and ages.” When the National Bahá’í Assembly of the United States referred this Tablet to the Guardian, he verified that he was the infant mentioned here. These lines close the second volume of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s published English Tablets.

But more explicit was the Master’s confiding, to an individual who was not a Bahá’í, the fact that Shoghi Effendi was to be His successor. On AuguSt 6, 1910, when a little serving girl in the Household had to have her finger lanced, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá sent for the Family’s German physician, Frau Doktor Fallscheer. Afterward the Doctor sat with Bahá’u’lláh’s daughter, the Most Exalted Leaf, drinking coffee and conversing in Turkish; then, summoned by ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, the Doctor repaired with Bahíyyih Khánum to the Reception Room, which soon crowded up with pilgrims and others, coming and going. The two ladies, continuing their conversation, sat down apart from the rest. At that point a son-in-law of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s entered the room, and the Doctor noticed that his eldest son, Shoghi Effendi, whom she knew by sight, followed him. The child, who seemed about twelve or thirteen, greeted and took his leave of the Master and his great aunt Bahíyyih Khánum with wonderful courtesy, in the Persian way; and the Most Exalted Leaf confided to the Doctor that this child was to be the Master‘s successor and “Vizier.” The Doctor was much impressed with his grown-up, solemn courtesy in entering and leaving the room, and with “his dark, candid, trusting eyes, not swerving for even a moment from the magical blue glance of his Grandfather.” ‘Abdu’l-Bahá came over to the ladies and as they rose, He told them to be seated, settled Himself informally on a Persian stool and said: “Now, my daughter, how do you like Shoghi Effendi, my future Elisha?” (The reference was to 2 Kings, chapter 2.) “Master,” she answered, “if I may say it, in his young face I see the dark eyes of a sufferer, of one who will have much to bear.” That day the Master also informed her that He would send Shoghi Effendi to study in England. In later years the Doctor returned to Germany and, not long before she died, became a Bahá’í. Her memoir was published in the German Bahá’í magazine, Sonne der Wahrheit (1930-31).

When Hand of the Cause Dr. Hermann Grossmann and Mrs. Grossmann consulted the Guardian about the Fallscheer notes, Shoghi Effendi “expressed the opinion that ‘Abdu’l-Bahá must have had great confidence in Frau Doktor Fallscheer inasmuch as He, at the time before the beloved Guardian went to England, that is, when the Master may have first considered the idea of sending him there, talked to her about it and on that occasion mentioned that Shoghi Effendi was to be His ‘Vizier,’ as she expressed it.”

Before leaving Haifa, Louise wanted an Eastern street costume and veil such as the ladies of the Household then wore, in deference to the time and place. Riḍváníyyih Khánum helped to make it and they dressed her in it. Few sights were funnier to Easterners than a Western woman trying to wear the veil. They led Louise, striding along in her wrappings, to a room where she found the ladies at prayer. An aunt of the Guardian’s said: “You must go and see Shoghi Effendi.” Then she opened a door to the next room and announced through the crack: “A Turkish lady wishes to see you.” Feeling like a child in fancy dress, Louise went in. “I stood maybe four or five feet from his bed. He sat up in bed and when I could not contain my laughter he said, ‘Oh, it’s Mrs. Bosch,’ and he pointed to my shoes. Then he laughed a little and I and his aunt laughed. She told me this was the first time Shoghi Effendi had even smiled since his return.”

The last words that Shoghi Effendi spoke to Louise when she and John took leave of him were: “Tell the friends, time will prove that there has been no mistake.”

[Page 47]

A Glimpse of the Master

FROM THE DIARY OF JULIET THOMPSON

IN 1892 Bahá’u’lláh died, a prisoner and an exile, in ‘Akká, Palestine. The last years of His life had been devoted primarily to the writing of unnumbered books and tablets which comprised the spiritual foundation of a new world religion. Bahá’u’lláh had directed His attention to the West in a series of Tablets to political and religious leaders, among whom were Queen Victoria and Pope Pius IX. In 1890 a British scholar, Edward Granville Browne of Cambridge University, had visited Him in ‘Akká. Nevertheless, the spread of His world-embracing teachings had been confined to a handful of countries in Western and Southern Asia.

A decade later the Bahá’í Faith was firmly established in many of the major cities of Europe and America. Under the direction of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, Bahá’u’lláh’s Son and the Center of His Covenant, small but dynamic Bahá’í communities multiplied on both continents. Without extensive published literature they were sustained and nurtured by ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, still a prisoner of the Ottoman government, who corresponded widely with the Western Bahá’ís and permitted a steady stream of pilgrims to come to the Holy Land to visit Him.

Juliet Thompson, a young American painter, became a Bahá’í during these remarkable early years. She first heard of the Faith in Washington, D.C., from Laura Clifford Barney, a friend who had just embraced the Faith and was about to leave for Palestine. Through Laura’s mother, Alice Barney, Juliet went to Paris to further her art studies, and there she met May Bolles, who became her spiritual teacher. Her early Bahá’í friends included Lua Getsinger, “the mother teacher of the West,” Thomas Breakwell, the first English believer, and Hippolyte Dreyfus-Barney, Laura’s husband and the first French Bahá’í—who were destined to become major figures in Juliet’s life as well as in the early history of the Faith.

In 1909 Juliet traveled to the Holy Land with Edward and Carrie Kinney, their two young sons, and Mrs. Alice Beede. Patiently and lovingly, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá freed the deep reservoir of love in Juliet’s heart. His goal was to make her “a new creation, so that all will see that you are another Juliet—with another attraction.”

Thus began a new stage in Juliet Thompson’s life—that of intimate association with ‘Abdu’l-Bahá. When she left Haifa in 1909, the Master promised that they would be together again. Two years later, in 1911, He called her to meet Him in Europe. In 1912, when ‘Abdu’l-Bahá traveled to America, she was waiting for Him at the dock in New York. Her love for the Master gained new dimensions during His eight-month visit. When He sailed at last from New York, she felt that she would never be in His physical presence again. And, indeed, when she made her second pilgrimage to the Holy Land, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá had passed away; yet her closeness to ‘Abdu’l-Bahá could [Page 48] not be diminished by distance or time. When she died in 1956, Shoghi Effendi, ‘Abdul’-Baha’s grandson and the Guardian of the Cause, paid tribute to her “consuming devotion” to ‘Abdu’l-Bahá and called her one of His “triumphant disciples.”

In 1912 the Master asked Juliet to paint His portrait. Her skill captured a likeness in a matter of hours. Meanwhile, over a period of months and years she had been sketching in her diary another portrait of the Master—rich, varied, tempered by laughter and by many tears. Intensely personal, the diary reveals much about its author. It is also a record of the early years of the Faith, set vividly against the backdrop of the era just prior to World War I. But, necessarily, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá emerges as the central Figure, illuminating each episode with His radiance. Juliet Thompson’s pen portrait reveals ‘Abdu’l-Bahá as a Man like no other, the Perfect Mirror of His Father’s Teachings, beyond comprehension, human and yet Divine, the “Mystery of God.”

◇ ◇ ◇

I. THE HOLY LAND, SUMMER OF 1909.

‘AKKÁ, JULY 2ND.

I know I can only write brokenly—here in this Palace of the King.

We came here—can it be?—day before yesterday only.

My life is overturned by a cataclysm of the soul. Love for the Face of my Lord fills my breast. This is REALITY—all else, a dream! . . .

Never shall I forget that afternoon’s journey. I was dazed, numb, unable to realize—yet, afraid. For one thing I did realize, and that was my own unworthiness. But the scenes through which we passed should have helped me to realize—to sense some of the divine joy toward which we were traveling.

We were in the Holy Land. We were in a bygone age. We drove along a wide white beach, so close to the sea that its little waves curled over our carriage wheels. To our right, a long line of palm trees; before us, its domes and flat roofs dazzling white beneath the deep blue sky—‘Akká, the Holy City, the New Jerusalem. Camels approached us on the sand, driven by white-cloaked Bedouins . . .

We forded the river Kishon, then Hebron, and at last reached the walls of the Holy City—the City of Peace. Walls—walls within walls, menacing walls; tall, prison-like, chalk-white houses, leaning together as they rose toward a rift of sky, slits of barred windows set here and there in their forbidding fronts. Streets so narrow that our carriage wheels grazed the buildings on either side, streets sometimes bridged over by houses that met in an arch at their second stories.

Suddenly a wide expanse before us. A garden. The seawall. The sea. Our carriage stopped. I knew we were at the door of the Master. My heart almost [Page 49] ceased to beat. I felt we had arrived too soon—too suddenly—that I was too unprepared. . . .

Soon He came into our room. He burst into it like the sun, with His joyous greeting, “Marḥabá! Marḥabá!” (Welcome! Welcome!)—and His effulgence struck me blind.

Alice [Beede] fell at His feet. I could not kneel. I could not do anything. At last, I knelt for a moment. Then He led us to the divan by the window and, speaking formally to me, placed me at a distance from Him; while to Alice, again at His feet, He spoke with smiling tenderness.

Sitting in the corner of the divan now surer than ever of my unworthiness —I prayed: “O God, remove this thing which separates me from my Lord!”

Suddenly He changed His seat: “Biyá!” (Come!), He called to me lovingly, drawing me close to His side.

He asked me many questions—answered by Alice, for still I could not speak. . . .

Suddenly my heart burst open to the outpouring from His Heart—like a rose beneath strong sunbeams. A beam seemed to pierce my heart. At that instant He flashed a lightning glance at me. When He left the room as He did almost at once—my breast dilated as if a bird were spreading its wings in it. I went to the window. Just as I did so, Munavvar appeared in the doorway. “The Master is calling you, Juliet,” she said—and she led me to His room.

That dear little room—wood-paneled, with its white-canopied bed, its divan, its simple little dressing-table and on the windowsill two stone water-jars —nothing more. He was sitting on the divan—at the end nearest the door—and, when I entered, He beckoned me to His side. As I passed Him to take my seat I wanted to kneel at His knees—my own knees almost drew me down—but, fearing to be insincere, I would not yield. He took my hand in His—His so mysterious Hand—so delicately-made, so steely-strong, currents of life streaming from it.

“Are you well? Are you happy?”

But my lips seemed to be locked—I was helpless to open them.

“Speak—speak to Me!” He said in English.

A sacred passion had been growing in my heart—my heart was almost breaking with it.

“Is not my heart speaking to Thee, my Lord?”

“Yes, your heart is speaking to Me and your spirit is speaking to Me. I hear. I know.”

Then He inquired for the two believers I cared for least.

Of one I could honestly say that when he returned from ‘Akká he was on fire.

“And be remained but a few days,” said our Lord. Then: “Do not think your services are unknown to Me. I have seen. I have been with you. I know them all. Do not think I have not known. I have known all. For these you are accepted in the Kingdom.”

My “services”—and He knew them all! He had “seen”—seen their pitiful [Page 50] smallness and the lack of real love with which I had tried to serve—I bowed my head with shame.

“Forgive my failures.”

“Be sure of this.” After a moment He said again, “Be sure of this.” Then He dismissed me.

As I passed Him the second time, my knees did draw me down—my heart drew me down to His feet. . . .

The next morning at six we were called to early tea. . . .

That wonderful tea-hour in the fresh morning! First there was the Persian chanting. Then tea was served. The Master always sat in the right-hand corner of the divan by one high window, correcting the Tablets dictated to His secretaries, the small, glazed, ivory-colored leaf of parchment in His left hand. Around Him on the divan we sat with the Holy Family. Along the divan and on the floor sat the families of the martyrs—a number of children among them—whom the Master had taken under His own care. The samovar stood on the floor at the entrance on a Persian tea-cloth, a beautiful, happy-faced woman behind it serving the tea. She had deep dimples in her cheeks and her hair hung in thick black braids, a white veil partly covering it.

