In this chapter I propose to string together a number of Tolstoy Farm reminiscences which are rather disjoined and for which therefore I must crave the reader’s indulgence.
A teacher hardly ever had to teach the kind of heterogeneous class that
fell to my lot, containing as it did pupils of all ages and both the sexes,
from boys and girls of about 7 years of age to young men of twenty and
young girls 12 or 13 years old. Some of the boys were wild and mischievous.
What was I to teach this ill-assorted group? How was I to be all things
to all pupils? Again in what language should I talk to all for them? The
Tamil and Telugu children knew their own mother-tongue or English and
a little Dutch. I could speak to the only in English. I divided the class
into two sections, the Gujarati section to be talked to in Gujarati and
the rest in English. As the principal part of the teaching. I arranged
to tell or read to them some interesting stories. I also proposed to bring
them into close mutual contact and to lead them to cultivate a spirit
of friendship and service. Then there was to be imparted some general
knowledge of history and geography and in some cases of arithmetic. Writing
was also taught, and so were some bhajans which formed part of our prayers,
and to which therefore I tried to attract the Tamil children as well.
The boys and girls met freely. My experiment of coeducation on Tolstoy
Farm was the most fearless of its type. I dare not today allow, or train
children to enjoy, the liberty which I had granted the Tolstoy Farm class.
I have often felt that my mind them used to be more innocent than it is
now, and that was due perhaps to my ignorance. Since then I have had bitter
experiences, and have sometimes burnt my fingers badly. Persons whom I
took to be thoroughly innocent have turned out corrupt. I have observed
the roots of evil deep down in my own nature; and timidity has claimed
me for its own.
I do not repent having made the experiment. My conscience bears witness
that it did not do any harm. But as a child who has burnt himself with
hot milk blows even into when my present attitude is one of extra caution.
A man cannot borrow faith in courage from others. The doubter is marked
out of destruction, as the Gita puts it. My faith and courage were at
their highest in Tolstoy Farm. I have been praying to God to permit me
to re-attain that height, but the prayer has not yet been heard, for the
number of such suppliants before the Great White Throne is legion. The
only consolation is that God has as many years as there are suppliants.
I therefore repose full faith in Him and know that my prayer will be accepted
when I have fitted myself for such grace.
This was my experiment. I sent the boys reputed to be mischievous and
the innocent young girls to bathe in the same spot at the same time. I
had fully explained the duty of self-restraint to the children, who were
all familiar with my Satyagraha doctrine, I knew and so did the children,
that I loved them with a mother’s love. The reader will remember
the spring at some distance from the Kitchen. Was it a folly to let the
children meet there for bath and yet to expect them to be innocent? My
eye always followed the girls as a mother’s eye would follow a daughter.
The time was fixed when all the boys and all the girls went together for
a bath. There was an element of safety in the fact that they went in a
body. Solitude was always avoided. Generally I also would be at the spring
at the same time.
All of us slept in an open verandah. The boys and the girls would spread
themselves around me. There was hardly a distance of three feet between
any two beds. Some care was exercised in arranging the order of the beds,
but any amount of such care would have been futile in the case of a wicked
mind. I now see that God alone safeguarded the honour of these boys and
girls. I made the experiment from a belief that boys and girls could thus
live together without harm, and the parents with their boundless faith
in me allowed me to make it.
One day one of the young men made fun of two girls, and the girls themselves
or some child brought me the information. The news made me tremble. I
made inquiries and found that the report was true. I remonstrated with
the young men, but that was not enough. I wished the two girls to have
some sign on their person as a warning to every young man that no evil
eye might be cast upon them, and as a lesson to every girl that no one
dare assail their purity. The passionate Ravana could not so much as touch
Sita with evil intent while Rama was thousands of miles away. What mark
should the girls bear so as to give them a sense of security and at the
same time to sterilize the sinner’s eye? This question kept me awake
for the night. In the morning. I gently suggested to the girls that they
might let me cut off their fine long hair. On the Farm we shaved and cut
the hair of one another, and we therefore kept scissors and clipping machines.
At first, the girls would not listen to me. I had already explained the
situation to the elderly women who could not bear to think of my suggestion
but yet quite understood my motive, and they were both of them noble girls.
One of them is alas! now no more. She was very bright and intelligent.
