Theosophical Society,
NIGHTMARE
TALES
A
Compilation of Stories
By
H P Blavatsky
H P Blavatsky
Return to Nightmare Tales index
A BEWITCHED LIFE
As Narrated by a Quill Pen
By H. P. Blavatsky
INTRODUCTION
It
was a dark, chilly night in September, 1884. A heavy gloom had descended over
the streets of A---, a small town on the
funeral-pall over the dull factory
burgh. The greater number of its inhabitants,
wearied
by their long day's work, had hours before retired to stretch their
tired
limbs, and lay their aching heads upon their pillows. All was quiet in the
large
house; all was quiet in the deserted streets.
I
too was lying in my bed; alas, not one of rest, but of pain and sickness, to
which
I had been confined for some days. So still was everything in the house,
that,
as Longfellow has it, its stillness seemed almost audible. I could plainly
hear
the murmur of the blood as it rushed through my aching body, producing that
monotonous singing so familiar to one who lends a watchful ear to silence. I
had listened to it until, in my nervous imagination, it had grown into the
sound of
a
distant cataract, the fall of mighty waters . . . when, suddenly changing its
character,
the evergrowing "singing" merged into other
and far more welcome
sounds.
It was the low, and at first scarce audible, whisper of a human voice.
It
approached, and gradually strengthening seemed to speak in my very ear.
Thus
sounds a voice speaking across a blue quiescent lake, in one of those
wondrously acoustic gorges of the snow-capped mountains, where the air is so
pure that a word pronounced half a mile off seems almost at the elbow. Yes; it
was the voice of one whom to know is to reverence; of one, to me, owing to many
mystic associations, most dear and holy; a voice familiar for long years and
ever welcome; doubly so in hours of mental or physical suffering, for it always
brings with it a ray of hope and consolation.
"Courage,"
it whispered in gentle, mellow tones. "Think of the days passed by
you
in sweet associations; of the great lessons received of Nature's truths; of
the
many errors of men concerning these truths; and try to add to them the
experience
of a night in this city. Let the narrative of a strange life, that
will
interest you, help to shorten the hours of suffering. . . . . . Give your
attention.
Look yonder before you!"
"Yonder"
meant the clear, large windows of an empty house on the other side of
the
narrow street of the German town. They faced my own in almost a straight
line
across the street, and my bed faced the windows of my sleeping room.
Obedient
to the suggestion, I directed my gaze towards them, and what I saw made me for
the time being forget the agony of the pain that racked my swollen arm and rheumatical body.
Over
the windows was creeping a mist; a dense, heavy, serpentine, whitish mist,
that
looked like the huge shadow of a gigantic boa slowly uncoiling its body.
Gradually
it disappeared, to leave a lustrous light, soft and silvery, as though
the
window-panes behind reflected a thousand moonbeams, a tropical star-lit sky
--
first from outside, then from within the empty rooms. Next I saw the mist
elongating
itself and throwing, as it were, a fairy bridge across the street
from
the bewitched windows to my own balcony, nay, to my very own bed. As I
continued gazing, the wall and windows and the opposite house itself, suddenly
vanished. The space occupied by the empty rooms had changed into the interior
of another smaller room, in what I knew to be a Swiss chalet -- into a study,
whose old, dark walls were covered from floor to ceiling with book shelves on
which were many antiquated folios, as well as works of a more recent date. In
the centre stood a large old-fashioned table, littered over with manuscripts
and writing materials. Before it, quill-pen in hand, sat an old man; a
grim-looking, skeleton-like personage, with a face so thin, so pale, yellow and
emaciated,
that
the light of the solitary little student's lamp was reflected in two
shining
spots on his high cheekbones, as though they were carved out of ivory.
As
I tried to get a better view of him by slowly raising myself upon my pillows,
the
whole vision, chalet and study, desk, books and scribe, seemed to flicker
and
move. Once set in motion, they approached nearer and nearer, until, gliding
noiselessly
along the fleecy bridge of clouds across the street, they floated
through
the closed windows into my room and finally seemed to settle beside my bed.
"Listen
to what he thinks and is going to write" -- said in soothing tones the
same
familiar, far off, and yet near voice." Thus you will hear a narrative,
the
telling
of which may help to shorten the long sleepless hours, and even make you
forget
for a while your pain . . . Try!" -- it added, using the well-known
Rosicrucian
and Kabalistic formula.
I
tried, doing as I was bid. I centred all my attention
on the solitary
laborious
figure that I saw before me, but which did not see me. At first, the
noise
of the quill-pen with which the old man was writing, suggested to my mind
nothing
more than a low whispered murmur of a nondescript nature. Then,
gradually,
my ear caught the indistinct words of a faint and distant voice, and
I
thought the figure before me, bending over its manuscript, was reading its
tale
aloud instead of writing it. But I soon found out my error. For casting my
gaze
at the old scribe's face, I saw at a glance that his lips were compressed
and
motionless, and the voice too thin and shrill to be his voice. Stranger
still
at every word traced by the feeble, aged hand, I noticed a light flashing
from
under his pen, a bright coloured spark that became
instantaneously a sound, or -- what is the same thing -- it seemed to do so to
my inner perceptions. It was indeed the small voice of the quill that I heard
though scribe and pen were at the time, perchance, hundreds of miles away from
" . . . we learn the language of another
world . . ."
