The ashram has begun construction of a utopia city for 50,000 souls. Those chosen few will here study, practice and live the yogic philosophy of the Founder. The architect's plan gives the impression of a galactic whirling dervish. Very impressive. One must congratulate them. The problem: Can mystic philosophers succeed in such a huge practical enterprise?

To begin, as Her Ladyship has already discovered from her ashram acquaintance, they announced their project before purchasing all the needed land. Only here and there is a field with the stone ashram marker. Now the price of the land surrounding these has risen far beyond the reach of the ashram purse.

Then another says that this unbought land is not and never was for sale; it belongs to the Tamil peasants.

Three courses of action are thus open to the ashram. (1) Wait and pray that an American millionaire will die and leave them his millions (their best hope). (2) Pray for the governments of the world to contribute generously and prestigiously to this ashram scheme (in my opinion not very likely, but they think it imminent). (3) Ask the Indian government to confiscate the Tamil peasants' land and give it free to the ashram. Tired of waiting and praying, they attempted this third plan of action. Hence the very bad feelings of the Tamils toward the ashram, even though the plan failed.

The city of Ice Cream (I use for a name the diabolical opposite) is located in the hottest, driest place imaginable. Even the few palms give no shade, the leaves having all been taken for making roofs. The land is clay fields, sand and erosion. In monsoon season it is mud — impossible to ride bicycles. In summer it is so hot the mind grows gaudy flowers. Crazed in this way some settlers tried to dam one of the erosion gullies for a lake. During months they carried clay on their heads with the Tamil labourers. A strong dam was built (hélas, over a spring). The first rain of June carried it away.

I am rather impressed by this enormous undertaking. A city with no government, where human beings can live according to their philosophy, is phantastisch. Her Ladyship hates the whole idea. How to have such a city for some "snobs" when the Tamil people live in such squalor and filth? I think this is beside the point. Then she says it will never work, that already there are hatreds and jealousies among the settlers, even different settlements forming, the Americans here, the French over there, etc. It is becoming rather a holiday camp for foreign whites, etc. She does not think the city can ever be built, should never be built. Governing, she points out, has been reduced to nasty messages tacked by members upon a bulletin board.

This I call a significant lack of insight. Tom is also 100% in favour of Ice Cream.

"Mother wills it, Chickie. Ergo, it will be."

Since throwing the I Ching coins two days ago, Her Ladyship has made no move to leave Villefranche. Tom has caught cold sleeping on the roof so she is thinking of moving into the hotel next door. The guesthouse is rather full, and soon I too will have to move out. The reason for these crowds is an International Youth Conference to be held here between Christmas and the New Year.

"Screw my cold. Stay in my room," Tom tells Deborah.

If she would leave Villefranche now, I would leave with her. Would she accompany me? What are her feelings toward me? I only know that sometimes Her Ladyship will look at me as if I have just floated to the surface of a green temple pond and have not yet been identified. Very unencouraging! When I recite to her my favorite passages from Himmler speeches (most comical), learned from the record player by my bed at night far away in G--, she says, "Flaminio, Himmler was a very bad man. How come you recite him?"

How come? How come, Your Ladyship, you ask me this? How come you don't try to guess, grey eyes? How come you are you and I am I? How come we are both in this strange country as exiles?

And now, forgive me, a sudden digression. Today was perhaps the most terrible and moving of my life. In only some hours I have looked into the bottom of Hell, then out again. Here is the story.

At perhaps eleven o'clock this morning, our hero was walking along the sea promenade in full parade uniform (he had been on official tour through the ashram library — third time). As he strolled he noticed child beggars waiting outside the window of the Continental Hotel Bar. They were looking very discouraged until seeing this fine gentleman. Usually he would try to avoid these fellows, but today decided to wave his baton and have them disappear, a not so easy task. By chance he looked inside and saw Tom and Deborah drinking gin and Fantas. They did not see him. Their backs were turned toward the windows so as absolutely not to see the beggar children. Conningsfield entered the bar and sat down very near them, on the other side of a potted palm. Here he could hear them without being seen.

"You know how it goes," Deborah was saying. "The Mariner shoots the albatross, thus bringing bad luck to the ship. The wind and mist disappear and the ship stops under a broiling sun. They hang the dead albatross around the Mariner's neck as punishment. Finally everyone aboard is dead except him.

"He looks down over the side of the ship at the horrible worms and crawly snakes. He feels so low he can't even pray. Then he notices that even these slimy sea snakes have a beauty, and suddenly he loves and blesses them. At which the albatross falls from his neck, the ship starts to move, and the dead sailors arise to steer it. He's saved through utter humility, through being able to love even these most lowly sea snakes."

