77 re Savitri f)evi Archive Home Life Works Texts Gallery Literature Wish List News Letters Bookshop Donations Links Mailing List Contact Forever and Ever by Savitri Devi Edited by R.G. Fowler Illustration: Adolf Hitler If you know the name of the portrait painter, please contact the Archivist. Savitri Devi’s For Ever and Ever ... is a book of sixteen “prose poems” written in 1952-53. (From this point on, I am going to “modernize” the spelling of the title to Forever and Ever and drop the ellipses.) Forever and Ever is one of three books left unpublished at the time of Savitri’s death. The others are Hart wie Kruppstahl (Hard as Steel), written 1960-63, a tribute to German National Socialists before and after the Second World War, and Tyrtee VAthenien (Tyrtaios the Athenian), a novel set in ancient Greece, written circa 1964-68, but not finished. These books were thought lost, but were preserved by a French friend of Savitri, who informed the Archive of their existence on 13 April 2006. Still unknown is the fate of a fourth unfinished book, Ironies et paradoxes dans I’histoire et la legende (Ironies and Paradoxes in History and Legend), begun in 1979 but abandoned after one and a half chapters due to Savitri’s deteriorating eyesight. On 2 September 2006, the Archive received a photocopy of the typescript of Forever and Ever. To be more precise, we received a typescript of 65 pages (three unnumbered front pages, plus 62 numbered pages) comprising the first fifteen of the sixteen poems. Fortunately, multiple copies of the final poem, “1953” (“And Time Rolls On ... ”) survive, and the poem has already been published. To celebrate Savitri Devi’s 101st birthday, 30 September 2006, the Archive will publish Forever and Ever one poem at a time. The first poem, “1918,” is below. But first a few words about the pages that come before it. The title page reads FOR EVER AND EVER ... By SAVITRI DEVI (PDF). The second page bears the dedication “To A.H.,” which needs no elaboration (PDF). The third page bears the epigraph of the book: “Wenn alle untreu werden, So bleiben wir doch treu ...” (“When all become unfaithful, We remain faithful still . . .”), the first two lines of Max von Schenkendorfs 1814 “Treuelied,” which was adopted by the SS (PDF). Then follows “1918” itself'. There may, however, be a page or two missing from the manuscript. After the fifth poem is a page bearing the words “DAYS OF GLORY ...” (PDF). After the tenth poem is a page bearing the words “DAYS OF HORROR.” (PDF). These pages divide the book into three sections. There is, however, no corresponding title page before the first poem. If such a page existed, however, judging from the other pages, the title it bore probably began with the words “DAYS OF.” It is, furthermore, possible that there was a fourth section of the manuscript, since the final poem,“1953,” may have been placed in its own separate section. In transcribing and editing these poems for publication, I have translated the German epigraphs, corrected any spelling and grammatical errors, and “Americanized” and updated the spelling. I have not altered Savitri’s sometimes eccentric capitalization practices. Nor have I altered her punctuation, although I have pruned her sometimes long ellipses down to three dots each. I provide PDF images of the manuscript for those who wish to check my editing or bypass it altogether. Just click the title of each poem. —R. G. Fowler I. 1918 “Es war also alles umsonst gewesen. Umsonst all die Opfer und Entbehrungen, umsonst der Hunger und Durst von manchmal endlosen Monaten, vergeblich die Stunden, in denen wir, von Todesangst umkrallt, dennoch unsere Pflicht taten, und vergeblich der Tod von zwei Millionen, die dabei starben.” —Mein Kampf, 1939 edition, pp. 223-24 1 Hail, Thou exalted One, Whom I have never seen; maker of a new world—my Leader! From the dawn of Time, in ceaseless aspiration, I sought Thee, I, the undying Soul of higher mankind, strong and fair. I sought Thee in exile, and slavery and shame, unable to forget the glorious destiny befitting me in spite of all. From age to age, along the path that leads to certain death, I turned around to contemplate an everlasting dream; and all my being leaped towards the Savior and the Lord Who was not there, but Who would come, one day, and set me free, and give me back the wings of youth; towards Thee, beloved