Her story was this: Years before in Persia, when she was a bride fifteen years old, she was with her mother-in-law in a room of their house on the ground floor when suddenly they heard a howling mob outside—and then a severed head was thrown through the window and rolled to the young bride’s feet. It was the head of her husband—a boy of nineteen. The girl fainted, but the mother quietly rose, took the head of her son to the washstand and washed off the blood—then carried it to the window and threw it out to the mob. “What we have given to God,” she said, “we do not ask back.”

◇ ◇ ◇

WHEN WE FIRST CAME to ‘Akká, every night we would all go up to the housetop to walk or sit in the moonlight . . . Later this changed and I went up alone with Munavvar. On the stones of the roof was spread a Persian rug and on this we would lie together, Munavvar and I, and under the midnight sky talk of deep things till—our Lord appeared.

And indeed on that roof He was an Apparition. I can see Him now—pacing up and down, up and down, with that swift, free tread which is somehow like floating, His white garments blowing about Him in long, sweeping lines, His background—millions of stars.

On the night of that third of July, Munavvar and I were alone, sitting on a parapet, looking out beyond the strong double seawall to the sea; to our right, in the moonlight, the dome and minaret of the mosque and a tall palm tree; to the left, the garden of the Master; behind us, the grim, square Barracks—first prison in ‘Akká of the Blessed Perfection and His Family.

“I have such a funny little message for our Lord from my mother,” I said. “I [Page 51] don’t know how I shall ever give it to Him!” . . .

“Well, isn’t that funny!” said Munavvar. “That is just what our Lord was saying to me yesterday. He said He had a message for your mother. That she did not understand your giving up everything for the Cause, neglecting your art to devote yourself to the Cause. Europeans, He said, did not understand these things. He was going to speak to you about it.”

◇ ◇ ◇

THAT DAY—the fourth of July—He took us Himself to the Holy Tomb in the morning.

I realize now why the Gospels are written so simply. I find I am only able to state bare facts. But these surely are more eloquent than all human comment on them. Let me give them to you, then—simply.

First, with a father’s tender care, He came to the carriage with us and watched us start. At the house in Bahjí He joined us—in a cool, whitewashed room, its door and window-trimmings painted blue, the usual linen-covered divan lining its walls, under three wide windows. . . .

On a table was a single photograph—Lua’s. Our Lord called me to sit by His side; then, pointing to the photograph, said:

“Your friend!”

I got it and placed it on a little table close to His elbow, between the couch where He sat and my own chair. As I did this His face lit up with a smile of heaven.

Tea was brought in—in the little clear glasses always used in ‘Akká—and He served us with His own hands. Then, seating Himself again on the divan, He called the four children who were with us—two of His own little grandsons (Shoghi Effendi and Rúḥí) and the two Kinney boys—and with a lavish tenderness, a superabundance of overflowing love, such as could only have come from the very Center and Source of Love, He drew all four to His knees, clasped them in His arms, which enclosed them all, gathered and pressed and crushed them to His heart of hearts. Then He set them down on the floor and, rising, Himself brought their tea to them.

Words absolutely fail me when I try to express the divine picture I saw then. With the Christ-love radiating from Him with the intensest sweetness I have yet witnessed, He stooped to the floor Himself to serve the little children—the children of the East and the children of the West. He sat on the floor in their midst, He put sugar into their tea, stirred it and fed it to them, all the while smiling celestially, an infinite tenderness playing on the great Immortal Face like white light. I cannot express it! In a corner sat an old Persian believer, in a state of complete effacement before his Lord, his head bowed, his eyelids lowered, his hands crossed on his breast. Tears were pouring down his cheeks.

[Page 52]

[JULY 9TH, AT LUNCHEON] I was sitting next to Edna Ballora. Taking her hand, I said to our Lord:

“May Edna help me with the meetings in my studio when we return to New York?”

“Khaylí-khub, khaylí-khub. You love Edna Ballora?” He asked, His eyes—so holy, so shining—fixed on me.

“Oh yes, my Lord!”

“Very much?”

“Oh so much!”

The love already in my heart for Edna was fanned to an intense flame. It burned—it hurt me.

“Very, very much?”

The Master was still gazing at me—and now I could scarcely bear that flame in me, in which my heart itself seemed to be melting away. Tears rained down my Cheeks.

“Edna,” cried the Master, “behold your friend! It is possible for fathers and mothers to weep when their children are in trouble, but it is rare that they weep merely for love of their children—as Juliet has wept for love of you.”

Oh, Heavenly Artist! For one brief moment He had created in me the Love of God; He had given me a foretaste of that Love—other-dimensional, superhuman—which with my whole soul I pray I may attain some day. For without this universal love how can we hope to work for the Kingdom of God—the oneness of man—on earth?

And, in that mysterious Moment, I understood that the universal love is not “impersonal.” I loved not only Edna’s soul, but all of her. I could have died for her.

◇ ◇ ◇

ON THE MORNING of July 10th a blessed experience which I had forgotten to record. Our Lord called Carrie, Alice, and me separately to His room and gave us the priceless privilege of seeing Him dictate Tablets.

I sat on the divan, my eyes upon His white-robed figure—I could scarcely raise them to His Face—as He paced up and down that small room with His strong tread. Never had the room seemed so small—never had He appeared so mighty! A lion in a cage? Ah no! That room contain Him? Why!—as I felt that great dominant Force, that Energy of God, I knew that the earth itself could not contain Him. Nor yet the universe. No! While the body, charged with a Power I have seen in no human being, restless with the Force that so animated it, strode up and down, up and down in that tiny room, pausing sometimes before the window below which the sea beat against the double [Page 53] seawall, I knew that the Spirit was free as the Essence Itself, brooding over regions far distant, looking deep into hearts at the uttermost ends of the earth, consoling their secret sorrows, answering the whispers of far-off minds.

Often in that walk back and forth He would give me a long, grave glance. Once He smiled at me.

◇ ◇ ◇

JULY 11TH, AFTERNOON.

Our Lord sent Ṭúbá Khánum for me and together we entered the beloved room. Often as I paused outside to take off my shoes, He would call: “Come, come, Juliet.”

Tuba and I sat on the floor at His feet.

“You are going tomorrow?”

Struggling with my tears, conquering them, smiling at Him:

“Yes, my Lord.”

“This is your last day?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

As I threw back my head to look up at His wondrous Face, my veil slipped off.

“I will fix it for you Myself,” He said tenderly. “I will fix it nicely, My daughter.” And with His electrifying fingers He arranged it all around my face, crossed it at the throat and spread it on my shoulders.

My mind flashed back to a dream—I had it in Paris eight years ago. In this dream I stood in the air with ‘Abdu’l-Bahá—opposite Him in the air. His eyes were plunging LOVE through my eyes into my heart—the unimaginable Love of God—a new Revelation to my heart. Then He drew from the breast of His robe a white veil, laying it upon my head, arranging it around my face, crossing it on my shoulders with fingers that charged me with Life—just as He was doing now.

Now, sitting in His room in ‘Akká—sitting on the floor at His feet, raising my eyes to that incomparable Face, so beautiful in age, I saw behind its lines the exact structure of the young Face—the never-to-be-forgotten Face of my dream, when I had met Him in the air.

“My Lord,” I cried. “Once in a dream you put a white veil on my head.”

“That I did long ago,” He answered.

After a pause He said—so gently:

“Tomorrow it will be goodbye.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“When can you come again?” Ah, what a sudden sunbeam!

“My Lord, how can I tell? Thou knowest. And I should like to say this: though dear Laura Barney was Thine instrument, it was through Thee that the doors were opened for me to come home to Thee. So, when Thou wishest me to come again, I know that again Thou wilt open the doors for me.”

[Page 54]

◇ ◇ ◇

II. SWITZERLAND, SUMMER OF 1911.

SUNDAY, JULY 23RD, 1911. S.S. LUSITANIA. ATLANTIC OCEAN!

Nothing could have been further from my thought than that I should begin this volume somewhere off the coast of Ireland. . . .

Ten days ago, on July 13th, I received a letter from Aḥmad. To my infinite surprise—for I had only just heard from the Master—I found it contained a Tablet. These are the words of the Tablet:

O Thou who art attracted by the Breath of the Holy Spirit!

When thou wert leaving to return to America and this made you sad and unhappy and you wept, I promised I would summon you again to My Presence. Now I fulfill that promise. If there is no hindrance and you can travel in perfect joy and fragrance, you have permission to be present. In this trip there is a consummate wisdom and in it praiseworthy results are hidden.

Upon thee be Baha EL ABHA.

(signed) Abdu’l-Bahá Abbás

◇ ◇ ◇

HOTEL DU PARC, THONON, ON LAKE GENEVA.

AUGUST 27TH, 1911.

A great white hotel. At its entrance, two oleander trees in bloom. Inside, high ceilings, white walls, glass doors, rose-colored carpets, rose-colored damask furniture. Beyond the green terrace with its marble balustrade, Lake Geneva. Behind the hotel, two mountains overhung with clouds. In the halls and strolling through the grounds, gay, artificial, dull-eyed people. Passing among these silently with His indescribable majesty, His strange Power, and His holy sweetness, the Master—‘Abdu’l-Bahá—unrecognized but not unfelt. As He passes, the dull eyes follow Him, lit up for a moment with wonder. . . .

All that day [August 24th] was heavenly. The Master was either in my room with Laura and Hippolyte, or we were in His, in the most charming informality. He gave us no spiritual teaching—in words—only talked gaily or tenderly with us. I had no private interviews—in fact, He took very little notice of me. But in spite of all this I saw something vaster than I had ever seen before; I felt His unearthly Power, His divine sweetness even more than when I was with Him in ‘Akká. Once as He stood on the stairway talking with Mírzá Asadu’lláh, the sweetness of His Love brought the tears to my eyes. It is useless to try to express it. But I said to myself as I looked on that celestial radiance, “If He never gave me so much as a word, if He never glanced my way, just to see that sweetness shining before me, I would follow Him on my knees, crawling [Page 55] behind Him in the dust forever!” . . .

[August 25th] At three o’clock . . . we did the most amazing thing—the Master, Laura, Hippolyte, and I went for an automobile ride!

“Did you ever think, Juliet,” said the Master, laughing, as we got into the car with Him, “that you and Laura would be riding in an automobile with Me in Europe?”

We drove to a country inn where a little later, after a walk, we were to have our tea. As the Master stepped down from the car, about fifteen peasant children with bunches of violets to sell closed in on Him, formed a half-circle around Him, holding up the little purple bunches, raising their eyes to His Face with grave astonishment. They pressed so close that they hid Him below the waist—and the benediction in the look He bent on them I shall never forget. Of course He bought all the violets, drawing from His pocket handfuls of francs. But when He had given to each child bountifully, they held out their hands for more!

“Don’t let them impose!” cried Laura.

“Tell them,” said the Master very gently, “that they have taken.” . . .

We walked back to the inn through the wood, He leading us. As soon as He reappeared on the lawn before the inn the children again swarmed round Him, their hands still outstretched. Laura sternly ordered them off, for they were certainly imposing. “He would give away everything He has,” she whispered to me. But the Master had discovered a tiny newcomer, a child much younger than the others, with a very sensitive face, staring up at Him in wonder.