As Her Ladyship spoke, our hero's heart was filled with emotion. How urgent she sounded, rather as if this poem contained all the wisdom of life. But what, he wondered, could this American girl know of such deep matters? Was he then right about her, that she had a soul, could be saved, was seeking salvation? Was it too much to hope that he, Flaminio de Conningsfield, might find a way to help her?

"That's where it's at," said Tom agreeably. "That's what we're all here for, trying to be saved through love. The Mother saves. She loves us and we love her."

"But it doesn't work that way," objected Deborah. "She's saved because she's able to love miserable us. But you and I aren't saved if we love her. It's easy to love someone strong and loveable. But to be really saved, like the Ancient Mariner, we have to be able to love the slimiest creatures of the earth. I mean, what if one could really love and bless someone like, oh, say, Flaminio?"

Conningsfield's brain was now in absolute maelstrom conditions. He had not yet paid for his glass of Fanta, so how could he run from the place without causing uproar? Also he must listen, hoping to hear it was all a joke.

"But Chickie, that's what Mother is all about. We give ourselves unto her and she sees to it that we get saved. Thus we don't have to go around shooting albatrosses, which are anyway probably under environmental protection. We work it out through the yoga."

"I don't think I'd be able to give myself to her," said Deborah, "even if I wanted to."

"You haven't met her yet. You can't know. Do you really think you could learn to love someone like Flaminio without Mother's help? I mean, how humble can you get?"

Conningsfield, half in tears, could hear no more. Putting any amount of rupees on the table, he rose from his chair and rushed out into the street. It was less merciless there. Only the noonday sun and the beggars.

How down is the bottom? How low does the Almighty throw us so to test us and finally save us? Compared to Conningsfield a sea snake was tall as a horse today. Never had he felt such despair and shame.

Returning to my room like a madman I threw myself on my knees and tried to pray, but the words would not come. It was like suffocating in wet sand. Lowly, slimy, miserable Flaminio. Flaminio sea snake. Flaminio psychopath. How could I ever forgive her? Impossible. I thought that I would be ill on the floor and could imagine the Tamil servant on hands and knees cleaning up the vomit. Yet how could one so low as I thus debase another human creature? Nor would I stoop to clean it up myself (too messy). Therefore better some control regarding the dumping of the stomach.

Flaminio Bonaparte. Slowly I got to my feet. Fortunately I am not an ordinary man. No, I am not Napoleon, but neither a commoner. No matter how great my personal grief, I am still able to see beyond it to the sorrows of others. Sometimes it is an easy matter, but another time will take all my mind and spiritual force. Today, for reassurance, I thought on my dear home and parents. No comfort there! So next I thought of the poetry and philosophy so dear to my heart. Could such a lover of poetry be betrayed by a poem? Never. She had misread the meaning, surely that was all. I vowed to go the library, find the poem and one day explain it to her. A human man cannot be a serpent. Only a black devil from Hell can so transform himself.

And so at last I, by way of such thoughts, was able to once again love and bless Deborah, this poor girl wanderer. But how strange that the one person in the world upon whom she sets her hopes for salvation is a Soldier of the Fortune, a self-exile who goes his own way with time for so few. Yet she said she must love Flaminio or she will not be saved upon this earth. His duty then is clear. Flaminio de Conningsfield must put aside his personal chagrin and find a way to save this damsel in distress.

(Only I hear some saying: "Ha, this madman Conningsfield has once again deceived himself. At any cost he will escape the insult." To these I reply: "Although he is up again, the soul cannot descend so low as his this day without some scorching.")

Last evening, while Tom went to Samadhi where he kneels by the Founder's tomb (these Catholics are knee-trained from childhood), I spoke to Her Ladyship for nearly two hours. She showed no signs of absolute revulsion, so I began to take less seriously her words of yesterday morning. But as usual she could not look me in the eye. I think that this is in part my fault (1) because of the mirror eye spectacles I often wear (2) because my naked eyes are very timid, which accounts for the spectacles. Therefore it is not a case of inferiority complexes, etc., with the mirrors.

I absolutely must leave here with this lady. Since yesterday, the idea of her salvation has been growing in my mind. Left alone to travel blindly onwards, she will eventually kill herself in a moment of desperation. When I learned of her desire to commit suicide my nose twitched like a lion's. A weak one straggling behind the herd? Catchable. So does the brave lion select his supper. No loss of prestige or self-esteem.

Perhaps you are now wondering if I intend to save her or eat her! I must laugh. Although a soldier, destruction is never my way unless I am faced with rogues. Regarding Her Ladyship, I only wonder how I can make myself indispensable. Wait on her hand and foot, My Lady this, My Lady that? Spoil her with sweets and expensive gifts? No. It is not for philosophers to stoop to flattery and bribe (also very difficult when the pockets are empty. I wear my exile trousers, so no wonder).

It is clear that if I can be near her at the right moment, when her desperation is absolute, my chance will come.