Theos-Talk Archives (May 2002 Message tt00018)

PART II

KARMIC VISIONS -- H.P.Blavatsky





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's 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 bosom, 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 valourous 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 night-mare shows him men,
expiring on the battle field 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
riveted to the torrents of blood, every drop of which represents a
tear of despair, a heart-rent cry, a life-long 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 mothers' 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 of 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
fulfillment 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 flight 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?" enquires 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 an
other 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 recognises 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 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 for 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.

--SANJNA
( H P Blavatsky)

Lucifer, June, 1888


===========================================


Best wishes,

DTB


Dallas