“But,” He said, “to this little one I have not given.” . . .

Again when we left the inn the children swarmed round the Master and again Laura tried to save Him from their greediness.

“But here,” said our Lord, “is a boy to whom I have not given.”

“You gave to them all,” said Laura.

“Call Hippolyte,” ordered the Master. “I did not give to this boy, did I, Hippolyte?”

“I believe You did not.”

Then the Master gave. . . .

Driving home, the road turned and we found ourselves suddenly facing the most spectacular waterfall, rolling over from a great height a diamond waterfall frothing down a black precipice. The Master, full of excitement, peremptorily stopped the car, hurried out and walked to the very edge of our level of the precipice. There He stood for some time, then sat down—on that extreme edge—the swirling water far below Him. From the car we saw Him in profile. His face was lifted and we saw His rapture against the waterfall. Tears came to Laura’s eyes and mine.

It was just after we left the waterfall that the Master turned, smiling, to me.

“If I come to America, Juliet, will you invite Me to see such waterfalls?”

“I will invite You to Niagara if You will come to America! But surely, my Lord, Your coming to America doesn’t depend on my invitation.”

“My invitation to America will be the unity of the believers.”

[Page 56]

◇ ◇ ◇

III. AMERICA, 1912.

APRIL 11, 1912.

Oh day of days!

I was wakened this morning while it was yet dark by something shining into my eyes. It was a ray from the moon—its waning crescent framed low in my windowpane.

“Symbol of the Covenant” was my first thought. “How perfectly beautiful to be wakened today by it!” . . .

Between seven and eight I went to the pier with Marjorie Morten and Rhoda Nichols. The morning was crystal-clear, sparkling. I had a sense of its being Easter—of lilies, almost seen, blooming at my feet.

All the believers of New York had gathered at the pier to meet the Master’s ship. Marjorie and I had suggested to them that the Master might not want this public demonstration, but their eagerness was too great to be influenced by just two, and so we had gone along with them—only too glad to do so, to tell the truth.

During the morning the harbor misted over. At last, in the mist we saw—a phantom ship! . . .

Closet and closer, ever more substantial, came that historic ship, that epoch-making ship, till at last it swam out solid into the light, one of the Persians sitting in the bow in his long robes, ‘abá, and turban. This was Siyyid Asadu’lláh, a marvelous, witty old man, who had come with the Master to prepare His meals.

He told us later that when the ship was approaching the harbor and the Master saw, as His first view of America, the Wall Street skyscrapers, He had laughed and said: “Those are the minarets of the West.” What divine irony!

The ship docked, but the Master did not appear. . . . Marjorie’s instinct and mine had been true. Mr. Kinney was called for to come on board the ship—he returned with a disappointing message. The Master sent us His love but wanted us to disperse now. He would meet us all at the Kinney’s house at four.

Everyone obeyed at once—except Marjorie, Rhoda, and myself! Marjorie, who loves the Teachings but has never wholly accepted them, said: “I can’t leave till I’ve seen Him. I can’t. I WON’T!” So, though we followed the crowd to the street, we slipped away there and looked around for some place to hide. Quite a distance below the big entrance to the pier we saw a fairly deep embrasure into which a window was set, with the stone wall jutting out from it. Here we flattened ourselves against the window, Rhoda (who is conspicuously tall) clasping a long white box of lilies which she had brought for the Master. Just in front of the entrance stood Mr. Mills’ car, his chauffeur in it. Suddenly it rolled forward and, to our utter dismay, parked directly in front of us. Now we were caught—certain to be discovered, but there was no help for it, for Marjorie still refused to budge till she had seen the Master.

Then—He came—through the entrance with Mr. MacNutt and Mr. Mills, and turned and walked swiftly toward the car. In a panic we waited. . . .

[Page 57] As the Master was stepping into the car, He turned and—smiled at us.

◇ ◇ ◇

BEFORE WRITING of the Master’s visit to the Bowery I must explain how it came about. In February this year Dr. Hallimond asked me for the third time to give the Bahá’í Message at the Mission. I had refused twice before because my dear mother wouldn’t allow me to go there, but this third invitation I felt I must accept. So—for the first time in my life—I deceived Mamma! Silvia Gannett helped me out. . . . She invited me to dine, then went to the Mission with me. The only thing Mamma knew was that I was dining with Silvia. . . .

After I had finished speaking, Dr. Hallimond said:

“We have heard from Miss Juliet Thompson that ‘Abdu’l-Bahá will be here in April. How many of you would like to invite Him to speak at the Mission? Will those who wish it please stand?”

The whole three hundred rose to their feet. . . .

And now to return to the immediate present. Day before yesterday—April 19th—the Master spoke at the Bowery Mission.

I met Him in the chapel, dragging along with me the huge white bag of quarters [which He had requested]. Edward [Getsinger] also appeared with a bag of the same size, and we sat behind the Master on the platform. Mr. MacNutt, Mr. Mills, Mr. Grundy, and Mr. Hutchinson, and of course all the Persians, were seated there too. The long hall was packed to the doors with those poor derelicts who sleep on park benches or doorsteps.

Dr. Hallimond called upon me to introduce my Lord—which seemed so presumptuous I could scarcely do it.

Then the Master rose to speak:

“Tonight I am very happy for I have come here to meet My friends. I consider you My relatives, My companions and I am your comrade.” . . .

After the service the Master and we who were with Him walked down the aisle to the door, while the men in the audience kept their seats. At the end of the aisle the Master paused, called to Edward and me and asked us to stand on each side of Him, with our bags. He was wearing His pongee ‘abá and was very shining in white and ivory—His Face like a lighted lamp.

Then down the aisle streamed a sodden and grimy procession—three hundred men in single file. The “breadline”—the failures. Broken forms. Blurred faces. How can I picture such a scene? . . . and the Eternal Christ, reflected in the Mirror of “The Servant,” receiving them all—like prodigal sons, stray sheep? No! Like His own beloved children, who “resembled Him more than the rich resembled Him.”

Into each palm, as the Master clasped it, He pressed His little gift of silver—just a symbol and the price of a bed. Not a man was shelterless that night. And many, many, I could see, found a shelter in His Heart. I could see it in the faces raised to His and in His Face bent to theirs. . . .

That night the Master had a supper for all who had been with Him at the Mission. It was held in His suite at the Ansonia and He took me and two of the [Page 58] Persians . . . in His own taxi to the hotel.

As we drove up Broadway, glittering with its electric signs, He spoke of them smiling, apparently much amused. Then He told us that Bahá’u’lláh had loved light.

“He could never get enough light. He taught us,” the Master said, “to economize in everything else but to use light freely.”

“It is marvelous,” I said, “to be driving through all this light by the side of the Light of lights."

“This is nothing,” the Master answered. “This is only the beginning. We will be together in all the worlds of God. You cannot realize here what that means. You cannot imagine it. You can form no conception here in this elemental world of what it is to be with Me in the Eternal Worlds.”

◇ ◇ ◇

WASHINGTON was beautiful—the banners of the spring floating out everywhere. Trees along the street in full leaf. Flowering bushes and tulip-beds in the parks and in the grass plots in front of houses. The Japanese cherry-trees behind the White House—a long row of coral-pink clouds.

The day I arrived, April 23rd, I met the Master at luncheon at the Persian Embassy, where [Ali-Kuli] Khan is now acting as Minister.

The table was strewn with rose-petals, as the Master’s table always is in ‘Akká, and Persian dishes were served. . . .

After the luncheon, Florence and Khan held a large reception, to which a number of very distinguished people came, among them Ḍíyá Páshá—the Turkish Minister—and his whole family, Duke Litta and his wife, Admiral Peary, and Alexander Graham Bell. . . . A delicious thing happened when the Master greeted Peary—who has just succeeded in publicly disgracing Captain Cook and proving himself, and not Captain Cook, the discoverer of the North Pole. At that moment—in the Embassy—he looked like a blown-up balloon.

I was standing beside the Master when Khan brought the Admiral over and introduced him.

The Master spoke charmingly to him and congratulated him on his discovery; then, with the utmost sweetness, added these surprising words: For a very long time the world had been much concerned about the North Pole—where it was and what was to be found there. Now he—Admiral Peary—had discovered it and that nothing was to be found there; and so, in forever relieving the public mind, he had rendered a great service.

I shall never forget Peary’s nonplussed face. The balloon collapsed!

◇ ◇ ◇

I WAS SO THANKFUL to be in Washington. At those daily meetings in Mrs. Parsons’ house I would see many of my old friends—friends of my childhood. [Page 59] Mrs. Elkins went with me every day to the meetings, sometimes, when all the chairs were taken, standing the whole afternoon, although she was far from well.

One day, however, she was not with me. That night she was giving a small dinner and an opera-party, and she had to rest for this. So, being free for an hour or so, I decided to stay at Mrs. Parsons’ and have a little visit with Edna.

While Edna and I were talking, the Master suddenly entered the room.

“I am going out for a drive,” He said, “but wait till I return, Edna, and you too, Juliet, wait. I will see you in a short time.”

So I waited—waited and waited. Half-past six came—seven. We were to dine at half-past seven and the Elkins’ house was a long way off, rather indirect on the car-line.

“Go, Juliet,” urged Edna. “I will explain.”

But how could I? My Lord had told me to stay.

And now I shall have to digress and tell what may seem—just at first—another story.

When I was ten years old and I remember the time because that year we were living with my grandmother—a very presumptuous idea took possession of me. I began to dream of some day painting the Christ. I even prayed that I might.

“O God,” I would pray, “You know Christ didn’t look like a woman, the way all the pictures of Him look. Please let me paint Him when I grow up as the King of Men.”

And I never lost hope of this till I saw the Master. Then I knew that no one could paint the Christ. Could the sun with the whole universe—full of its radiations, or endless flashes of lightning, be captured in paint?

Imagine my surprise and dismay—my fear, joy, and gratitude all mixed together at the news given me by Mrs. Gibbons when the Master first came to New York. The night before He landed she had received a Tablet in which He said: “On My arrival in America Miss Juliet Thompson shall paint a wonderful portrait of Me.” This was in response to a supplication from Mrs. Gibbons asking that her daughter might paint Him—which she never did, though the Master graciously gave her permission, even more graciously adding those words about me.

It was a little after seven when the Master came back from His drive. Entering the room in which He had left me and where of course I was still waiting, He said:

“Ah, Juliet! For your sake I returned. Mrs. Hemmick wanted to keep Me, but I had asked you to wait; therefore I returned.” After a pause He added: “Would you like to come up and paint Me tomorrow?”

So I learned the reward of obedience. Such a reward for so small an act of obedience! Once in Haifa He said to me:

“Keep My words, obey My commands and you will marvel at the results.”

[Page 60] And, by a miracle, I wasn’t late for dinner! The dinner, because of another guest, had been postponed a half hour.

◇ ◇ ◇

ON SATURDAY, May 11th, just one month from the day of His landing, the Master returned to New York from Washington, Cleveland, and Chicago.

A few of us gathered in His rooms to prepare them for Him and fill them with flowers; then to wait for His arrival: May [Bolles] Maxwell, Lua Getsinger, Carrie Kinney, Kate Ives, Grace Robarts, and I. Mr. Mills and Mr. Woodcock were waiting too. . . .

About five o’clock He came. Oh the coming of that Presence! If only I could convey to the future the mighty commotion of it! The hearts almost suffocate with joy, the eyes burn with tears at the stir of that step! It is futile to try to express it. Sometimes when the sun breaks through clouds and spreads a great fiery glow, I get something of that feeling. . . .

