Hermeticism

Last week's post was dedicated to the remarkable life of Nina Rudnikova, an early 20th-century Russian occultist. You can find the post here.

Today, we are going to explore some of her short works. Most of Nina Rudnikova's works on this blog were sourced from the pages of the Occultism & Yoga journal. Regrettably, not all journal issues have survived; some are only available as single copies in private collections or through online auctions, while others are entirely lost.

Nina Rudnikova was influenced by various streams of thought, including Cabala, Hermeticism, Agni Yoga, and Theosophy. Her Eastern influences are evident in the short stories she wrote. I think It's fair to categorize these stories as works of moral fiction.

The first story is about a young man, a poet named Subharda, who visits the Buddha in hopes of finding enlightenment, only to find the Buddha on his deathbed. Still, the Buddha acquiesces to seeing him. The moral of the story, I suppose, is that an earnest student will always attract a benevolent teacher's attention — in the sense of "knock, and the door will be opened to you."

What I find interesting is that Subharda seems to be Rudnikova's self-insert character. First, he is a poet like Rudnikova. Second, although he is a male in the story, the name Subharda is a corruption of Subhadra, a character in the Mahabharata, sister of Krishna and Balarama. Make of that what you will.

The second story is The Three Deaths: Snapshots from America. It is not a treatise on the afterlife. Instead, it is a story about the deaths of three different persons of different types of dignity in Los Angeles. The least dignified person, a pasta aficionado, receives the most worldly attention and admiration, while the most noble one receives no recognition whatsoever. I haven't found any information regarding famous pasta enthusiasts who died in Los Angeles in the early 20th century, so I think the story was made out of whole cloth by Rudnikova. It isn't easy to pinpoint the moral of the story. Is it that a person doing noble work should not expect to receive any reward in this world? Rudnikova might have taken a stance from Eastern religions that this world is a world of suffering, and the best thing one can hope for is to leave it as soon as possible.

Without further delay, I introduce my translations of the stories by Nina Rudnikova.

The Buddha was dying. The Great One, the Perfect One, was leaving the world of suffering.

In a modest hut in the small town of Kusinara, lying on mats spread across the floor, was the One who had taught millions for forty years. The dying man's clear eyes were immersed in the vast ocean of serene Eternity. Near his bed, sitting cross-legged on the floor, was Ananda, the beloved disciple of the Blessed One, gazing at the Teacher's face with deep sadness in his eyes. An indescribable light emanated from that face, filling the room with gentle waves. Ananda sat quietly, absorbed in contemplation. A sunbeam danced on the earthen floor.

Footsteps approached the door. Ananda rose and walked silently toward the exit. Two men stood before him: the monk Saritta and a young man with the inspired face of a poet. A sense of determination, unyielding to any obstacle, lay upon their delicate features.

Ananda glanced at them with sadness in his eyes and said, “You can’t see the Teacher; the Blessed One is preparing to pass into Nirvana.”

The monk lowered his eyes and said quietly to the other, “You heard it, Subharda!”

A tremor swept over the young man's face. He fell to his knees before Ananda, pleading, "Oh, dear Ananda, please do not stand firm in your refusal! I must see the Blessed One. For four long years, I sought the Truth among the Vedic teachers, only to discover mere glimmers of it, akin to sunbeams dancing upon water. Thus, I learned that the radiant source of Truth itself was embodied in the Great One. Upon my arrival, I was informed of his illness. Oh, Ananda, what fate awaits me if I am unable to behold him? Despair propels me ceaselessly through the phantom-like waves of this world, and, akin to a delicate vessel, I shall be lost if the Perfect One does not extend his aid..." Ananda remained silent.

From the hut came a voice ringing with infinite kindness,

“Ananda, let it be as he wants. Let him in. He was brought here by searching for the Truth, not curiosity. So let the seeker of Truth come in.”

Reverent joy spilled over the young man’s face; he stood up.

Saritta, Subharda, and Ananda, behind them, approached the Blessed One.

The monk and Ananda sat down silently at the entrance. Subharda prostrated himself before the bed of the dying man. Reverent awe penetrated his whole being: the hand of the Perfect One was resting on his head. The sonorous voice of the Blessed One resonated profoundly, as though it emanated from the immeasurable expanses of the infinite, traversing from star to star, disappearing into the realms of unfathomable worlds, and ultimately returning to the earth once more.

The Buddha addressed the neophyte, who, despite his novelty, had always been in the Enlightened One's presence, elucidating the four timeless truths: the Truth of suffering, the Truth of the genesis of suffering, the Truth of emancipation from suffering, and the Truth of the pathway guiding one towards liberation from suffering.

The proclamation of immeasurable, exultant, and blissful liberation reverberated throughout worlds and universes by way of the Buddha's words of non-attachment to desires and non-attachment to all that possesses color, form, and name. Silently, the spectral shells birthed by yearnings for a confined personal existence fell and dissipated, as did the phantasmagoric cosmos fashioned by the thoughts and emotions of beings both great and small. As the shells crumbled, the Soul re-emerged into the boundless freedom of Nirvana... Amidst the visible and invisible realms, the voice of the Blessed One resonated and once more returned to the earth... Overwhelmed by rapture, Subharda exclaimed,

"Accept me, for I am wholly yours!"

The Blessed One maintained his silence, rejoining the terrestrial plane, and then spoke softly,

"Those who seek both initiations here must undergo a probationary period of four months. Yet, exceptions exist."

Once more, Subharda implored,

"Four years, O Master, I shall willingly wait four years!"

The Teacher gazed upon the prostrate man with immeasurable tenderness, and the young poet was transformed into a serenely trusting child.

The Blessed One gestured to Ananda, and his voice, imbued with boundless compassion, intoned,

"Ananda, bestow upon him the first initiation."

