Blavatsky Blogger
Taking Theosophical
ideas
into the 21st
century
Karmic Visions
By
H P Blavatsky
The
following story, signed Sanjna, appears in Lucifer, Volume II, June 1888.
Mr.Bertram
Keightley, who was assistant editor of Lucifer, at this time informs methat
"Sanjna" was a pen name of H P Blavatsky- C.Jinarajadasa
Oh, sad no more! Oh, sweet No more!
Oh, strange No more!
By a mossed brook bank on a stone
I smelt a wild weed-flower alone;
There was a ringing in my ears,
And both my eyes gushed out with tears,
Surely all pleasant things had gone before,
Low buried fathom deep beneath with three,
NO MORE. –
Tennyson
"The Gem" 1831.
I
A camp
filled with war-chariots, neighing horses and legions of long-haired soldiers .
. .
A regal
tent, gaudy in its barbaric splendour. Its linen walls are weighed down under
the burden of arms. In its centre a raised seat covered with skin, and on it a stalwart,
savage-looking warrior. He passes in review prisoners of war brought in turn
before him, who are disposed of according to the whim of the heartless despot.
A new
captive is now before him, and is addressing him with passionate earnestness .
. . As he listens to her with suppressed passion in his manly, but
fierce,
cruel face, the balls of his eyes become bloodshot and roll with fury.
And as he
bends forward with fierce stare, his whole appearance -- his matted locks
hanging over the frowning brow, his big-boned body with strong sinews, and the
two large hands resting on the shield placed upon the right knee -- justifies
the remark made in hardly audible whisper by a grey-headed soldier to his
neighbour:
"Little
mercy shall the holy prophetess receive at the hands of Clovis!"
The
captive, who stands between two Burgundian warriors, facing the ex-prince of
the Salians, now king of all the Franks, is an old woman with silver-white
dishevelled hair, hanging over her skeleton-like shoulders. In spite of her
great age, her tall figure is erect; and the inspired black eyes look proudly
and fearlessly into the cruel face of the treacherous son of Gilderich.
"Aye,
King," she says, in a loud, ringing voice. "Aye, thou art great and
mighty now, but thy days are numbered, and thou shalt reign but three summers
longer.
Wicked
thou wert born . . . perfidious thou art to thy friends and allies, robbing
more than one of his lawful crown. Murderer of thy next-of-kin, thou who addest
to the knife and spear in open warfare, dagger, poison and treason, beware how
thou dearest with the servant of Nerthus!" [ " The Nourishing "
(Tacit. Germ. XI) -- the Earth, a Mother-Goddess, the most beneficent deity of
the
ancient Germans.]
"Ha,
ha, ha! . . . old hag of Hell!" chuckles the King, with an evil, ominous
sneer.
"Thou hast crawled out of the entrails of thy mother-goddess truly. Thou
fearest not my wrath? It is well. But little need I fear thine empty
imprecations . . . I, a baptized Christian!"
"So,
so," replies the Sybil. "All know that Clovis has abandoned the gods
of his fathers; that he has lost all faith in the warning voice of the white
horse of the Sun, and that out of fear of the Allimani he went serving on his
knees Remigius, the servant of the Nazarene, at Rheims. But hast thou become
any truer in thy new faith? Hast thou not murdered in cold blood all thy
brethren who trusted in thee, after, as well as before, thy apostasy? Hast not
thou plighted troth to Alaric, the King of the West Goths, and hast thou not
killed him by stealth, running thy spear into his back while he was bravely
fighting an enemy?
And is it
thy new faith and thy new gods that teach thee to be devising in thy black soul
even now foul means against Theodoric, who put thee down? . . .
Beware,
Clovis, beware! For now the gods of thy fathers have risen against thee!
Beware, I
say, for . . . "
"Woman!"
fiercely cries the King -- "Woman, cease thy insane talk and answer my
question. Where is the treasure of the grove amassed by thy priests of Satan,
and hidden after they had been driven away by the Holy Cross? . . . Thou alone
knowest.
Answer, or by Heaven and Hell I shall thrust thy evil tongue down thy throat
for ever!" . . .
She heeds
not the threat, but goes on calmly and fearlessly as before, as if she had not
heard.
".....the
gods say, Clovis, thou art accursed..... Clovis, thou shalt be reborn among thy
present enemies, and suffer the tortures thou hast inflicted upon thy victims.