Lua, May, and I, for the first time together in the Glory of His Presence, sat on the floor in a corner, gazing through tears at Him and whenever we could wrench our eyes from the sorrowful beauty of His face, silhouetted against the sky, gazing at one another—still through tears.

Day after day I was with Him there. Lua and I had permission to be always with Him. I would go to His apartment in the early morning and stay through the whole day and again and again He would call me to His Presence.

“My Lord,” I said once, “I really shouldn’t take Your time. I don’t want to take Your time. I am only too thankful to be here, serving at a distance, somewhere in Your atmosphere.”

“I know you are content with whatever I do, therefore I send for you, Juliet,” He replied.

◇ ◇ ◇

JUNE 5TH.

The Master has begun to pose for me. He had said:

“Can you paint Me in a half hour?”

“A half hour, my Lord?” I stammered, appalled. I can never finish a head in less than two weeks.

“Well, I will give you three half hours. You mustn’t waste My time, Juliet.”

He told me to come to Him Saturday morning, June 1st, at seven-thirty.

I went in a panic. He was waiting for me in the entrance hall, a small space in the English basement where the light—and not much of it—comes from the south. In fact I found myself faced with every kind of handicap. I always paint standing, but now I was obliged to sit, jammed so close to the window (because of the lack of distance between the Master and me) that I couldn’t even lean back. No light. No room. And I had brought a canvas for a life-size head.

[Page 61]

The Master was seated in a dark corner, His black ‘abá melting into the background—and again I saw Him as the Face of God—and quailed. How could I paint the Face of God?

“I want you,” He said, “to paint My Servitude to God.”

“Oh my Lord,” I cried, “only the Holy Spirit could paint Your Servitude to [Page 62] God. No human hand could do it. Pray for me, or I am lost. I implore You, inspire me.”

“I will pray,” He answered, “and as you are doing this only for the sake of God, you will be inspired.”

And then something amazing happened. All fear fell away from me, and it was as though Someone Else saw through my eyes, worked through my hand.

All the points, all the planes in that matchless Face were so clear to me that my hand couldn’t put them down quickly enough—couldn’t keep pace with the clarity of my vision. I painted in ecstasy—free as I had never been before.

At the end of the half hour the foundation of the head was perfect.

◇ ◇ ◇

[JUNE 13TH] The meeting over, a few of us went upstairs to say a healing prayer for Mrs. Hinkle-Smith, but just before Lua began to chant, the Master looked in at the door and called: “Juliet”—and I happily deserted Mrs. Hinkle-Smith.

“Bring your things in here and paint,” He said, pointing to the library.

Oh these sittings—so wonderful, yet so humanly difficult! We move from room to room, from one kind of light to another. The Master has given me three half hours, each time in a different room—and each time people come in and watch me. But the miraculous thing is that nothing makes any difference. The minute I begin to work the same rapture takes possession of me; Someone Else looks through my eyes and sees clearly; Someone Else works through my hand with a sort of furious precision.

On this 13th of June, after Lua had chanted the prayer for Mrs. Hinkle-Smith, she and May came into the library, crossed over to where I was sitting and stood behind me.

The Master looked up and smiled at May.

“You have a kind heart, Mrs. Maxwell.” Then He turned to Lua. “You, Lua, have a tender heart. And what kind of a heart have you, Juliet?” He laughed. “What kind of a heart have you?”

“Oh what kind of a heart have I? You know, my Lord. I don’t know.”

“An emotional heart.” He laughed again and rolled His hands one round the other in a sort of tempestuous gesture. “You have a boiling heart, Juliet. Now,” He continued, “if these three hearts were united into one heart—kind, tender, and emotional—what a great heart that would be!”

◇ ◇ ◇

JULY 5TH.

The Beloved Master’s portrait is finished. He sat for me six times, but I really did it in the three half hours He had promised me; for the sixth time, when He posed in His own room on the top floor, I didn’t put on a single stroke. I was looking at the portrait wondering what I could find to do, when He suddenly [Page 63] rose from His chair and said: “It is finished.” The fifth time He sat, Miss Souley-Campbell came in with a drawing she had done from a photograph to ask if He would sign it for her and if she might add a few touches from life. This meant that He had to change His pose, so of course I couldn't paint that day. And the fourth time (the 19th of June)—who could have painted then?

I had just begun to work, Lua in the room sitting on a couch nearby, when the Master smiled at me; then turning to Lua said in Persian:

“This makes me sleepy. What shall I do?”

“Tell the Master, Lua, that if He would like to take a nap, I can work while He sleeps.”

But I found that I could not. What I saw then was too sacred—too formidable. He sat still as a statue, His eyes closed, infinite peace on that chiseled face, a God-like calm and grandeur in His erect head.

Suddenly—with a great flash—like lightning—He opened His eyes, and the room seemed to rock like a ship in a storm with the Power released. The Master was blazing. “The veils of glory”—“the thousand veils” had shriveled away in that Flame and we were exposed to the Glory Itself.

◇ ◇ ◇

ON JUNE 21ST the Master left for Montclair to stay nine days. I was with Him all day till He went. I had lunched with Him nearly every day that week. Lua, Mrs. Hinkle-Smith, Valíyu’lláh Khán, and I bade Him good-bye on the steps of His house.

It had nearly killed Lua not to be taken to Montclair with Him. Two days later she said to me:

“Let’s go to see Him, Julie.”

“How can we, Lua? He didn’t invite us,” I answered. “He bade us good-bye for nine days.”

“Oh but you have an excuse—those proofs of Mrs. Kasebier’s pictures. You really should show them to Him, Julie.”

And she whirled Georgie Ralston and me off to Montclair with her. . . .

We came back from our walk by way of the front porch. Some people were gathered there, and Lua, Georgie, and I sat down with them while the Master went upstairs to rest. He joined us, however, very soon and, striding up and down, began to talk to us. As He walked His Power shook us; His intoxicating exhilaration, pouring into me, filled me up with new life.

His eyes—those eyes of light, which seem to be always looking into heaven and, when for an instant they glance toward earth, veer away at once, back to heaven—were brilliantly restless. His whole Being was restless with the same strange Force I had felt on that memorable day, the 19th of June. It was as though the lightning of His Spirit could scarcely endure to be harnessed to the body. He was almost out of the body. But soon He took a seat and rested quietly.

I showed Him the proofs of the pictures, then spoke of Mrs. Kasebier—who had seen Him only once, when she photographed Him.

[Page 64] “She said she would like to live near You, my Lord.”

He laughed. “She doesn’t want to live near Me. She only wants a good time!” Then he grew serious. “To live near Me,” He said, “one must have My aims and objects. Do you remember the rich young man who wanted to live near Christ, and when he learned what it cost to live near Him—that it meant to give away all his possessions and take up a cross and follow Christ—then,” the Master laughed, “he fled away!”

“Among the disciples of the Báb,” He continued, “were two: His amanuensis and a firm believer. On the eve of the Báb’s martyrdom the firm believer prayed, ‘Oh let me die with You!’ The amanuensis said: ‘What shall I do?’

“‘What shall I do?’” mocked the Master. “‘What do you want me to do?’ The disciple died with the Báb, his head on the breast of the Báb, and their bodies were mingled in death. The other died in prison anyway—but think of the difference in their stations!”

“There was another martyr,” continued the Master after a moment, “Mírzá ‘Abdu’lláh of Shíráz.” Then He told us that Mírzá ‘Abdu’lláh had been in the Presence of Bahá’u’lláh only once, “But he so loved the Blessed Beauty” that he could not resist following him to Ṭihrán, though Bahá’u’lláh had commanded him to remain in Shíráz with his old parents. “Still,” said the Master, His tone exultant, “he followed!”

Mírzá ‘Abdu’lláh reached Ṭihrán in the midst of that bloodiest of massacres resulting from the attempt on the Sháh’s life by two fanatical Bábís. Bahá’u’lláh had been cast into a dungeon. There, in that foul cellar He sat, weighted down by “The Devil’s Chain”—eleven disciples sitting with Him, bound by the same chain. In it were set iron collars which were fastened around the neck by iron pins. Every day a disciple was slaughtered, and none knew when his turn would come. The first intimation he had of his immediate death was when the jailer took out the iron pin from his collar.

Mírzá ‘Abdu’lláh entered Ṭihrán and inquired of the guard at the gate “where Bahá’u’lláh resided.” “We will take you to Him,” said the guard. And some men took ‘Abdu’lláh to the dungeon and chained him to Bahá’u’lláh.

“So,” the Master said, “he found his Beloved again!”

One day the jailer came into the dungeon and took out the pin from Mírzá ‘Abdu’lláh’s collar.

“Then,” said the Master, “Mírzá ‘Abdu’lláh stepped joyfully forward. First, he kissed the feet of the Blessed Beauty—and then—”

The Master’s whole aspeCt suddenly changed. It was as though the spirit of the martyr had entered into Him. With that God-like head erect, snapping His fingers high in the air, beating out a drum-like rhythm with His foot—till we could hardly endure the vibrations set up, He triumphantly sang “The Martyr’s Song.”

I have come again, I have come again,

By way of Shíráz I have come again!

With the wine-cup in My hand! [Page 65]

Such is the madness of Love!

“And thus,” ended ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, “singing and dancing he went to his death—and a hundred executioners fell on him! And later his parents came to Bahá’u’lláh, praising God that their son had given his life in the Path of God.”

This was what the Cause meant then. This was what it meant to “live near Him!” Another realm opened to me—the realm of Divine Tragedy.

The Master sank back into His chair. Tears swelled in my eyes, blurring everything. When they cleared I saw a still stranger look on His face. His eyes were unmistakably fixed on the Invisible. They were filled with delight and as brilliant as jewels. A smile of exultation played on His lips. So low that it sounded like an echo He hummed the Martyr’s Song.

“See,” He exclaimed, “the effect that the death of a martyr has in the world. It has changed My condition.” After a moment’s silence, He asked: “What is it, Juliet, you are pondering so deeply?”

“I was thinking, my Lord, of the look on Your face when You said Your condition had been changed. And that I had seen a flash of the joy of God when someone dies happily for His Cause.”

“There was one name,” the Master answered, “that always brought joy to the face of Bahá’u’lláh. His expression would change at the mention of it. That name was Mary of Magdala.”

◇ ◇ ◇

ALMOST A WEEK passed before we saw our Lord again. Then, on the 29th of June, we met Him at West Englewood. He was giving a feast for all the believers in the grounds around Roy Wilhelm’s house—the “Feast of Unity,” He called it.

I went with dear Silvia Gannett. We walked from the little station, past the grove where the tables were set—a grove of tall pine trees—and on to the house in which He was—He Whose Presence filled our eyes with light and without Whom our days had been very dim and lifeless.

Ah—there He was again!—sitting in a corner of the porch! I sped across the lawn, forgetting Silvia, forgetting everything. He looked down at me with grave eyes—and I saw a fathomless welcome in them. . . .

To me the most beautiful scene of all came later, when the Master returned to us after dark. About fifty or sixty people had lingered, unable to tear themselves from Him.

The Master sat in a chair on the top step of the porch, some of us surrounding Him . . . Below us, all over the lawn, on each side of the path, sat the others, the light summer skirts of the women spread out on the grass, tapers in their hands (to keep off mosquitoes). In the dark, in their filmy dresses, they looked like great moths and the burning tips of the tapers they waved, like fireflies darting about.

Then the Master spoke again to us. I was standing behind Him, close to Him, and before He began He turned and gave me a long, profound look. . . .