However
it may be, the words uttered by the quill remained in my memory for days after.
Nor had I any great difficulty in retaining them, for when I sat down to record
the story, I found it, as usual, indelibly impressed on the astral
tablets
before my inner eye.
Thus,
I had but to copy it and so give it as I received it. I failed to learn
the
name of the unknown nocturnal writer. Nevertheless, though the reader may
prefer
to regard the whole story as one made up for the occasion, a dream,
perhaps,
still its incidents will, I hope, prove none the less interesting.
I -- THE
STRANGER'S STORY
My
birth-place is a small mountain hamlet, a cluster of Swiss cottages, hidden
deep
in a sunny nook, between two tumble-down glaciers and a peak covered with
eternal snows. Thither, thirty-seven years ago, I returned -- crippled mentally
and physically -- to die, if death would only have me. The pure, invigorating
air of my birth-place decided otherwise. I am still alive; perhaps for the
purpose of giving evidence to facts I have kept profoundly secret from all -- a
tale of horror I would rather hide than reveal. The reason for this
unwillingness on my part is due to my early education, and to subsequent events
that gave the lie to my most cherished prejudices. Some people might be
inclined to regard these events as providential: I, however, believe in no
man am I now, yet physical weakness has in no way impared my mental faculties.
I
remember the smallest details of that terrible cause, which engendered such
fatal
results. It is these which furnish me with an additional proof of the
actual
existence of one whom I fain would regard -- oh, that I could do so! --
as
a creature born of my fancy, the evanescent production of a feverish, horrid
dream!
Oh that terrible, mild and all-forgiving, that saintly and respected
Being!
It was that paragon of all the virtues who embittered my whole existence.
It
is he, who, pushing me violently out of the monotonous but secure groove of
daily
life, was the first to force upon me the certitude of a life hereafter,
thus
adding an additional horror to one already great enough.
With
a view to a clearer comprehension of the situation, I must interrupt these
recollections
with a few words about myself. Oh how, if I could, would I
obliterate
that hated Self!
Born
in
the literary trinity of Voltaire, J. J. Rousseau
and D'Holbach, and educated in
a
German university, I grew up a thorough materialist, a confirmed atheist. I
could
never have even pictured to myself any beings -- least of all a Being --
above
or even outside visible nature, as distinguished from her. Hence I
regarded
everything that could not be brought under the strictest analysis of
the
physical senses as a mere chimera. A soul, I argued, even supposing man has
one, must be material. According to Origen's
definition, incorporeus -- the
epithet
he gave to his God -- signifies a substance only more subtle than that
of
physical bodies, of which, at best, we can form no definite idea. How then
can
that, of which our senses cannot enable us to obtain any clear knowledge,
how
can that make itself visible or produce any tangible manifestations?
Accordingly,
I received the tales of nascent Spiritualism with a feeling of
utter
contempt, and regarded the overtures made by certain priests with
derision,
often akin to anger. And indeed the latter feeling has never entirely
abandoned
me.
Pascal,
in the eighth Act of his " Thoughts," confesses to a most complete
incertitude
upon the existence of God. Throughout my life, I too professed a
complete
certitude as to the non-existence of any such extra-cosmic being, and
repeated
with that great thinker the memorable words in which he tells us: "I
have
examined if this God of whom all the world speaks might not have left some
marks of himself. I look everywhere, and everywhere I see nothing but
obscurity.
Nature
offers me nothing that may not be a matter of doubt and inquietude." Nor
have
I found to this day anything that might unsettle me in precisely similar
and
even stronger feelings. I have never believed, nor shall I ever believe, in
a
Supreme Being. But at the potentialities of man, proclaimed far and wide in
the
East, powers so developed in some persons as to make them virtually Gods, at
them I laugh no more. My whole broken life is a protest against such negation.
I believe in such phenomena, and -- I curse them, whenever they come, and by
whatsoever
means generated.
On
the death of my parents, owing to an unfortunate lawsuit, I lost the greater
part
of my fortune, and resolved -- for the sake of those I loved best, rather
than
for my own -- to make another for myself. My elder sister, whom I adored,
had
married a poor man. I accepted the offer of a rich
for
For
several years my business went on successfully. I got into the confidence of
many
influential Japanese, through whose protection I was enabled to travel and
transact
business in many localities, which, in those days especially, were not
easily
accessible to foreigners. Indifferent to every religion, I became
interested
in the philosophy of Buddhism, the only religious system I thought
worthy
of being called philosophical. Thus, in my moments of leisure, I visited
the most remarkable temples of
ninety-six Buddhist monasteries of Kioto. I have examined in turn Day --
Bootzoo, with its gigantic bell; Tzeonene, Enarino-Yassero, Kie-Missoo,
Higadzi-Hong-Vonsi, and many other famous
temples.
Several
years passed away, and during that whole period I was not cured of my
scepticism, nor did I ever contemplate having my
opinions on this subject
altered.
I derided the pretensions of the Japanese bonzes and ascetics, as I had
those
of Christian priests and European Spiritualists. I could not believe in
the
acquisition of powers unknown to, and never studied by, men of science;
hence
I scoffed at all such ideas. The superstitious and atrabilious Buddhist,
teaching
us to shun the pleasures of life, to put to rout one's passions, to
render
oneself insensible alike to happiness and suffering, in order to acquire
such
chimerical powers -- seemed supremely ridiculous in my eyes.