All the combined power and glory thou hast deprived them of shall be
thine in
prospect, yet thou shalt never reach it! . . . Thou shalt . . . "
The
prophetess never finishes her sentence.
With a
terrible oath the King, crouching like a wild beast on his skin-covered seat,
pounces upon her with the leap of a jaguar, and with one blow fells her to the
ground. And as he lifts his sharp murderous spear the "Holy One" of
the Sun-worshipping tribe makes the air ring with a last imprecation.
"I
curse thee, enemy of Nerthus! May my agony be tenfold thine! . . . May the
Great Law avenge. . . .
The heavy
spear falls, and, running through the victim's throat, nails the head to the
ground. A stream of hot crimson blood gushes from the gaping wound and covers
king and soldiers with indelible gore . . .
II
Time --
the landmark of gods and men in the boundless field of Eternity, the murderer
of its offspring and of memory in mankind -- time moves on with noiseless,
incessant step through aeons and ages . . . Among millions of other Souls, a
Soul-Ego is reborn: for weal or for woe, who knoweth! Captive in its new human
Form, it grows with it, and together they become, at last, conscious
of their
existence.
Happy are
the years of their blooming youth, unclouded with want or sorrow. Neither knows
aught of the Past nor of the Future. For them all is the joyful Present: for
the Soul-Ego is unaware that it had ever lived in other human tabernacles, it
knows not that it shall be again reborn, and it takes no thought of the morrow.
Its Form
is calm and content. It has hitherto given its Soul-Ego no heavy troubles. Its
happiness is due to the continuous mild serenity of its temper, to
the
affection it spreads wherever it goes. For it is a noble Form, and its heart is
full of benevolence. Never has the Form startled its Soul-Ego with a
too-violent
shock, or otherwise disturbed the calm placidity of its tenant.
Two score
of years glide by like one short pilgrimage; a long walk through the sun-lit
paths of life, hedged by ever-blooming roses with no thorns. The rare sorrows
that befall the twin pair, Form and Soul, appear to them rather like the
pale light
of the cold northern moon, whose beams throw into a deeper shadow all around
the moon-lit objects, than as the blackness of the night, the night of hopeless
sorrow and despair.
Son of a
Prince, born to rule himself one day his father's kingdom; surrounded from his
cradle by reverence and honours; deserving of the universal respect and sure of
the love of all -- what could the Soul-Ego desire more for the Form it dwelt
in.
And so the
Soul-Ego goes on enjoying existence in its tower of strength, gazing quietly at
the panorama of life ever changing before its two windows -- the two kind blue
eyes of a loving and good man.
III
One day an
arrogant and boisterous enemy threatens the father's kingdom, and the savage
instincts of the warrior of old awaken in the Soul-Ego. It leaves its dreamland
amid the blossoms of life and causes its Ego of clay to draw the soldier's
blade, assuring him it is in defence of his country.
Prompting
each other to action, they defeat the enemy and cover themselves with pride and
glory. They make the haughty foe bite the dust at their feet in supreme
humiliation. For this they are crowned by history with the unfading laurels of
valour, which are those of success. They make a footstool of the fallen enemy
and transform their sire's little kingdom into a great empire. Satisfied they
could achieve no more for the present, they return to seclusion and to the
dreamland of their sweet home.
For three
lustra more the Soul-Ego sits at its usual post, beaming out of its windows on
the world around. Over its head the sky is blue and the vast horizons are
covered with those seemingly unfading flowers that grow in the sunlight of
health and strength. All looks fair as a verdant mead in spring . . .
IV
But an
evil day comes to all in the drama of being. It waits through the life of king
and of beggar. It leaves traces on the history of every mortal born from woman,
and it can neither be seared away, entreated, nor propitiated. Health is a
dewdrop that falls from the heavens to vivify the blossoms on earth, only
during the morn'. of life, its spring and summer . . . It has but a short
duration and returns from whence it came -- the invisible realms.
How
oft'neath the bud that is brightest and fairest,
The seeds
of the canker in embryo lurk!
How oft at
the root of the flower that is rarest --
Secure in
its ambush the worm is at work. . . . . ."
The
running sand which moves downward in the glass, wherein the hours of human life
are numbered, runs swifter. The worm has gnawed the blossom of health through
its heart. The strong body is found stretched one day on the thorny bed of
pain.
The
Soul-Ego beams no longer. It sits still and looks sadly out of what has become
its dungeon windows, on the world which is now rapidly being shrouded for it in
the funeral palls of suffering. Is it the eve of night eternal which is
nearing?