[Page 66] Before He had finished He rose from His chair and started down the path still talking, passing between the dim figures on the grass with their lighted tapers talking till He reached the road, where He turned and we could no longer see Him. Even then His words floated back to us—the liquid Persian, Ali-Kuli Khan’s beautiful, quivering translation, like the sound of a violin string.

“Peace be with you”—this was the last we heard—“I will pray for you.”

Oh that Voice that came back out of His invisibility—when He had passed beyond our sight. May I always remember—and hear the Voice.

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[DECEMBER 5TH] That last morning. I stood at the door of His room, gazing in, my eyes drinking their fill—if they ever could drink their fill—of the Divine Figure, as He sat, or stood, or moved about the room.

He called me in twice. The second time He took my hand.

“Remember,” He said, “I am with you always. Bahá’u’lláh will be with you always.” . . .

We drove to the boat, then followed Him up to His cabin. Many believers were crowding the cabin. Later we all went upstairs and sat in a large room with Him. Very soon He rose and, walking up and down, delivered to us His last spoken message. . . .

He seated Himself again in a corner of the large cabin, all the believers flocked around Him. I sat opposite Him at a little distance, weeping quietly. A great fear had taken possession of me—a question had risen in my mind which must be answered or I should have no peace, I should be left in a frantic state. I rose and walked over to Him and stood before Him.

“My Lord,” I said, “each time I have parted from You—in Haifa—in Europe—You have said You would call me again to You. Each time You gave me hope that I would see You again. But this time You give me no hope. Won’t I see You again, my Lord?”

“This is My hope,” He replied.

“But still You don’t tell me, my Lord—and it makes me feel hopeless.”

“You must not feel hopeless."

This was all He said to me. . . .

It was death to leave that ship. I stood on the pier with May Maxwell, tears blurring my sight. Through them I could see the Master in the midst of the group of Persians waving a patient hand to us. It waved and waved—that beautiful patient hand—till the Figure was lost to sight.

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[Page 67]

The Writings of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá

BY AMÍN BANÁNÍ

THE WRITINGS of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá are the fruit of more than half a century of prolific labor from His early twenties to the seventy-eighth and final year of His life. Their full volume is as yet unknown; and much remains to be done in gathering, analyzing, and collating His literary legacy.

His Writings consist of personal correspondence, general tablets, tablets on specific themes, books, prayers, poems, public talks, and recorded conversations. Approximately four-fifths of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s Writings are in Persian; the rest— with the exception of a very small number of prayers and letters in Turkish—are in Arabic. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá was both fluent and eloquent in these three languages. Transcriptions of His extemporaneous speeches are often indistinguishable from His Writings. In a culture that placed a high premium on rhetoric ‘Abdu’l-Bahá was recognized by friend and foe, Arab and [Page 68] Persian, as a paragon of distinctive style and eloquence.

It is the intent of this article to touch upon the character of that style and to present an overview of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s Writings in various genres and categories. Discussion of the language and style is inherently limited, as it must be attempted across twin barriers of culture and tongue; the attempt at categorization is necessarily arbitrary and is meant to serve only as a catalogue. Obviously any number of criteria, such as chronological, thematic, and linguistic, can provide different sets of categories. Furthermore, some works cited as examples of certain categories could easily be put under others.

‘ABDU’L-BAHÁ was, of course, not a prophet and at no time claimed to have received direct revelation from God. But as the Center of the Covenant of His Father and the appointed Interpreter of His Revelation, Bahá’ís believe, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá was divinely inspired and guided. His Writings, therefore, constitute for the Bahá’ís at once a part and an elaboration of their Scriptures.

The question of divinely inspired language has traditionally posed a dilemma and given rise to baseless dogma in the religions of the past. In their literal-minded zeal to aver the authenticity of their Holy Writ, devotees of traditional religions have often insisted on the divine authorship of the very lexical and syntactic form of that Writ. This view not only reduces God to the use of particular and different human tongues, but it also attempts to isolate religious writings from the body of the language in which they were written. It equates divine origin with absolute linguistic and literary originality. Those who uphold this view are resentful of any comparison and precedence. With their perverted notion of originality, they completely miss the often striking literary originality of holy books that can only be perceived in the light of traditions in their languages. By ignoring the literary traditions, conceptual methods, cultural associations—in short by denying the life of the language—they reduce rather than enhance comprehension and true appreciation of holy scriptures.

‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s two primary languages have vigorous and highly developed literary traditions with more than a thousand years of life. Only the briefest mention of facets of these traditions that are germane to the Writings of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá is possible here. Since most of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s Writings are in Persian, the main focus here is on Persian literary traditions. But so many of these are shared with Arabic—indeed in many cases they are reflections of Arabic norms in Persian—that the observations will generally be true of the Arabic literary traditions as well.

For nearly a thousand years since the formulation and the crystallization of classical criteria in Arabic and Persian literature there has existed a preoccupation with and a primacy of form. Needless to say, tightly-metered and fully-rhymed poetry, as the most formal of literary arts, has been the master art form for the Arabs and the Persians. Prose writers from their aesthetically inferior position have attempted to ennoble their work with qualities of poetry, evolving a technique known as saj‘. It introduces the basic poetic ingredients of rhyme and rhythm into prose without actually transforming it into equal-footed lines. A symmetry of expression is achieved by use of lexical devices such as synonyms, antonyms, and homonyms giving prose an architectural plasticity and rendering it memorable. This style of writing in Persian reached its apex during the thirteenth century A.D. and declined rapidly thereafter. By the end of the eighteenth century it had reached a nadir of artificial verbosity and lost its power to communicate.

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THE STYLE of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá is the outward mode of His inspiration and expression. The animus is the Revelation of Bahá’u’lláh. The clay is the Persian language with its characteristics. The mystery of His person forms it into a unique style. It is distinctive, unmistakably personal, and therefore original. Yet it is in the purest mold of literary tradition. It is a new flowering of saj‘. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá has breathed new life into a familiar form; but by harmonizing form and content He has banished contrived artifice.

In the Writings of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá form is an approach to the content. He makes use of poetic imagery and of a vast range of rhetorical and literary devices such as metaphors, similes, symbols, allegories, alliterations, assonances, and dissonances, not in order to draw a veil around the subject, but to expand the reader’s mind by refraction of the same reality through different planes of perception, cognition, and intuition. This is the difference between sterile formality and organic integrity of form in a truly creative sense.

Two brief examples may illustrate this harmony of form and content in the Writings of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá. First is the phrase “the Sun of Reality” which occurs frequently in His Writings both as a metaphor and a symbol for the Revelation of Bahá’u’lláh. There is mutual illumination of the concrete and the abstract here—at once self-evident, life-giving, and pervasive. But it also can remind us of creatures that avoid the sun. How often ‘Abdu’l-Bahá referred to the Sun of Reality dawning over gatherings of bats! The other example is the imagery evoked in His own Tablet of Visitation: “. . . Give me to drink from the chalice of selflessness: with its robe clothe me . . . .” The paragraph is made of a series of related cultural images of admittance to court, proffering of the cup of favor, and granting of the ceremonial bejeweled robe; all evoke the ceremony of a royal audience and the bestowal of high rank—traditionally an occasion of pomp, pride, and vanity. By this dramatic inversion of images ‘Abdu’l-Bahá has underlined the nobility of servitude and humility.

This use of artistic form for the expression of meaning and purpose is a hallmark of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s Writings. To cultivate an appreciation for the poetic qualities of His Writings is to enhance one’s understanding of His meaning. It must be admitted that the same qualities place an enormous burden on the translator; and much can be lost in inadequate hands. Fortunately, Shoghi Effendi, particularly in his translations of some of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s prayers, has left us a true standard.

THE FOREGOING should not lead the reader to infer that the style of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, although at all times recognizable and personal, is unvarying. His subjects, ranging from philosophical treatises to meditative poems, are expressed in language appropriate to them. Before proceeding to the differentiation of the various categories of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s Writings it might be helpful to clarify the traditional term, tablet (lawḥ) which is applied to the majority of His Works. It designates all of His Writings that are addressed to specific individuals or groups. As such it is applied to everything from His personal correspondence to such fundamental documents as the Tablets of the Divine Plan and the Tablets of the Will and Testament of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá.

I. For purposes of analysis ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s Writings can be divided into twelve groups of which personal correspondence (Tablets to individuals) constitutes by far the largest segment, despite the undoubted fact that a portion of this precious heritage has been irretrievably lost, and a portion remains in non-Bahá’í hands. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s letters are masterpieces of Persian epistolary genre. They are marked by directness, intimacy, warmth, love, humor, [Page 70] forbearance, and a myriad other qualities that reveal the exemplary perfection of His personality. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá addresses everyone as an equal in the service of Bahá’u’lláh. His letters often open with an invocation of the quality of faith of the recipient rather than his name or identity —epithets such as “O the Firm One in the Covenant,” “O Lover of the Blessed Beauty.” (Later when the Persians were required by law to adopt family names, many Bahá’ís chose as surnames words of address from the Tablets of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá to themselves or to their fathers.) In subject matter ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s letters range from responses to the personal and ephemeral requests of His correspondents to profound elaborations, elucidations, and interpretations of the Bahá’í Revelation. But mostly they are concerned with direction and exhortation of the friends to spread the Teachings.

II. Tablets of specific topical or thematic significance addressed to individuals are perhaps best exemplified by the Tablet to Professor Auguste Forel, which is in fact a philosophical treatise written by ‘Abdu’l-Bahá in September 1921 in answer to questions put to Him by the noted Swiss psychologist.

III. Tablets addressed to Bahá’í communities in various parts of the world chronicle ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s loving and vigorous leadership of the Cause of ‘Bahá’u’lláh and its propagation from a handful of countries in the Near and the Middle East to some thirty-five countries in every continent on the globe. The most important in this group are undoubtedly the series of the Tablets of the Divine Plan, written at the close of the First World War.

IV. Among the Tablets written to world groups or congresses, the best known is the Tablet sent in 1919 to the Central Organization for a Durable Peace at the Hague.

V. The Tablets of the Will and Testament of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá is a unique document, written in three parts, that constitutes an integral part of the charter of the Bahá’í Administrative Order. Although undated, it is clear from its contents that the first part was written in 1906/7 during the most perilous and yet most prolific period of His life.

VI. The next category is that of prayers. The Arabic and Persian languages distinguish between what is translated in English as prayer (munáját) and obligatory prayer (ṣalát). The prayers of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá are munáját. Approximately one half of these are in Persian and the other in Arabic, with a very few in Turkish.

The term munáját has a history in Persian literature beginning with Khwájih ‘Abdu’lláh-i-Anṣárí, a Ṣúfí mystic of the eleventh century A.D. The munáját of Anṣárí are highly stylized epigrammatic forms of communion with God. From a literary point of view these brief evocative compositions bear only the slightest generic resemblance to the munáját of Bahá’u’lláh and ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, which, although called by the same name, are clearly a literary innovation and original creations in the Persian and Arabic languages. Their chief distinguishing quality is the sustained and expanding expression of man’s experience of the Holy by means of poetic language.

The prayers of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, particularly, partake in the fullest measure of poetic qualities. Some actually include fragments or lines of metrical verse which are indistinguishable from the texture of the whole prayer. The purity and sanctity of natural imagery reveal a state of cosmic harmony. The musicality of some of them transcends limitations of language. Poetry is made to serve the ultimate goal of rising above “the murmur of syllables and sounds.” The emotional intensity of some of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s prayers, especially those that recall the sufferings of and separation from Bahá’u’lláh, is unrivaled.