On
a day ever memorable to me -- a fatal day -- I made the acquaintance of a
venerable
and learned Bonze, a Japanese priest, named Tamoora Hideyeri. I met
him
at the foot of the golden Kwon-On, and from that moment he became my best and
most trusted friend. Notwithstanding my great and genuine regard for him,
however, whenever a good opportunity was offered I never failed to mock his
religious convictions, thereby very often hurting his feelings.
But
my old friend was as meek and forgiving as any true Buddhist's heart might
desire.
He never resented my impatient sarcasms, even when they were, to say the least,
of equivocal propriety, and generally limited his replies to the "wait
and
see" kind of protest. Nor could he be brought to seriously believe in the
sincerity
of my denial of the existence of any God or Gods. The full meaning of
the
terms "atheism" and "scepticism"
was beyond the comprehension of his
otherwise
extremely intellectual and acute mind. Like certain reverential
Christians,
he seemed incapable of realizing that any man of sense should prefer
the
wise conclusions arrived at by philosophy and modern science to a ridiculous
belief in an invisible world full of Gods and spirits, dzins
and demons.
"Man
is a spiritual being," he insisted, "who returns to earth more than
once, and is rewarded or punished in the between times." The proposition
that man is nothing else but a heap of organized dust, was beyond him. Like
Jeremy Collier, he refused to admit that he was no better than "a stalking
machine, a speaking head without a soul in it," whose "thoughts"
are all bound by the laws of motion."
"For,"
he argued, "if my actions were, as you say, prescribed beforehand, and I
had
no more liberty or free will to change the course of my action than the
running
waters of the river yonder, then the glorious doctrine of Karma, of
merit
and demerit, would be a foolishness indeed."
Thus
the whole of my hyper-metaphysical friend's ontology rested on the shaky
superstructure
of metempsychosis, of a fancied "just" Law of Retribution, and
other
such equally absurd dreams.
"We
cannot," said he paradoxically one day, "hope to live hereafter in
the full
enjoyment
of our consciousness, unless we have built for it beforehand a firm
and
solid foundation of spirituality. . . . . . Nay, laugh not, friend of no
faith,"
he meekly pleaded, "but rather think and reflect on this. One who has
never
taught himself to live in Spirit during his conscious and responsible life
on
earth, can hardly hope to enjoy a sentient existence after death, when,
deprived
of his body, he is limited to that Spirit alone."
"What
can you mean by life in Spirit?" -- I enquired.
"Life
on a spiritual plane; that which the Buddhists call Tushita
Devaloka
(Paradise).
Man can create such a blissful existence for himself between two
births,
by the gradual transference on to that plane of all the faculties which
during
his sojourn on earth manifest through his organic body and, as you call
it,
animal brain."
"How
absurd! And how can man do this?"
"Contemplation
and a strong desire to assimilate the blessed Gods, will enable
him
to do so."
"And
if man refuses this intellectual occupation, by which you mean, I suppose,
the
fixing of the eyes on the tip of his nose, what becomes of him after the
death
of his body?" was my mocking question.
"He
will be dealt with according to the prevailing state of his consciousness,
of
which there are many grades. At best -- immediate rebirth; at worst -- the
state
of avitchi, a mental hell. Yet one need not be an
ascetic to assimilate
spiritual
life which will extend to the hereafter. All that is required is to
try
and approach Spirit."
"How
so? Even when disbelieving in it?" -- I rejoined.
"Even
so! One may disbelieve and yet harbour in one's
nature room for doubt,
however
small that room may be, and thus try one day, were it but for one
moment,
to open the door of the inner temple; and this will prove sufficient for
the
purpose."
"You
are decidedly poetical, and paradoxical to boot, reverend sir. Will you
kindly
explain to me a little more of the mystery?"
"There
is none; still I am willing. Suppose for a moment that some unknown
temple
to which you have never been before, and the existence of which you think you
have reasons to deny, is the 'spiritual plane' of which I am speaking.
Some
one takes you by the hand and leads you towards its entrance, curiosity makes
you open its door and look within. By this simple act, by entering it for one
second, you have established an everlasting connection between your
consciousness
and the temple. You cannot deny its existence any longer, nor
obliterate
the fact of your having entered it. And according to the character
and
the variety of your work, within its holy precincts, so will you live in it
after
your consciousness is severed from its dwelling of flesh."
"What
do you mean? And what has my after-death consciousness -- if such a thing
exists -- to do with the temple?"
"It
has everything to do with it," solemnly rejoined the old man. "There
can be
no
self-consciousness after death outside the temple of spirit. That which you
will
have done within its plane will alone survive. All the rest is false and an
illusion.
It is doomed to perish in the Ocean of Maya."
Amused
at the idea of living outside one's body, I urged on my old friend to
tell
me more. Mistaking my meaning the venerable man willingly consented.
Tamoora Hideyeri
belonged to the great temple of Tzionene, a Buddhist
monastery, famous not only in all Japan, but also throughout Tibet and China.
No
other is so venerated in Kioto. Its monks belong to
the sect of Dzeno-doo, and are considered as the most
learned among the many erudite fraternities. They are, moreover, closely
connected and allied with the Yamabooshi (the
ascetics, or hermits), who follow the doctrines of Lao-tze.
No wonder, that at the slightest provocation on my part the priest flew into
the highest metaphysics, hoping thereby to cure me of my infidelity.