The other is living and the mistress of a house hold of her own. They
came round after all, and at once the very hand that is narrating this
incident set to cut off their hair. And afterwards analyzed and explained
my procedure before my class, with excellent results, I never heard of
a joke again. The girls in question did not lose in any case; goodness
knows how much they gained. I hoped the young men still remember this
incident and keep their eyes from sin.
Experiments such as I have placed on record are not meant for imitation.
Any teacher who imitated them would be incurring grave risk. I have here
taken note of them only to show how far a man can go in certain circumstances
and to stress the purity of the Satyagraha struggle. This very purity
was a guarantee of its victory. Before launching on such experiments,
a teacher has to be both father and mother to his pupils and to be prepared
for all eventualities whatever, and only the hardest penance can fit him
to conduct them.
This act of mine was not without its effect on the entire life of the
settlers on the Farm. As we had intended to cut down expenses to the barest
minimum, we changed our dress also. In the cities, the Indian men including
the Satyagrahis put on European dress. Such elaborate clothing was not
needed on the Farm. We had all become labourers and therefore put on labourers’
dress but in the European style, viz. workingmen’s trousers and
shirts, which were imitated from prisoners’ uniform. We all used
cheap trousers and shirts which could be had ready made out of coarse
blue cloth. Most of the ladies were good hands at sewing and took charge
of the tailoring department.
As far food we generally had rice, dal, vegetable and rotlis with porridge
occasionally superadded. All this was served in a single dish, which was
not really a dish, but a kind of bowl such as is supplied to prisoners
in jail. We had made wooden spoons on the Farm ourselves. There were three
meals in the day. We had bread and home-made wheaten ‘coffee’1
at six o’clock in the morning, rice, dal and vegetable at eleven,
and wheat pap and milk, or bread and ‘coffee’ at half past
five in the evening. After the evening meal we had prayers at seven or
half past seven. At prayers we sang bhajans and sometimes had readings
from the Ramayana or books on Islam. The bhajans were in English, Hindi
and Gujarati. Sometimes we had one bhajan (Hymn) from each of the three
languages and sometimes only one. Every one retired at 9 o’clock.
Many observed the Ekadashi fast on the Farm. We were joined there by Shri
P.K. Kotval who had much experience of fasting, and some of us followed
him to keep the chaturmas. Ramzan also arrived in the meanwhile. There
were Musalman youngsters among us, and we felt we must encourage them
to keep the fasts. We arranged for them to have meals in the evening as
well as in the early morning. Porridge etc. were prepared for them in
the evening. There was no meal of course, nor did anyone ask for it. To
keep the Musalman friends company the rest of us had only one meal a day
in the evening. As a rule we finished our evening meal before sunset;
so the only difference was that the others finished their supper about
when the Musalman boys commenced theirs. These boys were so courteous
that they did not put anyone to extra trouble although they were observing
fasts, and the fact that the non-muslim children supported them in the
matter of fasting left a good impression on all. I do not remember that
there ever was a quarrel much less a split, between the Hindu and the
Musalman boys on the score of religion. On the other hand I know that
although staunch in their own beliefs, they all treated one another with
respect and assisted one another in their respective religious observances.
Although we were living far from the amenities of city life, we did not
keep even the commonest applications against the possible attacks of illness.
I had in those days as much faith in the nature cure of disease as I had
in the innocence of children. I felt that there should not be disease
as we lived a simple life, but if there was, I was confident of dealing
with it. My booklet on health is a note-book of my experiments and of
my living faith in those days. I was proud enough to believe that illness
for me was out of the question. I held that all kinds of disease could
be cured by earth and water treatment, fasting or changes in diet. There
was not a single case of illness on the Farm, in which we used drugs or
called in a doctor. There was an old man from North India 70 years of
age who suffered from asthma and cough, but whom I cured simply by changes
in diet and water treatment. But I have now lost the courage, and in view
of any two serious illnesses I feel that I have forfeited even the right,
to make such experiments.
Gokhale arrived in South Africa while we were still living on the Farm.