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FACSIMILE OF A TABLET TO A BELIEVER SIGNED IN ENGLISH BY ‘ABDU’L-BAHÁ

[Page 72] VII. Prayers written for special occasions such as meetings of Spiritual Assemblies, or embarking on teaching trips, focus upon overcoming of self and reliance upon confirmations from God.

VIII. Tablets of Visitation, virtually all written in Arabic, are primarily for commemoration of individual heroes and martyrs of the Faith, and are to be chanted when visiting their graves. The majority were written in the final years of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s life and are another testimony of His abiding love and faithfulness to the memory of those who sacrificed themselves for the Cause of God.

IX. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s poems are few in number, and mostly in mathnaví (rhymed couplet) form. His love for this form— universally associated with the great spiritual masterpiece of the twelfth century poet Rúmí—and His love for Rúmí’s poetry are further evinced by frequent quotations of lines from the latter’s works in His Writings.

X. Books and treatises, of which ‘Abdu’l-Bahá left three, are The Secret of Divine Civilization, written in 1875 (and also known as A Treatise on Civilization); A Traveller’s Narrative, written about 1886; and a short volume entitled A Treatise on Politics, written in 1893. The first two have been translated into English. The latter, available only in Persian, may be considered a sequel in subject and purpose, to The Secret of Divine Civilization. The fundamental theme is the generative force of religion and the degenerative role of priestly power in human affairs. The first book is addressed to the Persian nation as a whole; the second is directed to the Bahá’í community in that land. Their import obviously transcends the historical aims and the immediate occasion of their writing, but they also constitute significant documents within that context.

The Secret of Divine Civilization, particularly, occupies a preeminent historical position among the literature of modernization in Persia. Seen in the light of an unfolding Bahá’í Revelation, it is, of course, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s elaboration of the principles enunciated by Bahá’u’lláh in His Tablets to the rulers of the earth. But read in the light of modern analytical literature on the nature and problems of modernization, it is a unique document of equally profound implications. In it ‘Abdu’l-Bahá presents a coherent program for the regeneration of Persian society. The program is predicated on universal education and eradication of ignorance and fanaticism. It calls for responsibility and participation of the people in government through a representative assembly. It seeks to safeguard their rights and liberties through codification of laws and institutionalization of justice. It argues for the humane benefits of modern science and technology. It condemns militarism and underscores the immorality of heavy expenditures for armaments. It promulgates a more equitable sharing of the wealth of the nation.

Of the long list of indictments that could be brought against the one hundred and twenty-five years of Qájár misrule of Persia, few could be as damaging as their neglect of this blueprint in 1875. Not until nearly twenty years later do some of these ideas appear piecemeal and unrelated in the writings of other so-called reformers and modernists in Persia. But the significance of The Secret of Divine Civilization is not merely in that it represents the earliest and the only coherent scheme for the modernization of Persia. We have come to recognize as the fatal flaw of nearly all reformist ideas and modernizing efforts of the last hundred years (not only in Persia but in many parts of the world), a naive imitation of effects without grasping the causes—superficial borrowing of forms unrelated to their underlying values. Everything in ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s proposals is firmly based upon the validity and potency of divine [Page 73] guidance. It is not westernization of the East that He advocates. He has as much to say to the spiritually impoverished societies of the West as to the people of Persia. Through a revivification of the spiritual and moral potentialities of man ‘Abdu’l-Bahá seeks to create new institutions and viable political forms—to lay the foundation of a truly divine civilization.

A Traveller’s Narrative, which is a history of the episode of the Báb, was written for the seeker and the curious. It presents a brief and dispassionate account of that portentous dispensation in a simple and moving narrative style. Like The Secret of Divine Civilization, this book was published anonymously. It may be another indication of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s humility before Bahá’u’lláh that He did not place His name on the two books He wrote for the public beyond the Bahá’í community during the lifetime of His Father. He also wished to emphasize, as He points out in The Secret of Divine Civilization, that He had no expectation of personal gain from His efforts.

XI. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s discourses are extensive transcriptions of His utterances on various topics. The two major examples of the genre are Some Answered Questions and Memorials of the Faithful. The generic affinity of these two works is, however, strictly formal; for in subject matter they are widely different. The final written versions of both were examined by ‘Abdu’l-Bahá and approved for publication.

Some Answered Questions is a compilation of the table talks of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá in response to questions put to Him by Laura Clifford Barney on spiritual tenets of the Bahá’í Faith and on the Bahá’í understanding of some Christian beliefs. The conversations, their recording, editing, and authentication occurred in the difficult years immediately preceding ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s relative freedom in 1908. The compilation was first published in 1907.

Memorials of the Faithful, which has only now (1971) been translated into English, is a compendium of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s remembrances of some seventy early believers, spoken to gatherings of Bahá’ís in Haifa during the early years of World War I. These were compiled, and ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s permission for their publication was granted in 1915, but due to the strictures of wartime the book was not published until 1924, when it was again authorized by Shoghi Effendi.

The outward form of Memorials of the Faithful is a collection of brief biographical sketches. Its title in the original, Tadhkiratu’l-Vafá, places it in a Persian literary tradition some nine centuries old. It brings to mind the Tadhkiratu’l-Awlíyá (Remembrance of Saints) of the twelfth century mystic poet ‘Aṭṭár. The spiritual and cultural impulses that have given rise to the literary form of tadhkirih have little to do with the particular, the personal, and the ephemeral aspects of human life. It is the quality of soul, the attributes of spirit, the quintessential humanity, and the reflection of the divine in man that is the focus here.

The root word of dhikr in the title means prayerful mention—reverent remembrance. It implies that it is not the biographer nor the reader who memorializes a human life, but rather the quality of that life which has earned immemorial luster and sheds light on all who remember that quality. Quite literally this book is a remembrance of vafá—faithfulness— not just memories of individual lives, but remembrance of that essential quality which was the animating force of all those lives.

The people whose “lives” are depicted here all share one thing in common. They are propelled by their love for Bahá’u’lláh. So great is this magnetic force in their lives that they literally travel vast distances and overcome every barrier to be with Him. Some of them arrive virtually [Page 74] with their dying breath, to expire happily after having seen the face of their Beloved; some die on the arduous path. Despite the peculiarities of time and place, it should not take the reader long to recognize a gallery of timeless and universal human types in this book.

The spoken language of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá is figurative and almost indistinguishable from His written style. He makes use of a rich fund of literary devices—rhymed phrases, symmetrical forms, alliterations, assonances, metaphors, similes, and allusions —that, far from sounding contrived and artificial, are naturally matched to the subject matter: the essence of faithfulness. With concrete images He describes spiritual states and psychic levels of consciousness, as if to assert the primacy and reality of the realm of spirit. Should the reader experience difficulty with the style, let him savor it slowly, allowing the unfamiliar language to create its own spirit and breathe life into its allusions. Let the words of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá trace in his mind the shape of the valley of love and faithfulness.

In His usual self-effacing way, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá says almost nothing about Himself in this book. But occasional events in the lives of these companions are interwoven with His own. In these passages we have some thrilling glimpses of that essence of humanity and humility that was ‘Abdu’l-Bahá.

XII. Next to His personal correspondence, talks comprise the largest segment of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s recorded words. One may distinguish between talks given to Bahá’ís and addresses to the general public, such as societies, groups, universities, and congregations. Generally they have the same literary marks and rhetorical patterns that are characteristic of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s Writings.

This vast body of Writing, boundless in its wisdom, consummate in form, generous and loving in spirit, and rich in significance, is ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s literary legacy, a legacy that, like His own prayer, rises “above words and letters” and transcends “the murmur of syllables and sounds.” It is the reality of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá so far as we the grateful readers are capable of perceiving.

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[Page 76]

Five Books About ‘Abdu’l-Bahá

BY KAZEM KAZEMZADEH AND FIRUZ KAZEMZADEH

FIFTY YEARS AFTER the passing of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá there exists no work dealing fully, or even adequately, with His life. The reasons for this are easy to discern. The necessary documentary materials are not yet available, much research remaining to be done in the sources preserved in the various archives on at least three continents. The already available material is in several languages, including Persian and Arabic, which limits their use to a relatively small number of potential biographers. Moreover, the basic concern of Bahá’í writers over the years has been in spreading the Teachings of which ‘Abdu’l-Bahá was the Perfect Exemplar. Above all, it is the lack of perspective that dooms any attempt to write about ‘Abdu’l-Bahá to greater or lesser failure. Shoghi Effendi has written that:

It would be indeed difficult for us, who stand so close to such a tremendous figure and are drawn by the mysterious power of so magnetic a personality, to obtain a clear and exact understanding of the rôle and character of One Who, am only in the Dispensation of Bahá’u’lláh but in the entire field of religious history, fulfills a unique function.

The first attempt to write a full-length study of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá in English was made in 1903 by a New York lawyer, Myron H. Phelps, who had early become attracted to the Faith, visited ‘Abdu’l-Bahá in Palestine, and studied the meager literature then available in Western languages. Phelps lacked knowledge of Islám and knew neither Persian nor Arabic, as was pointed out in the rather ungracious preface to Phelps’ book written by the eminent Orientalist Edward G. Browne. Insufficient knowledge of the Faith and of its historical background led Phelps into a number of major and minor errors both of fact and of interpretation. However, his Life and Teachings of Abbas Effendi retains some interest to this day.

Phelps, like so many others, fell in love with ‘Abdu’l-Bahá. Even when understanding failed him, his heart saw the truth, and he [Page 77] reported it as best he could. He gives us brief but memorable sketches of the Master:

A door opens and a man comes out. He is of middle stature, strongly built. He wears flowing light-coloured robes. On his head is a light buff fez with a white cloth wound about it. He is perhaps sixty years of age. His long grey hair rests on his shoulders. His forehead is broad, full, and high, his nose slightly acquiline, his moustaches and beard, the latter full though not heavy, nearly white. His eyes are grey and blue, large, and both soft and penetrating. His bearing is simple, but there is a grace, dignity, and even majesty about his movements. He passes through the crowd, and as he goes utters words of salutation. We do not understand them, but we see the benignity and the kindliness of his countenance.

Phelps tells of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s love of mankind, of His charity, of His tolerance, generosity, and unfailing kindness. We read of a poor Afghan who for years accepted without thanks food and clothing given by the Master until one day he came to the Master’s door and cried: “‘For twenty-four years I have done evil to you, for twenty-four years you have done good to me. Now I know that I have been in the wrong.’” We read of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s refusing to take a private carriage and riding to Haifa in a stage-coach to the surprise of the driver. Upon arrival, while the Master was still in the coach, he was approached by a fisherwoman who had caught nothing that day and had to go home to a hungry family. “He gave her five francs, and turning to the stage-driver said: ‘You now see the reason why I would not take a private carriage. Why [Page 78] should I ride in luxury when so many are starving?’”

The most valuable portion of the book is the story of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s life told by His sister, Bahíyyih Khánum, known to the Bahá’ís as the Greatest Holy Leaf. Those eighty odd pages of narrative are the book’s marrow and its justification. Bahíyyih Khánum is simple and direct:

‘My brother, Abbas Effendi, now our Lord, was born in Teheran in the spring of 1844, at midnight following the day upon which, in the evening, the Bab made his declaration. I was born three years later. He was therefore eight and I five, when in August, 1852, the attempt was made upon the life of the Shah of Persia by a young Babi, who through ungoverned enthusiasm had lost his mental balance. The events following this attempt are vividly impressed upon my mind. My mother, Abbas Effendi, myself, and my younger brother, then a babe, were at the time in Teheran. My father was temporarily in the country.’