Leader, Whose name no one yet knew. When wouldst Thou come? Hundreds of years rolled by; new Kingdoms rose and fought, and in the mist, of time, slowly withered away; and gods changed names. One thing remained: the unpolluted stream of divine blood within the veins of the Gods’ chosen people, and the dim consciousness in these of a great duty to fulfill. When wouldst Thou come? From age to age, in the deep slumber of prosperity, again and again I call Thee. But the bright sky was dead and dumb. When once more all was lost, when all lay in the dust, when songs of hate echoed across the sacred Rhine, then didst Thou come—unknown; alone; out of the millions who awaited Thee; just one of them and nothing more, apparently; but one of them in whom the betrayed gods of Aryandom lived and suffered and shone; one of them in Whose voice, the voice of the exalted Race of heroes dead in vain was soon to speak; and one in Whom the chosen lords of Earth, brothers of the immortal Youth, Baldur the Fair, were soon to hail their own invincibility. My Leader,—our Leader—Thou was there, somewhere, unnoticed, on a bed of pain. But it was not the torment of the body—the maddening torture of Thy burning eyes, blinded by poisonous gas;—it was not even the atrocious threat of possible unending night, that gripped Thy heart in agony. It was the news of the betrayal of Thy country, the humiliation of surrender, and the thought of all those who had died in vain in four long years. Oh, how the vision of their day to day dutiful sacrifice haunted Thy sleepless nights! Thou laidst in mental agony a thousand times more horrid than any torture of the flesh. And from Thy blinded aching eyes, tears of powerless rage, tears of shame inexpressible, of boundless love and hate, rolled forth. No heart was torn as Thy great heart over the tragic fate of the millions whose blood was Thine—and mine; for indeed it was the same: Aryan blood. Out of hunger and strife and devilish deceit, a new tremendous Power was taking shape in the bleak East. While on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean, the entire West, in childish glee, danced to the sound of drunken tunes, insulting Thy defeated people. Thou feltst the knife-thrust of their spiteful gaiety hundreds of miles away, wile all round Thee Thou couldst but see Thy people’s hunger and despair, and bitterness in harsh revolt against an unjust fate, against the accusing lies of a whole world. And at that feeling, and at that sight, Thy ardent, bleeding heart aches with more love and with more hate—love for Thy martyred Nation, Thy greater Self, Whose life mattered alone; fathomless love, to which no sacrifice would ever be too great, no price too high if it could buy freedom and resurrection; hate for the workers of disaster, for those aliens whose cunning and whose wealth had long deceived and bribed the whole ignorant world, and turned the West against the best of its own flesh and blood. And love and hate made Thee the Man who was to be—the Leader long awaited. The world was soon to see, through Thee, Thy people free; through Thee, the chosen blood protected and united within the growing Realm; through Thee, the god-like youth marching along the highways, with songs of conquest, in the morning sun. But I, Thy follower, Thy worshipped to be, Thy seeker through the gloom of Time, had not yet heard Thy name. Not far beyond the moving frontiers of the Realm, I awaited Thee unknowingly, deeming myself to be a thirteen year-old maiden, while many centuries of age indeed I was; while before my dark eyes, fair shadows of a radiant past appeared and disappeared, reminding me of a forgotten world; foretelling me the glory of Thy great world to come. And to the ugly crowd of liars and of cowards, I turned my back instinctively. Not even for a second did I feel happy as I heard the bells of victory. Their victory; not mine—I could have said: not ours. I knew Thee not. (Who knew Thee, then?) And I knew not Thy people. But at the news of their defeat, my hears was sad, as though the triumph of their enemies were, in my eyes, the triumph of guile and treachery and above all, of sickening mediocrity—of all I hated in the world. I knew Thee not; and yet I sought Thee in my dreams. Thy great Idea was mine; had been from the beginning, the very yearning of my lonely soul. I was already Thy disciple, and Thy lover and Thy worshipper ... 