V
Beautiful
are the resorts on the midland sea. An endless line of surf-beaten, black,
rugged rocks stretches, hemmed in between the golden sands of the coast and the
deep blue waters of the gulf. They offer their granite breast to the fierce
blows of the north-west wind and thus protect the dwellings of the rich that
nestle at their foot on the inland side.
The
half-ruined cottages on the open shore are the insufficient shelter of the
poor. Their squalid bodies are often crushed under the walls torn and washed
down by wind and angry wave.
But they
only follow the great law of the survival of the fittest. Why should they be
protected?
Lovely is
the morning when the sun dawns with golden amber tints and its first rays kiss the
cliffs of the beautiful shore. Glad is the song of the lark, as, emerging from
its warm nest of herbs, it drinks the morning dew from the deep flower-cups;
when the tip of the rosebud thrills under the caress of the first sunbeam, and
earth and heaven smile in mutual greeting. Sad is the Soul-Ego alone as it
gazes on awakening nature from the high couch opposite the large bay-window.
How calm
is the approaching noon as the shadow creeps steadily on the sundial towards
the hour of rest! Now the hot sun begins to melt the clouds in the limpid air
and the last shreds of the morning mist that lingers on the tops of the distant
hills vanish in it. All nature is prepared to rest at the hot and lazy hour of
midday. The feathered tribes cease their song; their soft, gaudy wings droop
and they hang their drowsy heads, seeking refuge from the burning heat. A
morning lark is busy nestling in the bordering bushes under the clustering
flowers of the pomegranate and the sweet bay of the Mediterranean.
The active
songster has become voiceless.
"Its
voice will resound as joyfully again tomorrow!" sighs the Soul-Ego, as it
listens to the dying buzzing of the insects on the verdant turf. "Shall
ever mine?"
And now
the flower-scented breeze hardly stirs the languid heads of the luxuriant
plants. A solitary palm-tree, growing out of the cleft of a moss-covered rock,
next catches the eye of the Soul-Ego.
Its once
upright, cylindrical trunk has been twisted out of shape and half-broken by the
nightly
blasts of
the north-west winds. And as it stretches wearily its drooping feathery arms,
swayed to and fro in the blue pellucid air, its body trembles and
threatens
to break in two at the first new gust that may arise.
"And
then, the severed part will fall into the sea, and the once stately palm will
be no more," soliloquizes the Soul-Ego as it gazes sadly out of its
windows.
Everything
returns to life, in the cool, old bower at the hour of sunset. The shadows on
the sun-dial become with every moment thicker, and animate nature awakens
busier than ever in the cooler hours of approaching night. Birds and insects
chirrup and buzz their last evening hymns around the tall and still powerful
Form, as it paces slowly and wearily along the gravel walk. And now its heavy
gaze falls wistfully on the azure bosom of the tranquil sea. The gulf sparkles
like a gem-studded carpet of blue-velvet in the farewell dancing
sunbeams,
and smiles like a thoughtless, drowsy child, weary of tossing about.
Further
on, calm and serene in its perfidious beauty, the open sea stretches far and
wide the smooth mirror of its cool waters -- salt and bitter as human tears.
It lies in
its treacherous repose like a gorgeous, sleeping monster, watching over the
unfathomed mystery of its dark abysses. Truly the monumentless cemetery of the
millions sunk in its depths . . .
"Without
a grave,Unknell'd, uncoffined and unknown . . . ."
while the
sorry relic of the once noble Form pacing yonder, once that its hour strikes
and the deep-voiced bells toll the knell for the departed soul, shall be laid
out in state and pomp. Its dissolution will be announced by millions of trumpet
voices. Kings, princes and the mighty ones of the earth will be present at its
obsequies, or will send their representatives with sorrowful faces and
condoling
messages to those left behind . . .
"One
point gained, over those 'uncoffined and unknown'," is the bitter
reflection of the Soul-Ego.
Thus
glides past one day after the other; and as swift-winged Time urges his flight,
every vanishing hour destroying some thread in the tissue of life, the Soul-Ego
is gradually transformed in its views of things and men. Flitting between two
eternities, far away from its birthplace, solitary among its crowd of
physicians, and attendants, the Form is drawn with every day nearer to its
Spirit-Soul. Another light unapproached and unapproachable in days of joy,
softly descends upon the weary prisoner. It sees now that which it had never
perceived
before. . . .