When Phelps reports his own observations and impressions, they ring true. As a guide to the Teachings, however, he is quite unreliable. He claims, for instance, that “The body of doctrine which Beha’ism teaches, is not put forward in any sense or particular as new, but as a unification and synthesis of what is best and highest in all other religions.” Though the Bahá’í Faith unifies and fulfills the great religions of the past, it does not synthesize. Moreover, the very basis on which its openness to and its acceptance of other religions rests—the concepts of progressive revelation and of the relativity of religious truth—is strikingly novel. Today one would not read Phelps to understand the Bahá’í Faith, but one is still moved by the record of his encounter with the Master.

HOWARD COLBY IVES, a onetime pastor of a Unitarian church in New Jersey, set himself a more modest task than Phelps and achieved a much greater success. Ives did not attempt a biography of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá or a detailed exposition of the Teachings. His is a tale of a personal search. A “modern” Christian, Howard Colby Ives had lost faith in many of the old certainties of his religion. He was not even certain that anyone could know the meaning of the words of Christ. In the home of Mr. and Mrs. Kinney on Riverside Drive in New York he heard ‘Abdu’l-Bahá interpret those words in a way which differed sharply from accepted doctrine. Sceptical and impatient with the Master’s assurance, he cried out, “That I cannot believe.” Ives expected a rebuke. Instead,

He looked at me a long moment before He spoke. His calm, beautiful eyes searched my soul with such love and understanding that all my momentary heat evaporated. He smiled as winningly as a lover smiles upon his beloved, and the arms of His spirit seemed to embrace me as He said softly that I should try my way and He would try His.

It was as though a cool hand had been laid upon a fevered brow; as though a cup of nectar had been held to parched lips; as though a key had unlocked my hard-bolted, crusted and rusted heart. The tears started and my voice trembled, “I’m sorry,” I murmured.

Ives understood then that ‘Abdu’l-Bahá spoke to the soul. His logic was not the logic of the schoolman, “. . . His slightest association with a soul was shot through With an illuminating radiance which lifted the bearer to a higher plane of consciousness.”

Daily ‘Abdu’l-Bahá demonstrated to this new-found disciple the all-encompassing nature of His love. The Master lived among men, yet He transcended their limitations and rose far above their prejudices. In America where the rot of racism had eaten deep even [Page 79] into man’s subconscious, He taught lessons of unity. A group of boys from the Bowery came to see ‘Abdu’l-Bahá. The last youngster to enter the room was about thirteen years old.

He was quite dark and, being the only boy of his race among them, he evidently feared that he might not be welcome. When ‘Abdu’l-Bahá saw him His face lighted up with a heavenly smile. He raised His hand with a gesture of princely welcome and exclaimed in a loud voice so that none could fail to hear; that here was a black rose.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

This significant incident had given to the whole occasion a new complexion. The atmosphere of the room seemed now charged with subtle vibrations felt by every soul. . . . To the few of the friends in the room the scene brought visions of a new world in which every soul would be recognized and treated as a child of God.

Gradually Ives himself underwent a transformation. The Master challenged him to rise above his limitations and to follow Him in the service of God and humanity. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá at a wedding, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá speaking of peace in a Unitarian Church, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá traveling coast to coast, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá patiently listening to others—and in His every word, His every gesture a profound lesson. Ives was beginning to reflect the spirit of love and servitude. He discovered in himself a strength of which he had not even been aware.

When one sees with his own eyes human souls awakened, hearts touched with a divine afflatus, lives deeply affected . . . by the Words taken from the prayers and explanations of these Divine Ones, and applied like a soothing ointment to the wounds of the soul, to doubt the Spirit from which they emanated would have been to doubt all the prophets of the past; would have been to cast discredit on the Sermon on the Mount . . . . “If this is not of God,” I said to myself, “then there is no foundation for faith in God. I would rather be wrong with this great Faith than seemingly right with all the doubters and cavillers in the world.” From the very depths of my being there came the cry as uttered by the firm believers of old: “My Lord and my God!”

Portals to Freedom “covers” a minute segment of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s life. It recounts some fascinating stories and anecdotes of the days the Master spent on the East coast. The value of the book, however, lies not in what it chronicles but in what it points to: ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, emerging from forty years of prison and exile, a victim of bigotry and despotism, opening to a Unitarian minister from New Jersey the portals to freedom.

MÍRZÁ MAḤMÚD-I-ZARQÁNÍ, a learned Persian gentleman who accompanied ‘Abdu’l-Bahá on His historic travels in Europe and America, left posterity a precious record in two large volumes that constitute a full chronicle. Mírzá Maḥmúd was well prepared for his task. He had traveled and taught in the company of one of the greatest teachers of the Faith, Ḥájí Mírzá Ḥaydar ‘Alí. On ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s request he visited India, learned Urdú, and was admired for his learning as Ḥakím Maḥmúd-i-Írání. Later the Master invited him to join the small group of secretaries and interpreters who accompanied ‘Abdu’l-Bahá on His Western travels. Mírzá Maḥmúd kept copious notes, recording everything he saw and heard. Upon returning to Haifa, he was urged by Ḥájí Mírzá Ḥaydar ‘Alí to rework his notes into a book. The result was the Badáyi-ul-Áthár (The Wondrous Annals). The first volume was published in Bombay in 1914, the second in 1921.

‘Abdu’l-Bahá came to America on the invitation of the American Bahá’ís. Arriving in New York in April 1912, he visited Washington, D.C., and many other cities, [Page 80] among them Cleveland, Pittsburgh, Chicago, Boston, Philadelphia, Minneapolis, Denver, San Francisco, and Los Angeles. He sailed from New York aboard the Celtic on December 5. In Britain he visited Liverpool, London, Bristol. On the continent he stopped in Paris, Vienna, Budapest, Stuttgart, and Marseilles. Mírzá Maḥmúd was present at most of the meetings, parties, interviews, dinners, and private conversations. His notes contain the texts of entire speeches taken down verbatim and later read and approved by the Master. Thus the book has exceptional value. Having been authenticated by ‘Abdu’l-Bahá Himself, it transcends the category of private memoirs and enters the realm of Bahá’í literature as a primary source of first importance.

Badáyi-ul-Áthár is a chronicle. (Some excerpts from it have long circulated among American Bahá’ís under the title of “Maḥmúd’s Diary.”) It does not analyze—it reports, faithfully and in detail. The very nature of a chronicle makes a summary impossible. Every day brings a new episode, often seemingly unconnected with the previous ones, as ‘Abdu’l-Bahá and His entourage travel the length and breadth of the continent.

In New Jersey a clergyman asked Him to write a few words in an album. He obliged and penned a beautiful prayer which Mírzá Maḥmúd instantly copied. At Stanford University He spoke to nearly two thousand students and faculty and received a standing ovation. In Nebraska He visited the wife of William Jennings Bryan, the latter being absent, campaigning for Woodrow Wilson. On another occasion ‘Abdu’l-Bahá commented on presidential elections, saying that the man worthy of the presidency should have no ambition to surpass others but should rather feel that he has no strength to carry such a great burden. If the purpose of the office is the good of the public, the president ought to be an altruist; and, if he is an egoist, his election is harmful to the nation.

At Ella Cooper’s home in Oakland He reminisced about the days of Baghdád and said that, when Bahá’u’lláh disappeared one day (retreating into the Kurdish mountains) a certain Áqá Abu’l-Qásim-i-Hamadání, a fellow exile, also disappeared. Later he was robbed and killed by some horsemen on the road. The news reached Baghdád. When his will was read, it was discovered that he had bequeathed his worldly possessions to a Darvísh Muḥammad. Those who knew how close Abu’l-Qásim had been to Bahá’u’lláh concluded that Darvísh Muḥammad must be Bahá’u’lláh and that He must be somewhere in the area of Sulaymáníyyih. Friends were sent to seek out Bahá’u’lláh and beg Him to return to Baghdád.

Once, seeing a man selling college pennants, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá asked for the banner of universal peace so that the world could march under it.

Shortly before He departed from the United States, a number of Bahá’ís in New York brought ‘Abdu’l-Bahá gifts of jewels for His family. Previously He had refused all presents. Now, however, He expressed His gratitude. “You have brought presents for members of my household. These are most acceptable. But better than these are the gifts of divine love which are preserved in the treasuries of the hearts.” Jewels, He continued, must be put in boxes on shelves and will eventually be scattered. The gifts of love will remain, and it is these that He will take back to His family. His household had no use for diamond rings and rubies. He had accepted the gifts but would leave the jewels in America to be sold and the money to be given for the construction of the temple in Chicago. When the friends continued to insist that He take the jewels to His family He said that He wanted a gift “that would remain in the world of the eternal and a jewel that has to do with the treasury of the hearts. It is better thus.”

[Page 81] In Paris while speaking of world peace, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá said that every good action must be motivated by a spiritual force. Mere knowledge of good and evil is insufficient. One may know the good but be dominated by passion or self-intetest and do evil. When the representatives of the various nations met at the Hague and made speeches about peace, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá compared them to wine merchants who talk about the evils of drinking and go on selling wine.

Everywhere ‘Abdu’l-Bahá met numbers of famous people, including Theodore Roosevelt, Andrew Carnegie, and Alexander Graham Bell. He also met three outstanding Orientalists, Edward G. Browne, Ignatius Goldziher, and Arminius Vambery.

From Mírzá Maḥmúd’s unhurried narrative there emerges the panorama of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s triumphal tour of the West. Here indeed is a rich record of that annus mirabilis when the Bahá’í Faith made its first impact upon the Christian world. No future historian will be able to ignore The Wondrous Annals. One may only wish that they might appear in a good English translation before long.

ḤABÍB MU’AYYAD came to Haifa in 1907 and stayed there and in Beirut for several years. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá sent him to medical school and took personal interest in his progress. Living close to the Master, Dr. Mu’ayyad felt the daily rhythms of His life, noted down details of His activities, and recorded the comings and goings of pilgrims, visitors, and guests. More personal and less systematic than Mírzá Maḥmúd’s great chronicle, Ḥabíb’s Memoirs are full of fascinating observations.

He describes the construction of the Eastern pilgrims’ house on Mt. Carmel and tells of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s solicitude for the comfort of the guests. He reports meeting the outstanding Bahá’í teachers, the scholarly Mírzá Abu’l Faḍl, and the angelic Ḥájí Mírzá Ḥaydar ‘Alí. He tells how food was prepared for the pilgrims and how the Master ate with them.

The pilgrims played an important role in the life of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, especially after the Turkish revolution of 1908, when restrictions were removed and the Bahá’í world gained a relatively free access to ‘Akká and Haifa. All pilgrims and visitors, Dr. Mu’ayyad writes, asked questions but no two questions were alike. Some visitors were materialists, others religious bigots. Some were aflame with patriotism, others were proponents of the brotherhood of man. Some were Asian, others European. Some spoke of women’s liberation, others defended female slavery and polygamy. Some spoke of the proletariat and communism, some of literature and poetry, some of the ḥadíth, some of history and philosophy. Arabs talked of Arab independence. Jews talked of the future of Palestine. Hundreds of persons laid before Him their problems. All left satisfied, full of love and joy, their tongues praising Him.

The poor could always count on ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s help. He gave even to professional beggars whom He knew by name. Frequently He left His house alone early in the morning to visit the poor in their homes. Dr. Mu’ayyad here repeated the story of the Afghan whom the Master befriended and who remained hostile for a long time but was finally won over.