His tour must be described in another chapter, but I will place here on
record a half sweet, half bitter reminiscence. The reader has now some
idea of the sort of life we were leading. There was no cot on the Farm,
but we borrowed one of Gokhale. There was no room where he could enjoy
full privacy. For sitting accommodation we had nothing beyond the benches
in our school. Even so, how could we resist the temptation of bringing
Gokhale in spite of his delicate health to the Farm? And how could he
help seeing it, either? I was foolish enough to imagine that Gokhale would
be able to mile and a half from the station to the Farm. I had asked him
beforehand, and he had agreed to everything without bestowing any thought
upon it, thanks to his simplicity and overwhelming confidence in me. It
rained that day, as fate would have it, and I was not in a position suddenly
to make any special arrangement. I have never forgotten the trouble to
which I put Gokhale that day in my ignorant affection. The hardship was
too much for him to bear and he caught a chill. We could not take him
to the kitchen and dining hall. He had been put up in Mr. kallenbach’s
room. His dinner would get cold we brought it from the kitchen to his
room. I prepared special soap, and kotval special bread for him, but these
could not be taken to him hot. We managed as best we could. Gokhale uttered
not a syllable, but I understood from his face what a fully had committed.
When Gokhale came to know that all of us slept on the floor, he removed
the cot which had been brought for him and had his own bed too spread
on the floor. This whole night was a night of repentance for me. Gokhale
had a rule in life, which seemed to me a bad rule. He would not permit
anyone expect a servant to wait upon him. He had no servant with him during
this tour. Mr. Kallenbach and I entreated him to let us massage his feet.
But he would not let us even touch him, and half jocularly, half angrily
said: ‘You all seem to think that you have born to suffer hardships
and discomforts, and people like myself have been born to be pampered
by you. You must suffer today the punishment for this extremism of yours.
I will not let you even touch me. Do you think that you will go out to
attend to nature’s needs and at the same time keep a commode for
me? I will bear any amount of hardship but I will humble your pride.’
These words were to us like a thunderbolt, and deeply grieved Mr. Kallenbach
and me. The only consolation was, that Gokhale wore a smile on his face
all the while. Krishna no doubt was often deeply offended by Arjuna, ‘unknowing
of His majesty and careless in the fondness of his love,’ but he
soon forgot such incidents. Gokhale remembered only our will to serve,
though he did not accord us the high privilege of serving him. The deeply
affectionate letter he wrote me from Mombasa is still imprinted upon my
heart. Gokhale bore everything cheerfully, but till the last never accepted
the service which it was in our power to render. He had to take the food
etc., from our hands, but that he could not help.
The next morning he allowed no rest either to himself or to us. He corrected
all his speeches which we proposed to publish in book form. When he had
to write anything, he was in the habit of walking to and from and thinking
it out. He had to write a small letter and I thought that he would soon
have done with it. But no. As I twitted him upon it, he read me a little
homily: ‘You do not know my ways of life. I will not do even the
least little thing in a hurry. I will think about it and consider the
central area. I will next deliberate as to the language suited to the
subject and then set to write. If everyone did as I do, what a huge saving
of time would there be? And the nation would be saved from the avalanche
of half-baked ideas which now threatens to overwhelm her.’
As the reminiscences of Tolstoy Farm would be incomplete without an account
of Gokhale’s visit thereto, so would they be if I omitted to say
something about the character and conduct of Mr. Kallenbach. It was really
a wonder how he lived on Tolstoy farm among our people as if he were one
of us. Gokhale was not the man to be attracted by ordinary things. But
even he felt strongly drawn to the revolutionary change in Kallenbach’s
life. Kallenbach had been brought up in the lap of luxury and had never
known what privation was. In fact, indulgence had been his religion. He
had had his fill of all the pleasures of life, and he had never hesitated
to secure for his comfort everything that money could buy.
It was no commonplace for such a man to live, move and have his being
on Tolstoy farm, and to become one with the Indian settlers. This was
an agreeable surprise for the Indians. Some Europeans classed Kallenbach
either as a fool or a lunatic, while others honoured him for his spirit
of renunciation. Kallenbach never felt his renunciation to be painful.
In fact, he enjoyed it even more than he had enjoyed the pleasures of
life before. He would be transported with rapture while describing the
bliss of a simple life, and for a moment his hearers would be tempted
to go in for it. He mixed so lovingly with the young as well as the old,
that separation from him even for a short time left a clearly felt void
in their lives. Mr. Kallenbach was very fond of fruit trees and therefore
he reserved gardening as his own portfolio. Every morning he would engage
children as well as grown-up people in tending the fruit trees. He would
make them work hard, but he had such a cheerful temper and smiling face,
that everyone loved to work with him. Whenever a party of tourists left
the Farm for Johannesburg at 2 a.m., Mr. Kallanbach would always be one
Mr. Kallenbach and I had frequent talks on religion, which usually centered
on fundamentals like non-violence or love, truth, and the like. When I
said that it was a sin to kill snakes and such other animals, Mr. Kallenbach
was shocked to hear it as well as my numerous other European friends.
