While it is now fairly certain that Swamiji and Mme Calve did not meet in Chicago in 1894, there is at present no certainty regarding what year their first meeting took place. It is thought by some that it was in November of 1899. In opposition to this is the fact that the circumstances surrounding Swamiji's stay in Chicago at that time were quite different from those described in Calve's memoirs; for one thing, he was not then lecturing. Another possibility is that they first met in the early part of April of 1896, when, also, they were, for a few days at least, both in Chicago, Calve singing and Swamiji holding classes. It is possible that he was living at this time with Mr. and Mrs. Milward Adams, who almost certainly knew the famous opera star, Mr. Adams being manager of the Auditorium Opera House. On the whole, however, the date of Calve's first meeting with Swamiji is still so uncertain that I believe it best to let the story remain as a part of this volume until some conclusive evidence shows us where it more properly belongs.

In whatever year the following story took place, we are indebted For it to the late Mme Paul Verdier of Paris and San Francisco, for it was to her that Calve confided more details of her first meeting with Swamiji than she chose to tell in her published memoirs. Shortly after hearing the account, Mme Verdier jotted down Calve's words, and it is these notes that she shared with us.

When she first met Swamiji, Emma Calve was visiting Chicago with the Metropolitan Opera Company. In the 1890s she was at the peak of her career, enjoying a tremendous suc¬cess in Europe and New York with her dramatic interpretation of the role of Carmen. The world was at her feet; she was entertained, as are most celebrities, by the cream of society, and had become friendly with whoever it was Swamiji was staying with at the time (most likely not the Hales). But Calve, the toast of two continents, was possessed of a temperament that rarely makes for happiness. Tempestuous, headstrong, and sensuous, she was, it would seem, frequently involved in emotional attachments. The most recent and most deeply felt of these had just come to an unhappy end, leaving her desolate. Her only comfort was her daughter, who had accompanied her to Chicago and upon whom she lavished her love. The following is Mme Calve's story of her first meeting with Swamiji and of the circumstances surrounding it, as recounted in Calve's autobiography and in Mme Verdier's notes:

My Life: . . . [Swamiji] was lecturing in Chicago one year when I was there; and as I was at that time greatly depressed in mind and body, I decided to go to him.

Mme Verdier's Notes: She [Calve] told me that one evening at the opera where she was singing Carmen her voice had never been so beautiful, and although she Felt nervous going to the theatre, she had after the first act a tremendous success._x000d_ During the first intermission she suddenly felt terribly depressed and thought she would not continue the second act, but with a great effort she succeeded in getting ready, and although she had the impression she would not be able to sing, she sang magnificently. Right after the second act, coming back to her dressing room she almost collapsed and asked the manager to announce she was ill. She was more depressed than before and had difficulty in breathing. The manager and people around her insisted so, that finally she continued and was almost carried to the stage for the last act. She told me that at that minute she made the greatest effort of her life to finish the performance. She also said that it was the day she sang her best and the public gave her a tremendous ovation. She ran to her dressing room without waiting for the applause, and when she saw several people and the manager waiting for her with sad faces, she knew something tragic had happened.

The tragedy was that her daughter, who had been in a house of a friend that evening, was dead, having been burned to death during the performance of Carmen. Calve collapsed.

Then came the period of days during which she wanted to commit suicide. Her friend Mrs. X was constantly with her, trying to comfort her, asking, begging her to come to her house to see Swamiji. Calve constantly refused. She told me that her only thought was to commit suicide by throwing herself in the lake, and each time as though in a daze she found herself on the road to Swamiji's house. She said it was like awaking from a dream. And each time she came back home. Finally, the fourth or fifth time, she found herself on the threshold of her friend's house, the butler opening the door. She went in and sat in a deep chair in the living room. She was there for a while as in a dream, she said, when she heard a voice coming from the next room saying, "Come, my child. Don't be afraid," And automatically she got up and entered into the study where Swamiji was sitting behind a large table desk.