Dr. Mu’ayyad reports ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s conversations with visitors and with His entourage. Long before World War I the Master told a group of pilgrims of Jewish background that the Jews would soon return to the Holy Land and would become a great people, envied by friend and foe alike. Such was the will of God and nothing could prevent this from happening. Palestine would become a center of science and industry, ‘Akká and Haifa would grow into a single metropolis, and the desert itself would bloom.

As a medical doctor, Mu’ayyad was much [Page 82] interested in the Master’s physical well-being, noting carefully His eating and working habits, and on one occasion giving ‘Abdu’l-Bahá a physical examination. The Master slept little and ate sparingly, His food consisting largely of bread, milk, cheese, and herbs. Frequently He remained awake late at night, chanting in a low voice. Listening outside the Master’s room, the young doctor could make out only the words “O my God and my Beloved,” which were repeated again and again. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s health was exceptionally good for a man of His age and background. Years of prison, exile, and superhuman work had not sapped His strength. It is strange and thrilling to read Dr. Mu’ayyad’s matter-of-fact clinical report and to learn that the Master’s hair was abundant and His eyes were so good that He seldom used eyeglasses. In spite of rather frequent head colds, His nose, throat, and ears were free of pathological changes, His teeth had no cavities, the heart and lungs were normal, as were His nervous reflexes. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá complained of occasional low fevers but believed that these were caused by news of troubles in the Bahá’í community. A bit of good news would quickly bring His temperature to normal.

However, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s physical strength and stamina were as nothing compared to the strength of His character and will. When the enemies plotted His downfall in 1908 and His life was in immediate danger, an opportunity presented itself to leave ‘Akká aboard an Italian ship. Such a course of action was advocated by a group of friends who had consulted on the subject. Having heard them out, the Master replied: “No. This would not be good for the Cause of God.” He refused to flee in the face of danger, thereby reaffirming His innocence of the wrongdoings of which His enemies had accused Him.

LIKE ḤABÍB MU’AYYAD, Yúnis Khán-i-Afrúkhtih came to ‘Akká as a young man. The trip from Persia was long and the route circuitous, taking him through Baku in Russian Ádhirbáyján, Batumi on the Black Sea in Georgia, Constantinople, and Alexandria. From 1900 to 1904 he served ‘Abdu’l-Bahá as a translator and then, again like Mu’ayyad, was sent by the Master to study medicine in Beirut. Having become a doctor and traveled in Europe, he returned to Persia, his nine years of proximity to ‘Abdu’l-Bahá forever engraved on his memory.

His Khátirát-i-nuhsáli-yi-‘Akká (Memories of Nine Years in ‘Akká) are outstanding. Though not as rich a collection of facts as Mírzá Maḥmúd’s annals, nor as personal as Howard Colby Ives’ confession, they surpass both in the power of observation, acuteness of analysis, and, most important, quality of expression. Yúnis Khán was a born writer whose art was formed under the influence of the Persian classics. Snatches of Ḥáfiz, echoes of Rúmí, add a literary dimension and grace absent from the writings of the others. Yet his style is free of that bane of modern Persian literature—imitativeness. The voice is cultivated but the song is fresh, the language almost colloquial and always vigorous and direct.

In Yúnis Khán’s memoirs, as in Mu’ayyad’s, one reads of the coming of pilgrims, among them the distinguished French orientalist Hippolyte Dreyfus, Lua Getsinger, and Edith Sanderson. Yúnis Khán was present when ‘Abdu’l-Bahá resolved a number of problems posed to Him by Laura Clifford Barney. The Master’s casual discourses were later published as Some Answered Questions, a book that has become a basic Bahá’í text.

The effect of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá on the visitors, Yúnis Khán writes, was related to their own personalities and the degree of their own spiritual development. The Master was the Sea, and those who immersed themselves received the most. The Sea was never the same. At times It was agitated and full of waves, at other times It was tranquil. True believers did not have to press for answers. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá answered their unasked questions [Page 83] and solved their unstated problems. Finally there were those who had reached the station exemplified by an illumined soul in a story: They asked a gnostic (árif); “What do you desire of God?” He replied, “I desire of God that I might desire nothing.” But whether asked or not, the Master constantly taught the virtues of tolerance, forebearance, and love. The Bahá’ís must not return evil for evil but must shower love on all.

With great evocative power Yúnis Khán describes a mournful procession marching to the shrine of Bahá’u’lláh on a November day to commemorate the passing of God’s Messenger. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá walked at the head, followed by the Bahá’ís, each carrying a lighted candle and a vial of rose perfume. At the shrine they sprinkled the perfume among the flowers, set the candles in the ground, and stood still while ‘Abdu’l-Bahá chanted the Tablet of Visitation.

As a medical doctor, Yúnis Khán, like Mu’ayyad, records his observations of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s physical condition. His findings are almost identical with those of Mu’ayyad, who was to examine the Master several years later. Again like Mu’ayyad, Yúnis Khán reports that the Master worked long hours, slept little, and ate sparingly (mostly bread, olives, cheese, and seldom meat).

Life at ‘Akká and Haifa in the reign of ‘Abdu’l-Ḥamíd was full of tension and danger. Palestine was a tinder box. Tribes fought each other. Crime was rampant. The streets of ‘Akká were too narrow for bandits to roam free, but in Haifa they were a constant threat. Shots were heard every night but murderers were never apprehended. Whenever ‘Abdu’l-Bahá was in Haifa, the Bahá’ís feared for His life and watched His movements. Frequently He went to visit the poor alone at night, refusing an escort or even a lantern-carrier. However, at a distance a Bahá’í would secretly watch His progress to the very door of His house.

One night it was Yúnis Khán’s turn to follow the Master. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá was returning home past midnight when in the dark three shots rang out from a side street. Having become inured to the sound of gunfire, Yúnis Khán paid no attention to the first shot. The flash of the second shot sent him running toward the Master. He had reached the intersection when the third shot was fired and saw two men running away. He was now no more than a step behind the Master. ‘Abdu’l-Bahá walked on without changing His pace or turning His head. His tread was firm and dignified. He had paid no attention to what had occurred but quietly murmured prayers as He walked. At the gate of His house He acknowledged Yúnis Khán’s presence, turning to him and bidding him good-bye (“fí amáni’lláh”—under God’s protection).

If ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s life was in danger, so were the lives of uncounted thousands of [Page 84] Bahá’u’lláh’s followers in Persia. In the years after the Persian revolution of 1906 both the Constitutionalists and the reactionaries courted and attacked the Bahá’ís simultaneously. Each realized that the Bahá’ís were potentially a significant force, yet each knew that religious fanaticism could be easily evoked against them. When the Bahá’ís refused to serve either, both groups turned against them. The reactionaries claimed that the Bahá’ís advocated the establishment of a republic, while the Constitutionalists accused them of favoring despotism. The massacre of 1903 in Yazd was still fresh in all memories. One can imagine how ‘Abdu’l-Bahá felt, contemplating the possibility of both sides uniting against the Bahá’ís and exterminating the entire community. It was under such circumstances, Yúnis Khán reports, that ‘Abdu’l-Bahá insistently urged the Bahá’ís to stay out of politics, abstaining even from opening their lips on subjects that agitated the nation. His position may have been misunderstood by E. G. Browne, who criticized the uninvolvement of the Bahá’ís in Persian politics, but it saved countless lives, and perhaps prolonged the life of the Constitutional movement by dissociating it from the Bahá’í Faith.

“How poor is the world’s workshop of words,” complained a Russian poet. “Where does one find the fitting ones?” Myron Phelps, looking at ‘Abdu’l-Bahá across an ocean which stands for more than geographic distance; Howard Colby Ives, finding personal rebirth in the service of the Servant; Mírzá Maḥmúd-i-Zarqání systematically recording the details of the Master’s journeys; Habíb-i-Mu’ayyad and Yúnis Khán-i-Afrúkhtih, young physicians privileged to listen to His heartbeat—they all tried their best to capture ‘Abdu’l-Bahá for posterity, but He would not be captured. In these profiles, in the long and short accounts, in chronicles and personal memoirs He remains forever the Mystery of God.

[Page 85]

Authors & Artists

SHOGHI EFFENDI (1896-1957) was appointed by ‘Abdu’l-Bahá in His Will and Testament Guardian of the Cause of God and authorized Interpreter of Bahá’u’lláh’s Teachings. For thirty-six years Shoghi Effendi led the worldwide Bahá’í community, inspiring its every activity, guiding its destinies, preserving its unity, and building its institutions. His heritage includes unmatched translations of Bahá’u’lláh’s Writings, as well as original works of great power and scope, among them The World Order of Bahá’u’lláh, The Advent of Divine Justice, The Promised Day Is Come, and God Passes By.

H. M. BALYUZI graduated from the American University of Beirut and later took an M.Sc. in Economics at London. During World War II he joined the Persian service of the British Broadcasting Corporation. In 1970 he published Edward Granville Browne and the Bahá’í Faith. His latest book, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá: The Center of the Covenant of Bahá’u’lláh, a part of his trilogy on the Central Figures of the Bahá’í Faith, will be published by George Ronald in November.

AMÍN BANÁNÍ holds a B.A. from Stanford University, and M.A. from Columbia University, and a Ph.D. from Stanford, all three in history. He has taught at Stanford University and at Reed College, has been a Fellow of the Center for Middle Eastern Studies at Harvard University, and is now Professor of History and Persian at UCLA. He is the author of The Modernization of Iran.

LADY BLOMFIELD became a Bahá’í during the early years of this century in Paris and received ‘Abdu’l-Bahá in London in 1911 after He was freed by the Young Turks’ Rebellion. She accompanied Shoghi Effendi, then studying at Oxford University, to Haifa after the passing of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá. Lady Blomfield has recorded in The Chosen Highway stories related to her by Bahá’u’lláh’s daughters, by ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s wife and four daughters, and by a number of other early Bahá’ís. Lady Blomfield died in 1939.

MARZIEH GAIL, a frequent name in the pages of World Order, brings a unique perspective to her subject. She is the daughter of Ali-Kuli Khan, Nabílu’d-Dawlih, a distinguished Persian scholar and diplomat with whom she translated Bahá’u’lláh’s The Seven Valleys and the Four Valleys. Mrs. Gail has become a scholar and translator in her own right. She has published Avignon in Flower and The Three Popes and has translated ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s The Secret of Divine Civilization and Memorials of the Faithfull.

FIRUZ KAZEMZADEH, Kazem Kazemzadeh’s son, is Professor of Russian History at Yale University and Editor of World Order.

KAZEM KAZEMZADEH makes his second appearance in World Order in this issue, his “Two Incidents in the Life of the Báb” having appeared in the Spring 1971 issue. A graduate of Moscow University, he has lived and worked on three continents as diplomat, lawyer, and university teacher. He served for many years on the National Spiritual Assembly of Írán and now lives in retirement in California, devoting his time to the study of Bahá’í Writings and history.

JULIET THOMPSON studied at the Corcoran Art School in Washington and at seventeen was doing portraits in pastels professionally. She became a Bahá’í in Paris around the turn of the century and for the rest of her life was a devoted teacher of the Bahá’í Faith. Three times—in ‘Akká, Europe, and America—she visited ‘Abdu’l-Bahá recording her impressions in her “Diary”. In New York ‘Abdu’l-Bahá permitted her to sketch His portrait. Miss Thompson died in 1956.

ART CREDITS: All photographs of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá and the facsimile of His Tablet to an individual, courtesy Bahá’í National Archives, Wilmette, Illinois.