Abrojal An Index Finger

1. Auflage 2023
ISBN: 978-3-98826-203-5
Verlag: OTB eBook publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 257 Seiten

Reihe: Classics To Go

A book of fiction of a scientific trend, which seeks to prove immortality by the fact that communications are received from disembodied spirits, and their presence made visible to those mortals who have developed clairaudiance and clairvoyance. That automatic writing is an established truth is clearly set forth in this story, and that some people are endowed with this faculty, owing to greater understanding of the subconscious mind of man, there may arise some doubt as to the source of these communications, and the reader will doubtless put his own construction upon the facts related. It also teaches that our purpose in life is not to do good, but to be good, (hen the doing comes without effort. An interesting, instructive book, which will well repay the reading. (Amazon)

Autoren/Hrsg.

Abrojal, Tulis

Leseproben

PART I. CHAPTER I.
THE CHILD AND HER OWN PEOPLE.
There are some of us who in after years say to Fate, “Now deal us your hardest blow; give us what you will; but let us never again suffer as we suffered when we were children.” The barb in the arrow of childhood’s suffering is this; its intense loneliness, its intense ignorance.—Olive Schreiner. Under a great tree a child was singing softly to herself: Beautiful, dear, and noble old tree
Bend your green branches caressing o’er me.
For oh! a day’s coming, and soon will be here,
When I shall be far from your presence and cheer;
And my heart will be lonely without your embrace,
And you—you will long for a sight of my face.

Your branches bend low to the ground,
Bend low and caressingly,
And they sway with a murmurous sound—
A language of nature profound—
Sway softly and caressingly,
As they bend, with a sigh, to the ground.

They chant the grand chorus of ages,
In musical monotone;
And open the past’s mystic pages—
The wonderful, solemn, sealed pages—
So vaguely and dimly known.
They sing me the song of the ages.

