Theosophy - Karmic Visions by H.P.Blavatsky
Adyar
Pamphlet No. 153
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
me
that "Sanjna" was a pen name of H.P.B.- C.Jinarajadasa
KARMIC VISIONS
By H.
P. Blavatsky
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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