Juliet: June 13 — Kind, tender, and emotional hearts

The next day, 13 June, as usual I went very early to the Master’s house — so early that no one was there — I mean, no visitors. Some of the Persians of course were with Him: Valiy’u’llah Khan, Ahmad and Mirza ‘Ali-Akbar. I found them in the lower hall, the English basement. The Master was sitting in the big chair by the window. He called me to a seat opposite, then began to speak, smiling.

“Juliet is absolutely truthful. For this I love her very much. She conceals nothing from me.”

“It would be useless, my Lord,” I said, “to try to conceal anything from You. I could hide nothing.”

“That is true,” said the Master, raising one hand. “Nothing; nothing.”

Soon He rose. “Stay here,” He told me, and went out with Ahmad.

By the time He returned a crowd had gathered. He gave a few private interviews upstairs, then came down and, sitting by the window, talked to all the people. I think the strongest image in my mind is and will always be the holy figure of the Master sitting in the rays of the sun at that window.

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 thirteenth 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 heart have you, Juliet?” He laughed. “What kind of a heart have you?”

“Oh, what kind of 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 will 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!”