But in the end he admitted the truth of that principle in the abstract.
At the very beginning of my intercourse with him, Mr. Kallenbach had seen
the propriety and the duty of carrying out in practice every principle
of which he was convinced intellectually, and therefore he had been able
to effect momentous changes in his life without a moment’s hesitation.
Now if it was improper to kill serpents and the like, we must cultivate
their friendship, thought Mr. Kallenbach. He therefore first collected
books on snakes in order to identify different species of reptiles. He
there read that not all snakes are poisonous and some of them actually
serve as protectors of field crops. He taught us all to recognize different
kinds of snakes and at last tamed a huge cobra which was found on the
Farm. Mr. Kallenbach fed it every day with his own hands. I gently argued
with him: ‘Although you do all this in a friendly spirit, your friendliness
may not be quite clear to the cobra, especially as your kindness is not
unalloyed with fear. Neither you nor I have the courage to play with it
if was free, and what we should really cultivate is courage of that stamp.
Therefore, though there is friendliness, there is not love in this act
of taming the cobra. Our behavior should be such that the cobra can see
through it. We see every day that all animals grasp at once whether the
other party loves or fears them. Again you do not think the cobra to be
venomous, and have imprisoned it in order to study its ways and habits.
This is a kind of self-indulgence for which there should be no room in
the case of real friendship.’
My argument appealed to Mr. Kallenbach, but he could not bring himself
all at once to release the cobra. I did not exercise any pressure upon
him. I too was taking interest in the life of the cobra, and the children,
of course, enjoyed it immensely. No one was allowed to harass the cobra,
which however was casting about for some means of escape. Whether the
door of the cage was inadvertently left open, or whether the cobra managed
to open it, in a couple of days Mr. Kallenbach found the cage empty as
he one morning proceeded to call upon his friend. Mr. Kallenbach was glad
of it and so was I. But thanks to this taming experiment, snakes became
a frequent subject of our talk. Mr. Kallenbach brought to the Farm a poor
and disabled German names Allbreht who was so hump-backed that he could
not walk without supporting himself on a stick. Albrecht had boundless
courage, and being an educated man, took deep interest in recondite problems.
He too had become one with the Indian settlers and mixed freely with all.
He began fearlessly to play with snakes. He would bring young snakes in
his hand and let them play on his palm. If our stay on Tolstoy Farm had
been further prolonged, goodness knows what would have been the upshot
of Albrecht’s adventures.
As a result of these experiments we did not fear snakes as much as we
otherwise might have, but it must not be supposed that no one on the Farm
feared serpents or that there was a total prohibition against killing
them. To have a conviction that there is violence or sin in a certain
course of conduct is one thing; to have the power of acting up to that
conviction is quite another. A person who fears snakes and who is not
ready to resign his own life cannot avoid killing snakes in case of emergency.
I remembered one such incident, which occurred on the Farm. The reader
must already have seen that the Farm was pretty well infested with snakes.
There was no human population on the Farm when we occupied it, and it
had been in this deserted condition for some time. One day a snake was
found in Mr. Kallenbach’s own room at such a place that it seemed
impossible to drive it away or to catch it. One of the students saw it,
and calling me there, asked me what was to be done. He wanted my permission,
to kill it. He could have killed it without such permission, but the settlers,
whether students or others, would not generally take such a step without
consulting me. I saw that it was my duty to permit the student to kill
the snake, and I permitted him. Even as I am writing this, I do not feel
that I did anything wrong in granting the permission. I had not the courage
to seize the serpent with the hand or otherwise to remove the danger to
the settlers, and I have not cultivated such courage to this day.
Needless to say, there was on the farm an ebb and flow of Satyagrahis,
some of whom would be expecting to go to prison while others had been
released from it. Once it so happened that there arrived at the Farm two
Satyagrahis who had been released by the Magistrate on personal recognizance
and who had to attend the court the next day to receive the sentence.