No
use repeating here the long rigmarole of the most hopelessly involved and
incomprehensible
of all doctrines. According to his ideas, we have to train
ourselves
for spirituality in another world -- as for gymnastics. Carrying on
the
analogy between the temple and the "spiritual plane" he tried to
illustrate
his
idea. He had himself worked in the temple of Spirit two-thirds of his life,
and
given several hours daily to "contemplation." Thus he knew (!?) that
after
he
had laid aside his mortal casket, "a mere illusion," he explained --
he would
in
his spiritual consciousness live over again every feeling of ennobling joy
and
divine bliss he had ever had, or ought to have had -- only a hundredfold
intensified.
His work on the spirit-plane had been considerable, he said, and he
hoped,
therefore that the wages of the labourer would prove
proportionate.
"But
suppose the labourer, as in the example you have just
brought forward in my case, should have no more, than opened the temple door
out of mere curiosity; had only peeped into the sanctuary never to set his foot
therein again. What then?"
"Then,"
he answered, "you would have only this short minute to record in your
future
self-consciousness and no more. Our life hereafter records and repeats
but
the impressions and feelings we have had in our spiritual experiences and
nothing
else. Thus, if instead of reverence at the moment of entering the abode
of
Spirit, you had been harbouring in your heart anger,
jealousy or grief, then
your
future spiritual life would be a sad one, in truth. There would be nothing
to
record, save the opening of a door, in a fit of bad temper."
"How
then could it be repeated?" -- I insisted, highly amused. "What do
you
suppose
I would be doing before incarnating again?"
"In
that case," he said speaking slowly and weighing every word -- "in
that
case,
you would have I fear, only to open and shut the temple door, over and
over
again, during a period which, however short, would seem to you an
eternity."
This
kind of after-death occupation appeared to me, at that time, so grotesque
in
its sublime absurdity, that I was seized with an almost inextinguishable fit
of
laughter.
My
venerable friend looked considerably dismayed at such a result of his
metaphysical
instruction. He had evidently not expected such hilarity. However,
he
said nothing, but only sighed and gazed at me with increased benevolence and
pity shining in his small black eyes.
"Pray
excuse my laughter," I apologized. "But really, now, you cannot seriously
mean
to tell me that the 'spiritual state' you advocate and so firmly believe
in,
consists only in aping certain things we do in life?"
"Nay,
nay; not aping, but only intensifying their repetition; filling the gaps
that
were unjustly left unfilled during life in the fruition of our acts and
deeds,
and of everything performed on the spiritual plane of the one real state.
What
I said was an illustration, and no doubt for you, who seem entirely
ignorant
of the mysteries of Soul-Vision, not a very intelligible one. It is
myself
who am to be blamed. . . . . . What I sought to impress upon you was
that,
as the spiritual state of our consciousness liberated from its body is but
the
fruition of every spiritual act performed during life, where an act had been
barren,
there could be no results expected -- save the repetition of that act
itself.
This is all. I pray you may be spared such fruitless deeds and finally
made
to see certain truths." And passing through the usual Japanese courtesies
of
taking leave the excellent man departed.
Alas,
alas! had I but known at the time what I have learnt since, how little
would
I have laughed, and how much more would I have learned!
But
as the matter stood, the more personal affection and respect I felt for him,
the
less could I become reconciled to his wild ideas about an after-life, and
especially
as to the acquisition by some men of supernatural powers. I felt
particularly
disgusted with his reverence for the Yamabooshi, the
allies of
every
Buddhist sect in the land. Their claims to the "miraculous" were
simply
odious
to my notions. To hear every Jap I knew at Kioto,
even to my own partner, the shrewdest of all the business men I had come across
in the East --
mentioning
these followers of Lao-tze with downcast eyes,
reverentially folded
hands,
and affirmations of their possessing "great" and
"wonderful" gifts, was
more
than I was prepared to patiently tolerate in those days. And who were they,
after
all, these great magicians with their ridiculous pretensions to
super-mundane
knowledge; these "holy beggars" who, as I then thought, purposely
dwell in the recesses of unfrequented mountains and an unapproachable craggy
steeps, so as the better to afford no chance to curious intruders of finding
them out and watching them in their own dens? Simply, impudent fortune-tellers,
Japanese gypsies who sell charms and talismans, and no better. In answer to
those who sought to assure me that though the Yamabooshi
lead a mysterious life, admitting none of the profane to their secrets, they
still do accept pupils, however difficult it is for one to become their
disciple, and that thus they have living witnesses to the great purity and
sanctity of their lives, in answer to such affirmations I opposed the strongest
negation and stood firmly by it.
I
insulted both masters and pupils, classing them under the same category of
fools,
when not knaves, and I went so far as to include in this number the
Sintos. Now Sintoism or Sin-Syu, "faith in the Gods, and in the way to the
Gods,"
that is, belief in the communication between these creatures and men, is
a
kind of worship of nature-spirits, than which nothing can be more miserably
absurd.
And by placing the Sintos among the fools and knaves
of other sects, I
gained
many enemies. For the Sinto Kanusi
(spiritual teachers) are looked upon
as
the highest in the upper classes of Society, the Mikado himself being at the
head
of their hierarchy and the members of the sect belonging to the most
cultured
and educated men in Japan. These Kanusi of the Sinto form no caste or
class
apart, nor do they pass any ordination -- at any rate none known to
outsiders.