VI
How grand,
how mysterious are the spring nights on the seashore when the winds are chained
and the elements lulled! A solemn silence reigns in nature. Alone the silvery,
scarcely audible ripple of the wave, as it runs caressingly over the moist
sand, kissing shells and pebbles on its up and down journey, reaches the ear
like the regular soft breathing of a sleeping bosom. How small, how
insignificant
and helpless feels man, during these quiet hours, as he stands between the two
gigantic magnitudes, the star-hung dome above, and the
slumbering
earth below. Heaven and earth are plunged in sleep, but their souls are awake,
and they confabulate, whispering one to the other mysteries unspeakable. It is
then that the occult side of Nature lifts her dark veils for us, and reveals
secrets we would vainly seek to extort from her during the day.
The
firmament, so distant, so far away from earth, now seems to approach and bend
over her. The sidereal meadows exchange embraces with their more humble sisters
of the earth -- the daisy-decked valleys and the green slumbering
fields.
The heavenly dome falls prostrate into the arms of the great quiet sea; and the
millions of stars that stud the former peep into and bathe in every lakelet and
pool. To the grief-furrowed soul those twinkling orbs are the eyes of angels.
They look down with ineffable pity on the suffering of mankind. It is not the
night dew that falls on the sleeping flowers, but sympathetic tears that
drop from
those orbs, at the sight of the GREAT HUMAN SORROW . . .
Yes; sweet
and beautiful is a southern night. But --
"When
silently we watch the bed, by the taper is flickering light, When all we love
is fading fast -- how terrible is night. . . ."
VII
Another
day is added to the series of buried days. The far green hills, and the
fragrant boughs of the pomegranate blossom have melted in the mellow shadows of
the night, and both sorrow and joy are plunged in the lethargy of soul-resting
sleep. Every noise has died out in the royal gardens, and no voice or sound is
heard in that overpowering stillness.
Swift-winged
dreams descend from the laughing stars in motley crowds, and landing upon the
earth disperse among mortals and immortals, amid animals and men. They hover
over the sleepers, each attracted by its affinity and kind;
dreams of
joy and hope, balmy and innocent visions, terrible and awesome sights seen with
sealed eyes, sensed by the soul; some instilling happiness and consolation,
others causing sobs to heave the sleeping bosoms, tears and mental
torture,
all and one preparing unconsciously to the sleepers their waking thoughts of
the morrow.
Even in
sleep the Soul-Ego finds no rest.
Hot and
feverish its body tosses about in restless agony. For it, the time of happy dreams
is now a vanished shadow, a long bygone recollection. Through the mental agony
of the soul, there lies a transformed man. Through the physical
agony of
the frame, there flutters in it a fully awakened Soul. The veil of illusion has
fallen off from the cold idols of the world, and the vanities and emptiness of
fame and wealth stand bare, often hideous, before its eyes. The thoughts of the
Soul fall like dark shadows on the cogitative faculties of the fast
disorganizing body, haunting the thinker daily, nightly, hourly . . .
The sight
of his snorting steed pleases him no longer. The recollections of guns and
banners wrested from the enemy; of cities razed, of trenches, cannons and
tents, of an array of conquered spoils now stirs but little his national pride.
Such
thoughts move him no more, and ambition has become powerless to awaken in his
aching heart the haughty recognition of any valorous deed of chivalry.
Visions of
another kind now haunt his weary days and long sleepless nights . . .
What he
now sees is a throng of bayonets clashing against each other in a mist of smoke
and blood; thousands of mangled corpses covering the ground, torn and cut to
shreds by the murderous weapons devised by science and civilization, blessed to
success by the servants of his God. What he now dreams of are bleeding, wounded
and dying men, with missing limbs and matted locks, wet and soaked through with
gore . . .
VIII
A hideous
dream detaches itself from a group of passing visions, and alights heavily on
his aching chest. The nightmare shows him men expiring on the battlefield with
a curse on those who led them to their destruction. Every pang in his own
wasting body brings to him in dream the recollection of pangs still worse, of
pangs suffered through and for him. He sees and feels the torture of
the fallen
millions, who die after long hours of terrible mental and physical agony; who
expire in forest and plain, in stagnant ditches by the road-side, in pools of
blood under a sky made black with smoke. His eyes are once more rivetted to the
torrents of blood, every drop of which represents a tear of despair, a
heart-rent cry, a lifelong sorrow.
