I was wakened this morning [April 11, 1912] 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! But
at once I remembered another time when I had seen the waning moon hanging,
then, above palm trees. I was on the roof of the House in ‘Akká with the Master
and Munavvar Khánum. The Master was pointing to the moon. “The East. The moon.
No!” He said. “I am the Sun of the West.”
At dawn, kneeling at my window, I prayed in the swelling
light for all this land, now sleeping, that it would wake to received its Lord;
conscious, as I prayed, of an overshadowing Sacred Presence: a great, glorious, burning Presence—the Sun
of Love rising. This fiery dawn was but a pale symbol of such a rising.
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 harbour misted over. At last, in the
mist we saw: a phantom ship! And at that
very moment some newsboys ran through the crowd, waving Extras. “The Pope is
dead! The Pope is dead!” they shouted. The Pope was not dead. The Extras had
been printed only on a rumour; but what a symbol, and how exactly timed!
Closer 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 marvellous, witty old man, who had come with the
Master to prepare His meals.
He told us later that when the ship was approaching the
harbour 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. Suddenly I had a great glimpse. In the dim hall beyond the deck, striding to
and fro near the door, was One with a step that shook you! Just that one stride, charged with power, the
sweep of a robe, a majestic head, turban crowned—that was all I saw, but my
heart stopped.
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 Kinneys’ 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.
A few nights ago Marjorie and I had a double dream. In her
dream, I was out in space with her. In mine, we were in a room together and the
Master had just entered it. He walked straight up to Marjorie, put His two
hands on her shoulders and pressed and pressed till she sank to her knees. And
while she was sinking, she lifted her face to His and everything in her seemed
to be dying except her soul, which looked out through her raised eyes in a sort
of agony of recognition.
Today, after one glance at the Master, this was just the way
she looked.
“Now,” she said, “I know.”
As the Master was stepping into the car, He turned
and—smiled at us.
- Juliet Thompson
(Entry April 11, 1912, ‘The Diary of Juliet Thmopson’)
