Theos-Talk Archives (December 2002 Message tt00063)

Part II KARMIC VISIONS

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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
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