And as they claim publicly no special privilege or powers, even their
dress
being in no wise different from that of the laity, but are simply in the
world's
opinion professors and students of occult and spiritual sciences, I very
often
came in contact with them without in the least suspecting that I was in
the
presence of such personages.
II -- THE
MYSTERIOUS VISITOR
Years
passed; and as time went by, my ineradicable scepticism
grew stronger and waxed fiercer every day. I have already mentioned an elder
and much-beloved sister, my only surviving relative. She had married and had
lately gone to live at Nuremberg. I regarded her with feelings more filial than
fraternal, and her children were as dear to me as might have been my own. At
the time of the great catastrophe that in the course of a few days had made my
father lose his large fortune, and my mother break her heart, she it was, that
sweet big sister of
mine,
who had made herself of her own accord the guardian angel of our ruined
family.
Out of her great love for me, her younger brother, for whom she
attempted
to replace the professors that could no longer be afforded, she had
renounced
her own happiness. She sacrificed herself and the man she loved, by
indefinitely
postponing their marriage, in order to help our father and chiefly
myself
by her undivided devotion. And, oh, how I loved and reverenced her, time but
strengthening this earliest family affection! They who maintain that no
atheist,
as such, can be a true friend, an affectionate relative, or a loyal
subject,
utter -- whether consciously or unconsciously -- the greatest calumny
and
lie. To say that a materialist grows hard-hearted as he grows older, that he
cannot
love as a believer does, is simply the greatest fallacy.
There
may be such exceptional cases, it is true, but these are found only
occasionally
in men who are even more selfish than they are sceptical,
or
vulgarly
worldly. But when a man who is kindly disposed in his nature, for no
selfish
motives but because of reason and love of truth, becomes what is called
atheistical, he is only strengthened in his family
affections, and in his
sympathies
with his fellow men. All his emotions, all the ardent aspirations
towards
the unseen and unreachable, all the love which he would otherwise have
uselessly
bestowed on a supposititional heaven and its God,
become now centred with tenfold force upon his loved
ones and mankind. Indeed, the atheist's heart alone -- . . . can know,
What
secret tides of still enjoyment flow When brothers love. . . .
It
was such holy fraternal love that led me also to sacrifice my comfort and
personal
welfare to secure her happiness, the felicity of her who had been more
than
a mother to me. I was a mere youth when I left home for Hamburg. There,
working
with all the desperate earnestness of a man who has but one noble object in
view -- to relieve suffering, and help those whom he loves -- I very soon
secured the confidence of my employers, who raised me in consequence to the
high post of trust I always enjoyed. My first real pleasure and reward in life
was to see my sister married to the man she had sacrificed for my sake, and to
help them in their struggle for existence.
So
purifying and unselfish was this affection of mine for her that, when it came
to
be shared among her children, instead of losing in intensity by such
division,
it seemed to only grow the stronger. Born with the potentiality of the
warmest
family affection in me, the devotion for my sister was so great, that
the
thought of burning that sacred fire of love before any idol, save that of
herself
and family, never entered my head. This was the only, church I
recognized,
the only church wherein I worshipped at the altar of holy family
affection.
In fact this large family of eleven persons, including her husband,
was
the only tie that attached me to Europe. Twice, during a period of nine
years,
had I crossed the ocean with the sole object of seeing and pressing these
dear
ones to my heart. I had no other business in the West; and having performed
this pleasant duty, I returned each time to Japan to work and toil for them.
For their sake I remained a bachelor, that the wealth I might acquire should go
undivided to them alone.
We
had always corresponded as regularly as the long transit of the then very
irregular
service of the mail-boats would permit. But suddenly there came a
break
in my letters from home. For nearly a year I received no intelligence; and
day
by day, I became more restless, more apprehensive of some great misfortune.
Vainly
I looked for a letter, a simple message; and my efforts to account for so
unusual
a silence were fruitless.
"Friend,"
said to me one day Tamoora Hideyeri,
my only confidant, "Friend,
consult
a holy Yamabooshi -- and you will feel at rest."
Of
course the offer was rejected with as much moderation as I could command
under
the provocation. But, as steamer after steamer came in without a word of
news,
I felt a despair which daily increased in depth and fixity. This finally
degenerated
into an irrepressible craving, a morbid desire to learn -- the
worst,
as I then thought. I struggled hard with the feeling, but it had the best
of
me. Only a few months before a complete master of myself -- I now became an
abject slave to fear. A fatalist of the school of D'Holbach,
I, who had always
regarded
belief in the system of necessity as being the only promoter of
philosophical
happiness, and as having the most advantageous influence over
human
weaknesses, I felt a craving for something akin to fortune-telling! I had
gone
so far as to forget the first principle of my doctrine -- the only one
calculated
to calm our sorrows, to inspire us with a useful submission, namely a
rational
resignation to the decrees of blind destiny, with which foolish
sensibility
causes us so often to be overwhelmed -- the doctrine that all is
necessary.
Yes; forgetting this, I was drawn into a shameful, superstitious
longing,
a stupid, disgraceful desire to learn -- if not futurity, at any rate
that
which was taking place at the other side of the globe. My conduct seemed
utterly
modified, my temperament and aspirations wholly changed; and like a
weak,
nervous girl, I caught myself straining my mind to the very verge of
lunacy
in an attempt to look -- as I had been told one could sometimes do --
beyond
the oceans, and learn, at last, the real cause of this long, inexplicable
silence!
