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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."
X 18
 Nightmare Tales
"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 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]