He hears
again the thrilling sighs of desolation, and the shrill cries ringing through
mount, forest and valley. He sees the old mothers who have lost the light of
their souls; families, the hand
that fed
them. He beholds widowed young wives thrown on the wide, cold world, and
beggared orphans wailing in the streets by the thousands. He finds the young
daughters of his bravest old soldiers exchanging their mourning garments for
the gaudy frippery of prostitution, and the Soul-Ego shudders in the sleeping
Form.
. . His
heart is rent by the groans of the famished; his eyes blinded by the smoke of
burning hamlets, of homes destroyed, of towns and cities in smouldering ruins.
. . .
And in his
terrible dream, he remembers that moment of insanity in his soldier's life,
when standing over a heap of the dead and the dying, waving in his right hand a
naked sword red to its hilt with smoking blood, and in his left, the
colours
rent from the hand of the warrior expiring at his feet, he had sent in a
stentorian voice praises to the throne of the Almighty, thanksgiving for the
victory
just obtained! . . .
He starts
in his sleep and awakes in horror. A great shudder shakes his frame like an
aspen leaf, and sinking back on his pillows, sick at the recollection, he hears
a voice -- the voice of the Soul-Ego -- saying in him:
"Fame
and victory are vainglorious words . . . Thanksgiving and prayers for lives
destroyed -- wicked lies and blasphemy!" . . .
"What
have they brought thee or to thy fatherland, those bloody victories!" . .
. whispers the Soul in him. "A population clad in iron armour," it
replies. "Two score millions of men dead now to all spiritual aspiration
and Soul-life. A people, henceforth deaf to the peaceful voice of the honest
citizen's duty, averse to a life of peace, blind to the arts and literature,
indifferent to all
but lucre
and ambition. What is thy future Kingdom, now? A legion of war-puppets as
units, a great wild beast in their collectivity. A beast that, like the sea
yonder, slumbers gloomily now, but to fall with the more fury on the first
enemy that is indicated to it. Indicated, by whom? It is as though a heartless,
proud Fiend, assuming sudden authority, incarnate Ambition and Power, had
clutched with iron hand the minds of a whole country. By what wicked
enchantment has he brought the people back to those primeval days of the nation
when their ancestors, the yellow-haired Suevi, and the treacherous Franks
roamed about in their warlike spirit, thirsting to kill, to decimate and
subject each other. By what infernal powers has this been accomplished? Yet the
transformation has been produced and it is as undeniable as the fact that alone
the Fiend rejoices and boasts of the transformation effected. The whole world
is hushed in breathless expectation. Not a wife or mother, but is haunted in
her dreams by the black and ominous storm-cloud that overhangs the whole of
Europe. The cloud is approaching
.... It
comes nearer and nearer. . . . Oh woe and horror! . . . . I foresee once more
for earth the suffering I have already witnessed. I read the fatal destiny upon
the brow of the flower of Europe's youth! But if I live and have the power,
never, oh
never shall my country take part in it again! No, no, I will not see
--
'The
glutton death gorged with devouring lives. . . .'
"I
will not hear --
'robb'd
mother's shrieks
While from
men's piteous wounds and horrid gashes The lab'ring life flows faster than the
blood!' . . . ."
IX
Firmer and
firmer grows in the Soul-Ego the feeling of intense hatred for the terrible
butchery called war; deeper and deeper does it impress its thoughts upon the
Form that holds it captive. Hope awakens at times in the aching breast and
colours the long hours of solitude and meditation; like the morning ray that
dispels the dusky shades of shadowy despondency, it lightens the long hours of
lonely
thought. But as the rainbow is not always the dispeller of the storm-clouds but
often only a refraction of the setting sun on a passing cloud,
so the
moments of dreamy hope are generally followed by hours of still blacker
despair. Why, oh why, thou mocking Nemesis, hast thou thus purified and
enlightened, among all the sovereigns on this earth, him, whom thou hast made
helpless,
speechless and powerless? Why hast thou kindled the flame of holy brotherly
love for man in the breast of one whose heart already feels the
approach
of the icy hand of death and decay, whose strength is steadily deserting him
and whose very life is melting away like foam on the crest of a
breaking
wave?
And now
the hand of Fate is upon the couch of pain. The hour for the fulfilment of nature's
law has struck at last. The old Sire is no more; the younger man is henceforth
a monarch. Voiceless and helpless, he is nevertheless a potentate,
the
autocratic master of millions of subjects. Cruel Fate has erected a throne for
him over an open grave, and beckons him to glory and to power.
