Theosophical Society,
NIGHTMARE
TALES
A
Compilation of Stories
By
H P Blavatsky
H P Blavatsky
Return to Nightmare Tales index
Karmic Visions
By
H. P. Blavatsky
Written under the pen name "Sanjna"
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 skins, 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,
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.
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 glory and
pride. 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
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
cemetry 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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