One
evening, at sunset, my old friend, the venerable Bonze, Tamoora,
appeared on the verandah of my low wooden house. I had not visited him for many
days, and he had come to know how I was. I took the opportunity to once more
sneer at one, whom, in reality, I regarded with most affectionate respect. With
equivocal taste for which I repented almost before the words had been
pronounced -- I enquired of him why he had taken the trouble to walk all that
distance when he might have learned anything he liked about me by simply
interrogating a Yamabooshi? He seemed a little hurt,
at first; but after keenly scrutinizing my dejected face, he mildly remarked
that he could only insist upon what he had advised before. Only one of that
holy order could give me consolation in my present state.
From
that instant, an insane desire possessed me to challenge him to prove his
assertions.
I defied -- I said to him -- any and every one of his alleged
magicians
to tell me the name of the person I was thinking of, and what he was
doing
at that moment. He quietly answered that my desire could be easily
satisfied.
There was a Yamabooshi two doors from me, visiting a
sick Sinto. He
would
fetch him -- if I only said the word.
I
said it and from the moment of its utterance my doom was sealed.
How
shall I find words to describe the scene that followed! Twenty minutes after
the desire had been so incautiously expressed, an old Japanese, uncommonly tall
and majestic for one of that race, pale, thin and emaciated, was standing
before me. There,, where I had expected to find servile obsequiousness, I only
discerned an air of calm and dignified composure, the attitude of one who knows
his moral superiority, and therefore scorns to notice the mistakes of those who
fail to recognize it. To the somewhat irreverent and mocking questions, which I
put to him one after another, with feverish eagerness, he made no reply; but
gazed on me in silence as a physician would look at a delirious patient. From
the moment he fixed -- his eyes on mine, I felt -- or shall I say, saw -- as
though it were a sharp ray of light, a thin silvery thread, shoot out from the
intensely black and narrow eyes so deeply sunk in the yellow old face. It
seemed to penetrate into my brain and heart like an arrow, and set to work to
dig out. therefrom every thought and feeling. Yes; I
both saw and felt it, and very soon the double sensation became intolerable.
To
break the spell I defied him to tell me what he had found in my thoughts.
Calmly
came the correct answer -- Extreme anxiety for a female relative, her
husband
and children, who were inhabiting a house the correct description of
which
he gave as though he knew it as well as myself. I turned a suspicious eye
upon
my friend, the Bonze, to whose indiscretions, I thought, I was indebted for
the
quick reply. Remembering however that Tamoora could
know nothing of the
appearance
of my sister's house, that the Japanese are proverbially truthful
and,
as friends, faithful to death -- I felt ashamed of my suspicion. To atone
for
it before my own conscience I asked the hermit whether he could tell me
anything
of the present state of that beloved sister of mine. The foreigner --
was
the reply -- would never believe in the words, or trust to the knowledge of
any
person but himself. Were the Yamabooshi to tell him,
the impression would
wear
out hardly a few hours later, and the inquirer find himself as miserable as
before.
There was but one means; and that was to make the foreigner (myself) see with
his own eyes, and thus learn the truth for himself. Was the enquirer ready to
be placed by a Yamabooshi, a stranger to him, in the
required state?
I
had heard in Europe of mesmerized somnambules and
pretenders to clairvoyance, and having no faith in them, I had, therefore,
nothing against the process itself. Even in the midst of my never-ceasing
mental agony, I could not help smiling at the ridiculous nature of the
operation I was willingly submitting to. Nevertheless I silently bowed consent.
III --
PSYCHIC MAGIC
The
old Yamabooshi lost no time. He looked at the setting
sun, and finding,
probably,
the Lord Ten-Dzio-Dai-Dzio (the Spirit who darts his
Rays) propitious for the coming ceremony, he speedily drew out a little bundle.
It contained a small lacquered box, a piece of vegetable paper, made from the
bark of the mulberry tree, and a pen, with which he traced upon the paper a few
sentences in the Naiden character -- a peculiar style
of written language used only for religious and mystical purposes. Having
finished, he exhibited from under his clothes a small round mirror of steel of
extraordinary brilliancy, and placing it before my eyes asked me to look into
it.
I
had not only heard before of these mirrors, which are frequently used in the
temples,
but I had often seen them. It is claimed that under the direction and
will
of instructed priests, there appear in them the Daij-Dzin,
the great
spirits
who notify the enquiring devotees of their fate. I first imagined that
his
intention was to evoke such a spirit, who would answer my queries. What
happened,
however, was something of quite a different character.
No
sooner had I, not without a last pang of mental squeamishness, produced by a
deep
sense of my own absurd position, touched the mirror, than I suddenly felt a
strange sensation in the arm of the hand that held it. For a brief moment I
forgot
to "sit in the seat of the scorner" and failed to look at the matter
from
a
ludicrous point of view. Was it fear that suddenly clutched my brain, for an
instant
paralyzing its activity --
. . . that fear when the heart longs to know,
what it is death to hear?
No;
for I still had consciousness enough left to go on persuading myself that
nothing
would come out of an experiment, in the nature of which no sane man
could
ever believe. What was it then, that crept across my brain like a living
thing
of ice, producing therein a sensation of horror, and then clutched at my
heart
as if a deadly serpent had fastened its fangs into it? With a convulsive
jerk
of the hand I dropped the -- I blush to write the adjective --
"magic"
mirror,
and could not force myself to pick it up from the settee on which I was
reclining.