The vast stars of the night, akin to the gaze of deities, peered through the window into the chamber. Two figures sat upon the floor beside the bed where the Buddha, preparing for his passage into Nirvana, reclined. His form was enshrouded in garments of radiant white.

Saritta and Subharda sat in silence, the monk and the poet, attending the bedside of the one departing the realm of suffering.

For an instant, the luminous eyes of the Blessed One came to rest upon them.

He then addressed Subharda, "Many queries dart through the undulating waves of your soul with the swiftness of boats preceding the sun's descent. The sun has not yet vanished beyond the horizon—speak your mind!" The immense, shining eyes of the poet traversed the realms of celestial reverie and, with a hint of trepidation, returned to earthly awareness. As his gaze encountered the eyes of the Perfect One, it seemed as though he peered into the abyss of the unknown, sensing within his breast the stirrings of the immeasurable. He spoke haltingly, "Master, when you speak, ineffable melodies resonate in your voice, enfolding your words. They delve even deeper than the spoken message above them.”

A smile played upon the transfigured visage of the Buddha as he said,

“Not every listener perceives them. The poet's ear is exceptionally attuned. These harmonies guide them to the threshold of Nirvana. However, all who yearn for the Truth discern them. The illumination of my teachings will fade once I depart from here. Everything that commences must also conclude. Yet the tones that reverberate around my words, emanating from the core of my existence, Subharda, these sounds are enduring and shall not vanish. Only the chosen can hear them, and those who do are even more exalted than the spiritually noble. Subharda, you and your kind are blessed. You, who with inspiration, impart a glimmer of these sounds in your verses, an intimation of their essence. But we also require individuals like Saritta, custodians of the Word, steadfast at their stations. Indeed, they preserve its purity for as long as necessary. But if they stand sentinel over the Word with unsheathed swords, they shall be subject to misfortune. Those who harm the adversaries of my Word and the wayward do not belong to me. Hatred amplifies the yearning for a separate existence—only the tools of Love can aid in the quest for Truth. To live the Truth is of greater importance than to teach the Truth.”

Saritta looked down in embarrassment and silently kissed the Teacher’s hand.

The Blessed One elevated himself slightly and spoke, "Do you, Subharda, comprehend the ultimate mystery? All that exists in the world merely symbolizes the sounds you discern when I utter my words, the sounds of boundless bliss, unshackled from all things through renunciation. Those who hear these sounds have no need for the Word. I vanquished the obscurity of ignorance, attained true Wisdom, and ushered its radiance into the world—but my existence, my teachings, and I serve solely as symbols of these sounds. Thus, become a symbol, Subharda, act and, through action, find stillness, sing—and through your melody, you shall arrive at Tranquility, just as the one known as the Buddha on earth shall depart towards it. When the sound of Nirvana reverberates, its symbol shall fade away."

The Blessed One fell silent.

Muted sobs permeated the stillness of the chamber. Subharda lay prostrate at the luminous feet of the Blessed One, gripping his knees with his hands, showering them with fervent kisses and tears.

“Oh Master, oh radiant Father, do not abandon us, do not forsake us!” - a child weeping in utter desolation.

Saritta rose to his feet. However, the Blessed One halted him with a gesture. He then laid his hand upon the young man's head and spoke, "Do not interfere, Saritta! Indeed, one ought not to indulge in one's emotions and sorrow; one must possess self-control, particularly in the presence of the Perfect. This I have taught you. This I have consistently practiced. But comprehend that he is a poet. Saritta, grant him the second initiation."

Recently, a world-record pasta aficionado died in Los Angeles. His useful vocation has long attracted the interest of the locals. He told numerous journalists who interviewed him that he eats one thousand two hundred pounds of pasta a year, that he eats it four times a day at a speed of one mile per minute, and, in this way, the amount of pasta he consumes per year, expressed in meters, is enough to circle the globe eight times. He was discovered lifeless in his room, surrounded by pasta. Doctors determined his demise resulted from chronic overindulgence.

A shameful end - a death akin to that of overfed livestock.

Nonetheless, the local newspaper dedicated an entire article to the pasta aficionado, complete with a portrait. A massive crowd of people escorted his coffin...

A farmer met a heartbreaking end in the vicinity of Los Angeles. His wife ventured out to gather turkey eggs, while he prepared to commence his daily tasks. Suddenly, he was alerted by his wife's harrowing scream. Racing to her aid, he discovered a rattlesnake at her feet, which had already managed to bite her. Without a moment's hesitation, the farmer pressed his lips to his wife's leg and extracted the lethal venom from the wound. Regrettably, there was a small abrasion on his lip, allowing the poison to enter his bloodstream. The next day, the farmer died in excruciating pain, but he perished with the solace of knowing that he had spared his wife from a similar fate and anguish.

A noble death – a selfless act of a loving individual.

Only his wife and a neighbor attended his funeral.

Meanwhile, in the same city of Los Angeles, a dedicated scientist who devoted his life to studying the dreadful and widespread disease, cancer, passed away quietly. As we know, this illness remains largely incurable. He was determined to find a way to eradicate it. His conscience forbade him from experimenting on any living being, so he conducted all experiments, inoculations, and observations exclusively on himself. Throughout his research, he endured fifty surgeries. Having only one eye, one thumb on his left hand, and a single index finger on his right hand, the courageous researcher persisted in his perilous pursuit. Ultimately, he perished at his post.

He died to save those he had never met or seen.

Striving to alleviate humanity's suffering, expecting no reward or gratitude for his work, and serving with his whole heart and body, he focused not on loved ones but on distant and unfamiliar individuals. He did so without even knowing what outcome his sacrifice would yield – a testament to pure selflessness.

No one accompanied his coffin.