They were engrossed in talk, while time was up for the last train they
must catch, and it was a question whether they would succeed in taking
that train. They were both young men and good athletes. They ran for all
that they were worth along with some of us who wanted to see them off.
While still on the way, I heard the whistle of the train as it steamed
into the station. When there was a second whistle indicating its departure,
we had reached the precincts of the station. The young men increased their
speed every moment, and I lagged behind them. The train started. Fortunately,
the station master saw them running up and stopped the moving train, thus
enabling them to take it after all. I tendered my thanks to the station
master when I reached the station. Two points emerge out of this incident;
first, the eagerness of the Satyagrahis in seeking jail and in fulfilling
their promises, and secondly, the sweet relations cultivated by the Satyagrahis
with the local officers. If the young men had missed that train, they
could not have attended the court the next day. No surety had been required
of them, nor had they been asked to deposit any money with the court.
They had been released only on the word of gentlemen. The Satyagrahis
had acquired such prestige that magistrates did not think necessary to
ask them for bail as they were courting jail. The young Satyagrahis therefore
were deeply pained at the prospect of missing the train, and ran as swiftly
as the wind. At the commencement of the struggle Satyagrahis were somewhat
harassed by officials, and the jail authorities in some places were unduly
severe. But as the movement advanced we found that the bitterness of the
officials was softened and in some cases even changed to sweetness. And
where there was long continued intercourse with them, they even began
to assist is like the station master I have referred to. The reader must
not imagine that Satyagrahis bribed these officials in any shape or form
in order to secure amenities from them. The Satyagrahis never thought
of purchasing such irregular facilities. But where facilities were offered
through courtesy, they were freely accepted, and the Satyagrahis had been
enjoying such facilities in many places. If a station master is ill-disposed,
he can harass passengers in a variety of ways, keeping himself all the
while within the four corners of the rules and regulations. No complaint
can be preferred against such harassment. On the other hand of if the
official is well disposed, he can grant many facilities without violating
the rules. All such facilities we had been able to secure from the stationmaster,
Lawler, and the because of the courtesy, the patience and the capacity
for self-suffering of the Satyagrahis.
It will not perhaps be amiss here to take note of an irrelevant incident.
I have been fond for about the last thirty-five years of making experiments
in dietetics from the religious, economic and hygienic standpoints. This
predilection for food reform still persists. People around me would naturally
be influenced by my experiments. ‘Side by side with dietetics, I
made experiments in treating diseases with natural curative agents only
such as earth and water and without recourse to drugs. When I practiced
as barrister, cordial relations were established with my clients so that
we looked upon one another almost as members of the same family. The clients
therefore made me a partner in their joys and sorrows. Some of them sought
my advice being familiar with my experiments in nature cure. Stray patients
of this class would sometimes arrive at Tolstoy Farm. One of these was
Lutavan, an aged client who first came from North India as an indentured
labourer. He was over seventy years old and suffered from chronic asthma
and cough. He had given long trials to vaidyaas’ powders and doctors’
mixtures. In those days I had boundless faith in the efficacy of my indeed
to treat him but to try my experiments upon him if he lived on the farm
and observed all my conditions. Lutavan complied with my conditions. One
of these was that he should give up tobacco to which he was strongly addicted.
I made him fast for 24 hours. At noon every day I commenced giving him
a kuhne bath in the sun, as the weather then was not extra warm. For food
he had a little rice, some olive oil, honey, and along with honey, porridge
and sweet oranges sometimes and at other times grapes and wheaten coffee.
Salt and all condiments whatever were avoided. Lutavan slept in the same
building as myself but in the inner apartment. For bed everyone was given
two blankets, one for spreading and the other for covering purposes, and
a wooden pillow. A week passed. There was an accession of energy in Lutavan’s
body. His asthma and cough gave less trouble, but he had more fits at
night than by day. I suspected he was smoking secretly, and I asked him
if he did. Lutavan said he did not. A couple of days passed and as still
there was no improvement, I determined to watch Lutavan secretly. Everyone
slept on the floor, and the place was full of snakes. Mr. Kallenbach had
therefore given me an electric torch and kept one himself. I always slept
with this torch by my side. One night I resolved to lie in the bed awake.
My bed was spread on the verandah just near the door. Lutavan slept inside
but also near the door. Lutavan coughed at midnight, lighted a cigarette
and began to smoke. I slowly went up to his bed and switched on the torch.