For one short moment there was a terrible struggle between some
undefined,
and to me utterly inexplicable, longing to look into the depths of
the
polished surface of the mirror and my pride, the ferocity of which nothing
seemed
capable of taming. It was finally so tamed, however, its revolt being
conquered
by its own defiant intensity. There was an opened novel lying on a
lacquer
table near the settee, and as my eyes happened to fall upon its pages, I
read
the words, "The veil which covers futurity is woven by the hand of
mercy."
This
was enough. That same pride which had hitherto held me back from what I
regarded
as a degrading, superstitious experiment, caused me to challenge my
fate.
I picked up the ominously shining disk and prepared to look into it.
While
I was examining the mirror, the Yamabooshi hastily
spoke a few words to
the
Bonze, Tamoora, at which I threw a furtive and
suspicious glance at both. I
was
wrong once more.
"The
holy man desires me to put you a question and give you at the same time a
warning,"
remarked the Bonze. "If you are willing to see for yourself now, you
will
have -- under the penalty of seeing for ever, in the hereafter, all that is
taking
place, at whatever distance, and that against your will or inclination --
to
submit to a regular course of purification, after you have learnt what you
want
through the mirror."
"What
is this course, and what have I to promise?" I asked defiantly.
"It
is for your own good. You must promise him to submit to the process, lest,
for
the rest of his life, he should have to hold himself responsible, before his
own
conscience, for having made an irresponsible seer of you. Will you do so,
friend?"
"There
will be time enough to think of it, if I see anything" -- I sneeringly
replied,
adding under my breath -- "something I doubt a good deal, so far."
"Well
you are warned, friend. The consequences will now remain with yourself,"
was
the solemn answer.
I
glanced at the clock, and made a gesture of impatience, which was remarked and
understood by the Yamabooshi. It was just seven
minutes after five.
"Define
well in your mind what you would see and learn," said the
"conjuror,"
placing
the mirror and paper in my hands, and instructing me how to use them.
His
instructions were received by me with more impatience than gratitude; and
for
one short instant, I hesitated again. Nevertheless, I replied, while fixing
the
mirror.
"I
desire but one thing -- to learn the reason or reasons why my sister has so
suddenly
ceased writing to me.". . .
Had
I pronounced these words in reality, and in the hearing of the two
witnesses,
or had I only thought them? To this day I cannot decide the point. I
now
remember but one thing distinctly: while I sat gazing in the mirror, the
Yamabooshi kept gazing at me. But whether this
process lasted half a second or
three
hours, I have never since been able to settle in my mind with any degree
of
satisfaction. I can recall every detail of the scene up to that moment when I
took
up the mirror with the left hand, holding the paper inscribed with the
mystic
characters between the thumb and finger of the right, when all of a
sudden
I seemed to quite lose consciousness of the surrounding objects. The
passage
from the active waking state to one that I could compare with nothing I
had
ever experienced before, was so rapid, that while my eyes had ceased to
perceive
external objects and had completely lost sight of the Bonze, the
Yamabooshi, and even of my room, I could
nevertheless distinctly see the whole
of
my head and my back, as I sat leaning forward with the mirror in my hand.
Then
came a strong sensation or an involuntary rush forward, of snapping off, so to
say, from my place -- I had almost said from my body. And, then, while every
one of my other senses had become totally paralyzed, my eyes, as I thought,
unexpectedly caught a clearer and far more vivid glimpse than they had ever had
in reality, of my sister's new house at Nuremberg, which I had never visited
and knew only from a sketch, and other scenery with which I had never been very
familiar.
Together
with this, and while feeling in my brain what seemed like flashes of a
departing consciousness -- dying persons must feel so, no doubt -- the very
last, vague thought, so weak as to have been hardly perceptible, was that I
must look very, very ridiculous . . . This feeling -- for such it was rather
than a thought -- was interrupted, suddenly extinguished, so to say, by a clear
mental vision (I cannot characterize it otherwise) of myself, of that which I
regarded as, and knew to be my body, lying with ashy cheeks on a settee, dead
to all intents and purposes, but still staring with the cold and glassy eyes of
a corpse into the mirror. Bending over it, with his two emaciated hands cutting
the air in every direction over its white face, stood the tall figure of the Yamabooshi, for whom I felt at that instant an
inextinguishable, murderous hatred. As I was going, in thought, to pounce upon
the vile charlatan, my corpse, the two old men, the room itself, and every
object in it, trembled and danced in a reddish glowing light, and seemed to
float rapidly away from "me."
A
few more grotesque, distorted shadows before "my" sight; and, with a
last
feeling
of terror and a supreme effort to realize who then was I now, since I
was
not that corpse -- a great veil of darkness fell over me, like a funeral
pall,
and every thought in me was dead.
IV -- A VISION
OF HORROR
How
strange! . . . . Where was I now? It was evident to me that I had once more
returned
to my senses. For there I was, vividly realizing that I was rapidly
moving
forward, while experiencing a queer, strange sensation as though I were
swimming,
without impulse or effort on my part, and in total darkness. The idea
that
first presented itself to me was that of a long subterranean passage of
water,
of earth, and stifling air, though bodily I had no perception, no
sensation,
of the presence or contact of any of these. I tried to utter a few
words,
to repeat my last sentence, "I desire but one thing: to learn the reason
or
reasons why my sister has so suddenly ceased writing to me" -- but the
only
words
I heard out of the twenty-one, were the two, "to learn," and these,
instead
of their coming out of my own larynx, came back to me in my own voice, but
entirely outside myself, near, but not in me. In short, they were pronounced by
my voice, not by my lips. . . .