When I listen with spirit and soul
To each swaying, whisp’ring bough,
The silent centuries backward roll
And open before me like a scroll.
And I view the “Then as Now”—
When I listen with spirit and soul.
She was lying on the grass, with her face toward the sky, which she could only see in spots through the tree’s thick branches, which hung low and swayed in the slightest breeze, with a motion that was very like a caress to one beneath them. A house stood near, but the tree completely hid it on one side. One coming from the south saw only a beautiful grassy hill surmounted by a great green umbrella. Under this friendly shelter the woman-child lay, singing her own words to her own tunes. Oblivious to outward sounds, she heard no footsteps until the branches parted and a stranger entered her temple. At this a dog that had been enjoying the profoundest of slumber near her, sprang to his feet with a great show of vigilance, making up for his tardiness by the most energetic barking. “Be quiet, Bliss,” said the child, rising to a sitting posture and looking steadily at the stranger, with the utmost composure. The dog at once became silent, but he went close to her and posed as on the defensive. “I beg pardon,” said the intruder, politely raising his hat, “I saw no one, and thought to rest a bit in the shade, and get a cool drink of water, too.” “The well is on the other side of the house,” she said, making a motion in that direction with a thin, nervous, unchildlike hand. Her words and manner expressed the utmost indifference—yet there was a gleam of interest in her big, clear eyes. The stranger moved on, murmuring thanks. She looked after him with a sudden yearning in her heart for his return. He was not of her world, that was sure; and yet somehow it was quite clear to her that he was of her world—the world of her dreams, where she longed to be, fancied she had been, and from whence she had somehow sadly strayed. Yes, in that instant of contact she understood that in spite of all apparent difference their worlds were the same. In another moment he returned. Gracefully begging permission, he seated himself on the grass and leaned against the tree. His manner captivated her. It was respectful and deferential as to a woman grown. It enchanted her, for she was one of those misunderstood children who have thoughts and feelings far beyond their years and suffer great humiliation when treated patronizingly. “You are not at all afraid of me although I came unannounced and unintroduced, are you?” he asked, half laughing. “Afraid? Why should I be? I am in my own door-yard. Besides, you don’t look like a wild beast, and if you were one, here is Bliss to take care of me.” “Thank you. It’s a comfort to know you have no doubt that I am human. But what is this?” he asked, as a piece of cardboard blew toward him. “Ah! a drawing. May I look at it?” She nodded her consent. It was a pencil drawing of a woman’s head, and interested him at first glance, because, imperfect though it was, it had that which makes art great when it is so—the human quality, the power to express its creator, the aim and object of all art. This penciled face gave an insight into the artist’s mind, showing that which she had tried to express and yet had not made clear. It showed the height to which she rose in fancy, and the long and rugged road between present performance and the perfection of which she dreamed. All this the stranger saw, because we see what is within ourselves. It takes genius to recognize genius. He had traveled the road on which she was taking her first feeble steps. “Is it your work?” he asked. “Yes,” she nodded, coloring faintly. It was plain that she expected no praise, yet longed for a helping word. “Is it a copy?” he asked, for there was about it, although but half expressed, that which he thought must have been suggested by something from a master hand. “No.” “Then who is it?” There was unaffected interest in his voice. “One of my people,” she answered. “Does she live here?” “She is here sometimes, not always.” “Well, she must be a beautiful woman—even more beautiful than you depict her.” “You understand,” said the child. “I cannot put her on paper as I see her. I know but little of drawing, but I am always trying to draw faces—the faces of my own people—and trees, for they are my own people too; but I am never satisfied with my work. They do not get on the paper as they are in my mind.” “Why not have some instruction?” She shrugged her shoulders. The stranger understood, but in order not to seem to, he began to pick up some scattered leaves of paper near him. Seeing that they contained writing he was about to lay them down with an apology when the child said: “It is a letter I have written to Helen, the woman whose picture you have just been looking at. You may read it, only not aloud. I couldn’t stand that.” “But why should I read it at all?” he said. “It would be impertinent on my part. Besides, I am not afflicted with the despicable vice of curiosity.” “If you don’t mind, I wish you would read it,” she said. “It may help me. You will understand when you have finished.” But she looked ill at ease, nevertheless. The stranger read: My dearly Beloved Helen:—Since you went away I am very lonely indeed. None other is so near and dear to me as you. I fill the hours with thoughts of you—thoughts so intense and absorbing that at times I actually see you by my side. But, alas! you do not stay when you come like that. You fade out of my sight; you go back to your world and I cannot follow you only with my thoughts, my dreams, my love and my letters. But I shall go and find you some day. I shall be one of the people of your world, and shall be busy with work which shall fill my time, my brain and my heart. I shall meet all my people there—my very own people, and shall love them and work with them and know loneliness no more. I have a story to tell you, Dear Heart. It is this: In a world nameless to all mankind, lived a woman, sweet and fair. It was a beautiful world. There the men were all true and the women all faithful. Misery was unknown and none sought happiness, for all possessed it. But this one woman dreamed dreams and saw visions. She heard voices calling to her from another world—a world whose people sought continually and vainly to attain a condition they knew only in name, and which they called Happiness. All believed in the existence of this condition and gave chase to it, each in his own way, but none found it. Often hearing the voices of these unhappy people and seeing them in visions, this woman longed to go and help them. The longing disturbed the harmony of life in all her world, until it was decreed that she must leave it and go to that other whose vibrations of anguish had shaken the spheres. But they did not tell her of her destiny. “She will know when she is there,” they said. So she slept, and the sleep was long in the eyes of the children of Time. When she awoke, memory was gone, and everything had to be learned over again. At first her consciousness was very dim, and her strength feeble, and having slept so long she could scarcely keep awake at all. But after a time a faint memory of the past came to her, and she saw that all was different from that other time, which now seemed like a dream. This was not the same world, nor were these the same people she had known, for she was in the sad world she had seen in visions, whose people so persistently and often frantically sought Happiness and never found it—and that sad world was this in which we live. She was changed in appearance, too, for when she looked in a mirror she saw a face that was new to her and a tiny figure. She was like a child, and everybody called her a child, though to...