Lutavan understood everything and became nervous. He ceased smoking, stood
up and touched my feet. ‘I have done a great wrong,’ he said.
‘I will never smoke again henceforth. I have deceived you. Please
excuse me.’ So saying he almost began to sob. I consoled him and
said that it was in his interest not to smoke. His cough should have been
cured according to my calculations, and when I found that he was still
suffering from it, I had suspected that he was smoking secretly. Lutavan
gave up smoking. His asthma and cough grew less severe in two or three
days, and in a month he was perfectly cured. He was now full of vigour
and took his leave of us.
The station master’s son, a child of two years, had an attack typhoid.
This gentleman too knew about my curative methods, and sought my advice.
On the first day I gave the child no food at all, and from the second
day onwards only half a banana well mashed with a spoonful of olive oil
and a few drops of sweet orange juice. At night I applied a cold mud poultice
to the child’s abdomen, and in this case too my treatment was successful.
It is possible that the doctor’s diagnosis was not a case of typhoid.
I made many such experiments on the Farm, and I do not remember to have
failed in even a single case. But today I would not venture to employ
the same treatment. I would now shudder to have to give banana and olive
oil in a case of typhoid. In 1918, I had an attack of dysentery myself
and I failed to cure it. And I cannot say to this very day, whether it
is due to my want of self-confidence or to the difference in climate that
the same treatment which was effective in South Africa Is not equally
successful in India. But this I know that the home treatment of disease
and the simplicity of our life on Tolstoy farm were responsible for a
saving of at least two to three lakhs of public money. The settlers learned
to look upon one another as members of the same family, the Satyagrahis
secured a pure place of refuge, little scope was left for dishonesty or
hypocrisy and the wheat was separated from the tares. The dietetic experiments
thus far detailed were made from a hygienic standpoint, but I conducted
a most important experiment upon myself which was purely spiritual in
I had pondered deeply and read widely over the question whether as vegetarians
we had any right to take milk. But when I was living on the farm, some
book or newspaper fell into my hands, in which I read about the inhuman
treatment accorded to cows in Calcutta in order to extract the last drop
of milk from them, and came across a description of the cruel and terrible
process of phuka. I was once discussing with Mr. Kallenbach the necessity
for talking milk, and in course of the discussion, I told him about this
horrible practice, pointed out several other spiritual advantages flowing
from the rejection of milk, and observed that it was desirable to give
up milk it was possible. Mr. Kallenbach with his usual spirit of a knight-errant
was ready at once to launch upon the experiment of doing without milk,
as he highly approved of my observations. The same day both he and I gave
up milk, and in the end we came to restrict ourselves to a diet of fresh
and dried fruit, having eschewed all cooked food as well. I may not here
go into the later history of this experiment or tell how it ended, but
I may say this, that during five years of a purely fruitarian life I never
felt weak, nor did I suffer from any disease. Again during the same period
I possessed the fullest capacity for bodily labour, so much so that one
day I walked 55 miles on foot, and 40 miles was an ordinary day’s
journey for me. I am firmly of opinion that this experiment yielded excellent
spiritual results. It was always been a matter of regret for me that I
was compelled somewhat to modify my fruitarian diet, and if I were free
from my political preoccupations, even at this age of my life and at a
risk to my body I would revert to it today further to explore its spiritual
possibilities. The lack of spiritual insight in doctors and vaidyas has
also been an obstacle in my path.
But I must now close this chapter of pleasant and important reminiscences.
Such dangerous experiments could have their place only in a struggle of
which self-purification was the very essence. Tolstoy Farm proved to be
a centre of spiritual purification and penance for the final campaign.
I have serious doubts as to whether the struggle could have been prosecuted
for eight years, whether we could have secured larger funds, and whether
the thousands of men who participated in the last phase of the struggle
would have borne their share in it, if there had been no Tolstoy Farm.
Tolstoy Farm was never placed in the limelight, yet an institution which
deserved in attracted public sympathy to itself. The Indians saw that
the Tolstoy Farmers were doing what they looked upon in the light of hardship.
This public confidence was a great asset to the movement when it was organized
afresh on a large scale in 1913. One can never tell whether such assets
give an account of themselves, and if yes, when. But I do not entertain
and would ask the reader not to entertain, a shadow of a doubt that such
latent assets do in God’s good time become patent.