One
more rapid, involuntary motion, one more plunge into the Cymmerian
darkness of a (to me) unknown element, and I saw myself standing -- actually
standing underground, as it seemed. I was compactly and thickly surrounded on
all sides, above and below, right and left, with earth, and in the mould, and
yet it
weighed
not, and seemed quite immaterial and transparent to my senses. I did not
realize for one second the utter absurdity, nay, impossibility of that seeming
fact!
One second more, one short instant, and I perceived -- oh, inexpressible
horror,
when I think of it now; for then, although I perceived, realized, and
recorded
facts and events far more clearly than ever I had done before, I did
not
seem to be touched in any other way by what I saw. Yes -- I perceived a
coffin
at my feet. It was a plain, unpretentious shell, made of deal, the last
couch
of the pauper, in which, notwithstanding its closed lid, I plainly saw a
hideous,
grinning skull, a man's skeleton, mutilated and broken in many of its
parts,
as though it had been taken out of some hidden chamber of the defunct
Inquisition,
where it had been subjected to torture. "Who can it be?" -- I
thought.
At
this moment I heard again proceeding from afar the same voice -- my voice. .
.
. "the reason or reasons why" . . . . it said; as though these words
were the
unbroken
continuation of the same sentence of which it had just repeated the two words
"to learn." It sounded near, and yet as from some incalculable
distance; giving me then the idea that the long subterranean journey, the
subsequent mental reflexions and discoveries, had
occupied no time; had been performed during the short, almost instantaneous
interval between the first and the middle words of the sentence, begun, at any
rate, if not actually pronounced by myself in my room at Kioto,
and which it was now finishing, in interrupted, broken phrases, like a faithful
echo of my own words and voice. . . .
Forthwith,
the hideous, mangled remains began assuming a form, and, to me, but too
familiar appearance. The broken parts joined together one to the other, the
bones became covered once more with flesh, and I recognized in these disfigured
remains -- with some surprise, but not a trace of feeling at the sight -- my
sister's dead husband, my own brother-in-law, whom I had for her sake loved so
truly. "How was it, and how did he come to die such a terrible
death?" -- I asked myself. To put oneself a query seemed, in the state in
which I was, to
instantly
solve it. Hardly had I asked myself the question, when as if in a
panorama,
I saw the retrospective picture of poor Karl's death, in all its
horrid
vividness, and with every thrilling detail, every one of which, however,
left
me then entirely and brutally indifferent. Here he is, the dear old fellow,
full
of life and joy at the prospect of more lucrative employment from his
principal,
examining and trying in a wood-sawing factory a monster steam engine
just
arrived from America. He bends over, to examine more closely an inner
arrangement,
to tighten a screw. His clothes are caught by the teeth of the
revolving
wheel in full motion, and suddenly he is dragged down, doubled up, and his
limbs half severed, torn off, before the workmen, unacquainted with the
mechanism,
can stop it. He is taken out, or what remains of him, dead, mangled,
a
thing of horror, an unrecognisable mass of
palpitating flesh and blood! I
follow
the remains, wheeled as an unrecognizable heap to the hospital, hear the
brutally
given order that the messengers of death should stop on their way at
the
house of the widow and orphans. I follow them, and find the unconscious
family
quietly assembled together. I see my sister, the dear and beloved, and
remain
indifferent at the sight, only feeling highly interested in the coming
scene.
My heart, my feelings, even my personality, seem to have disappeared, to
have
been left behind, to belong to somebody else.
There
"I" stand, and witness her unprepared reception of the ghastly news.
I
realize
clearly, without one moment's hesitation or mistake, the effect of the
shock
upon her, I perceive clearly, following and recording, to the minutest
detail,
her sensations and the inner process that takes place in her. I watch
and
remember, missing not one single point.
As
the corpse is brought into the house for identification I hear the long
agonizing
cry, my own name pronounced, and the dull thud of the living body
falling
upon the remains of the dead one. I followed with curiosity the sudden
thrill
and the instantaneous perturbation in her brain that follow it, and watch
with
attention the worm-like, precipitate, and immensely intensified motion of
the
tubular fibres, the instantaneous change of colour in
the cephalic extremity
of
the nervous system, the fibrous nervous matter passing from white to bright
red
and then to a dark red, bluish hue. I notice the sudden flash of a
phosphorous-like,
brilliant Radiance, its tremor and its sudden extinction
followed
by darkness -- complete darkness in the region of memory -- as the
Radiance,
comparable in its form only to a human shape, oozes out suddenly from the top
of the head, expands, loses its form and scatters. And I say to myself:
"This
is insanity; life-long, incurable insanity, for the principle of
intelligence
is not paralyzed or extinguished temporarily, but has just deserted
the
tabernacle for ever, ejected from it by the terrible force of the sudden
blow
. . . . The link between the animal and the divine essence is broken" . .
.
.
And as the unfamiliar term "divine" is mentally uttered my
"THOUGHT" --
laughs.