Devoured
by suffering, he finds himself suddenly crowned. The wasted Form is snatched
from its warm nest amid the palm groves and the roses; it is whirled from balmy
south to the frozen north, where waters harden into crystal groves and
"waves on waves in solid mountains rise"; whither he now speeds to
reign and -- speeds to die.
X
Onward,
onward rushes the black, fire-vomiting monster, devised by man to partially
conquer Space and Time. Onward, and further with every moment from the
health-giving, balmy South flies the train. Like the Dragon of the Fiery Head,
it devours
distance and leaves behind it a long trail of smoke, sparks and stench. And as its
long, tortuous, flexible body, wriggling and hissing like a
gigantic
dark reptile, glides swiftly, crossing mountain and moor, forest, tunnel and
plain, its swinging monotonous motion lulls the worn-out occupant, the weary
and heartsore Form, to sleep . . .
In the
moving palace the air is warm and balmy. The luxurious vehicle is full of
exotic plants; and from a large cluster of sweet-smelling flowers arises
together with its scent the fairy Queen of dreams, followed by her band of
joyous elves. The Dryads laugh in their leafy bowers as the train glides by,
and send floating upon the breeze dreams of green solitudes and fairy visions.
The rumbling noise of wheels is gradually transformed into the roar of a
distant waterfall, to subside into the silvery trills of a crystalline brook.
The
Soul-Ego
takes its flight into Dreamland. . . .
It travels
through aeons of time, and lives, and feels, and breathes under the most
contrasted forms and personages. It is now a giant, a Yotun, who rushes into
Muspelheim, where Surtur rules with his flaming sword.
It battles
fearlessly against a host of monstrous animals, and puts them to fight with a
single wave of its mighty hand. Then it sees itself in the Northern Mistworld,
it penetrates under the guise of a brave bowman into Helheim, the Kingdom of
the Dead, where a Black-Elf reveals to him a series of its lives and their
mysterious concatenation. "Why does man suffer?" enquiries the
Soul-Ego.
"Because
he would become one," is the mocking answer. Forthwith, the Soul-Ego
stands in the presence of the holy goddess, Saga. She sings to it of the
valorous deeds of the Germanic heroes, of their virtues and their vices. She
shows the Soul the mighty warriors fallen by the hands of many of its past
Forms, on battlefield, as also in the sacred security of home. It sees itself
under the personages of maidens, and of women, of young and old men, and of
children. . . . It feels itself dying more than once in those Forms. It expires
as a hero -- Spirit, and is led by the pitying Walkyries from the bloody
battlefield
back to the abode of Bliss under the shining foliage of Walhalla. It heaves its
last sigh in another Form, and is hurled on to the cold, hopeless plane of
remorse. It closes its innocent eyes in its last sleep, as an infant, and is
forthwith carried along by the beauteous Elves of Light into another body --
the doomed generator of Pain and Suffering. In each case the mists of death
are
dispersed, and pass from the eyes of the Soul-Ego, no sooner does it cross the
Black Abyss that separates the Kingdom of the Living from the Realm of the
Dead. Thus "Death" becomes but a meaningless word for it, a vain
sound. In every instance the beliefs of the Mortal take objective life and
shape for the Immortal, as soon as it spans the Bridge. Then they begin to
fade, and disappear. . . .
"What
is my Past?" enquires the Soul-Ego of Urd, the eldest of the Norn sisters.
"Why
do I suffer?"
A long
parchment is unrolled in her hand, and reveals a long series of mortal beings,
in each of whom the Soul-Ego recognizes one of its dwellings. When it comes to
the last but one, it sees a blood-stained hand doing endless deeds of cruelty
and treachery, and it shudders. . . . . . .
Guileless
victims arise around it, and cry to Orlog for vengeance.
"What
is my immediate Present?" asks the dismayed Soul of Werdandi, the second
sister.
"The
decree of Orlog is on thyself!" is the answer. "But Orlog does not
pronounce them blindly, as foolish mortals have it."
"What
is my Future?" asks despairingly of Skuld, the third Norn sister, the
Soul-Ego. "Is it to be for ever dark with tears, and bereaved of
Hope?" . . .