My Life: . . . Before going I had been told not to speak until he addressed me. When I entered the room, I stood before him in silence for a moment. He was seated in a noble attitude of meditation, his robe of saffron yellow falling in straight lines to the floor, his head swathed in a turban bent forward, his eyes on the ground. After a pause he spoke without looking up._x000d_ "My child," he said, "What a troubled atmosphere you have about you, Be calm. It is essential."_x000d_ Then in a quiet voice, untroubled and aloof, this man who did not even know my name talked to me of my secret problems and anxieties. He spoke of things that I thought were unknown even to my nearest friends. It seemed miraculous, supernatural. "How do you know all this?" I asked at last. "Who has talked of me to you?"_x000d_ He looked at me with his quiet smile as though I were a child who had asked a foolish question._x000d_ "No one has talked to me," he answered gently. "Do you think that it is necessary? I read in you as in an open book: '_x000d_ Finally it was time for me to leave._x000d_ "You must forget," he said as I rose. "Become gay and happy again. Build up your health. Do not dwell in silence upon your sorrows. Transmute your emotions into some form of external expression. Your spiritual health requires it. Your art demands it "

I left him deeply impressed by his words and his personality. He seemed to have emptied my brain of all its feverish complexities and placed there instead his clear and calming thoughts. I became once again vivacious and cheerful, thanks to the effect of his powerful will. He did not use any of the hypnotic or mesmeric influences. It was the strength of his character, the purity and intensity of his purpose that carried conviction. It seemed to me, when I came to know him better, that he lulled one's chaotic thoughts into a state of peaceful acquiescence, so that one could give complete and undivided attention to his words.

(Records of the death of Mme Calve's daughter would, of course, help us to determine the year of this interview, but any such records seem to be as unavailable as are records of the daughter's birth. Indeed, as has been pointed out by skeptics, one can only take Mme Calve's of - the record word for it that she had a daughter-but who could have known better than she?)

Mr. X, in whose home Swamiji was staying in Chicago, was a partner or an associate in some business with John D. Rockefeller. Many times John D. heard his friends talking about this extraordinary and wonderful Hindu monk who was staying with them, and many times he had been invited to meet Swamiji, but, for one reason or another, always refused. At that time Rockefeller was not yet at the peak of his fortune, but was already powerful and strong-willed, very difficult to handle and a hard man to advise.

But one day, although he did not want to meet Swamiji, he was pushed to it by an impulse and went directly to the house of his friends, brushing aside the butler who opened the door and saying that he wanted to see the Hindu monk.

The butler ushered him into the living room, and, not waiting to be announced, Rockefeller entered into Swamiji's adjoining study and was much surprised, I presume, to see Swamiji behind his writing table not even lifting his eyes to see who had entered.

After a while, as with Calve, Swamiji told Rockefeller much of his past that was not known to any but himself, and made him understand that the money he had already accumulated was not his, that he was only a channel and that his duty was to do good to the world-that God had given him all his wealth in order that he might have an opportunity to help and do good to people.

Rockefeller was annoyed that anyone dared to ta1k to him that way and tell him what to do. He left the room in irritation, not even saying goodbye. But about a week after, again without being announced, he entered Swamiji's study and, finding him the same as before, threw on his desk a paper which told of his plans to donate an enormous sum of money toward the financing of a public institution.

"Well, there you are," he said. "You must be satisfied now, and you can thank me for it "_x000d_ Swamiji didn't even lift his eyes, did not move. Then taking the paper, he quietly read it, saying: "It is for you to thank me." That was all. This was Rockefeller's first large donation to the public welfare.

The reader can make of this what he will. Except for the fact that it was in the mid-1890s that Rockefeller entered upon his career of philanthropy, there is nothing in the published accounts of his life to corroborate the story that he was inspired by Swamiji. But on the other hand, this is so intimate a story that it is unlikely it would find its way into the biographies of a financier. We do know that in his own way Rockefeller was interested in religion, and once, almost as though echoing Swamiji, he said, explaining the reason behind his monumental philanthropies: "There is more to life than the accumulation of money. Money is only a trust in one's hands. To use it improperly is a great sin. The best way to prepare for the end of life is to live for others. That is what I am trying to do."