No answer
is received. But the Dreamer feels whirled through space, and suddenly the
scene changes. The Soul-Ego finds itself on a, to it, long familiar spot, the
royal bower, and the seat opposite the broken palm-tree. Before it
stretches,
as formerly, the vast blue expanse of waters, glassing the rocks and cliffs;
there, too, is the lonely palm, doomed to quick disappearance.
The soft
mellow voice of the incessant ripple of the light waves now assumes human
speech, and reminds the Soul-Ego of the vows formed more than once on that
spot.
And the
Dreamer repeats with enthusiasm the words pronounced before. "Never, oh,
never shall I, henceforth, sacrifice vainglorious fame or ambition a single son
of my motherland! Our world is so full of unavoidable misery, so poor with joys
and bliss, and shall I add to its cup of bitterness the fathomless ocean of woe
and blood, called WAR? Avaunt, such thought! . . . Oh, never more.
. .
."
XI
Strange
sight and change. . . . The broken palm which stands before the mental sight of
the Soul-Ego suddenly lifts up its drooping trunk and becomes erect and verdant
as before. Still greater bliss, the Soul-Ego finds himself as strong and as
healthy as he ever was. In a stentorian voice he sings to the four winds a loud
and a joyous song. He feels a wave of joy and bliss in him, and seems to know
why he is happy.
He is
suddenly transported into what looks a fairy-like Hall, lit with most glowing
lights and built of materials, the like of which he had never seen
before. He
perceives the heirs and descendants of all the monarchs of the globe gathered
in that Hall in one happy family. They wear no longer the insignia of royalty,
but, as he seems to know, those who are the reigning Princes, reign by virtue
of their personal merits. It is the greatness of heart, the nobility of
character, their superior qualities of observation, wisdom, love of Truth and
Justice,
that have raised them to the dignity of heirs to the Thrones, of Kings and
Queens. The crowns, by authority and the grace of God, have been thrown off,
and they now rule by "the grace of divine humanity," chosen
unanimously by recognition of their fitness to rule, and the reverential love
of their voluntary subjects.
All around
seems strangely changed. Ambition, grasping greediness or envy -- miscalled
Patriotism -- exist no longer. Cruel selfishness has made room for just
altruism and cold indifference to the wants of the millions no longer finds
favour in the sight of the favoured few. Useless luxury, sham pretences --
social and
religious -- all has disappeared. No more wars are possible, for the armies are
abolished. Soldiers have turned into diligent, hard-working tillers of the
ground, and the whole globe echoes his song in rapturous joy. Kingdoms and
countries around him live like brothers. The great, the glorious hour has come
at last! That which he hardly dared to hope and think about in the
stillness
of his long, suffering nights, is now realized. The great curse is taken off,
and the world stands absolved and redeemed in its regeneration! . . .
Trembling
with rapturous feelings, his heart overflowing with love and philanthropy, he rises
to pour out a fiery speech that would become historic,
when
suddenly he finds his body gone, or, rather, it is replaced by another body . .
. Yes, it is no longer the tall, noble Form with which he is familiar, but
the body
of somebody else, of whom he as yet knows nothing. . . . Something dark comes
between him and a great dazzling light, and he sees the shadow of the face of a
gigantic timepiece on the ethereal waves. On its ominous dial he reads:
"NEW
ERA: 970,995 YEARS SINCE THE INSTANTANEOUS DESTRUCTION BY PNEUMO-DYNO-VRIL OF
THE LAST 2,000,000 OF SOLDIERS IN THE FIELD, ON THE WESTERN PORTION OF THE
GLOBE.
971,000
SOLAR YEARS SINCE THE SUBMERSION OF THE EUROPEAN CONTINENTS AND ISLES. SUCH ARE
THE DECREE OF ORLOG AND THE ANSWER OF SKULD . . . "
He makes a
strong effort and -- is himself again. Prompted by the Soul-Ego to REMEMBER and
ACT in conformity, he lifts his arms to Heaven and swears in the face of all
nature to preserve peace to the end of his days -- in his own country, at
least.
A distant
beating of drums and long cries of what he fancies in his dream are the
rapturous thanksgivings, for the pledge just taken. An abrupt shock, loud
clatter, and, as the eyes open, the Soul-Ego looks out through them in
amazement. The heavy gaze meets the respectful and solemn face of the physician
offering the usual draught. The train stops. He rises from his couch weaker and
wearier than ever, to see around him endless lines of troops armed with a new
and yet more murderous weapon of destruction -- ready for the battlefield.
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