1 “So it was all in vain. In vain all the sacrifices and privations, in vain the hunger and thirst of sometimes endless months, in vain the hours in which, gripped by mortal fear, we nevertheless did our duty, and in vain the death of two million, who died thereby.” —trans. R.G. Fowler. 77 re Savitri 'Devi Archive Home Life Works Texts Gallery Literature Wish List News Letters Bookshop Donations Links Mailing List Contact Forever and Ever by Savitri Devi Edited by R.G. Fowler This is the second installment of Savitri Devi’s previously unpublished book of “prose poems” Forever and Ever, which the Archive is publishing over the course of this month to commemorate Savitri Devi’s 101st birthday, which falls on 30 September 2006. This particular poem shows strong indications of being an uncorrected and unrevised draft, even though there are a few handwritten corrections or emendations. First, as I note below, several sentences simply make no sense. It may merely be the case that some words were omitted when the typescript was prepared, but the fact that such omissions were not corrected indicates that the typescript was not carefully edited. Second, the quality of the writing is simply not up to Savitri Devi’s standards, particularly her descriptions of natural phenomena, which are wordy and awkward, lacking the polish and symmetry of such passages in her published works. In transcribing and editing these poems for publication, I have translated the German epigraphs, corrected any spelling and grammatical errors, and “Americanized” and updated the spelling. I have not altered Savitri’s sometimes eccentric capitalization practices. Nor have I altered her punctuation, although I have pruned her sometimes long ellipses down to three dots each. Editorial additions appear in square brackets. PDF images of the typescript are available for those who wish to check my editing or bypass it altogether. Just click the title of the poem. —R. G. Fowler II. 1919 “Auch das hellenische Kulturideal soil uns in seiner vorbildlichen Schonheit erhalten bleiben. Man darf sich nicht durch Verschiedenheiten der einzelnen Volker die groBere Rassegemeinschaft zerreiBen lassen. Der Kampf, der heute tobt, geht um ganz groBe Ziele: ein Kultur kampft um ihr Dasein, die Jahrtausende in sich verbindet und Griechen- und Germanentum gemeinsam umschlieBt.” —Mein Kampf, 1939 edition, p. 470 1 But yet, I knew Thee not, I knew not Thy great people. And I did not suspect what possibilities lay within them, in our times, under my eyes. Weary of the silly, sickly world which I did know; full of contempt for the conceited nation that laughs at everything she cannot understand, and holds in horror all extreme, uncompromising faiths;—the nation that put forth the world-wide snare: the “rights of man,” and hates obvious authority and iron order backed by force of arms, while she adores the unseen slavery of the gullible mind to lies 2 ;—full of contempt, also, for the religion that teaches that other great lie: “the dignity of every human soul,” in the name of a god whom I had never loved, 3 I turned my eyes to far-gone days; to gods and to heroes long dead, whose names no longer stirred devotion in the hearts of men, I gave my heart. I wept because I could not bring them back to life again. The vision of the ancient Rock,—of the Acropolis, seat of Perfection^] white and golden beneath Attica’s cloudless sky;—lived in my memory. And along with it, I adored the beauty of the manly virtues of heroes like unto the Gods—whether of those who stormed immortal Troy, three thousand years ago, or of those no less great, and no less godlike, who, merely a century before the present day, struggled for Hellas’ freedom, in mountain fastnesses and on the sea, under the banner of the Cross. And along with it, I worshipped the beauty of the holy North in by-gone days, before its racial pride had yielded to the foreign god of meekness; the beauty of the conquering men—my mother’s ancestors—who, when in a deafening roar, [an] outburst of monstrous glee, the sky and the Sea challenged each other’s might, the tempest howled, the thunder growled, and lightning tore the crumbling clouds, stood in their ships, erect, and beat their shields in cadence, and answering the furious Voice of elemental Godhead, sang warrior-like hymns to Odin and Thor. Where were they now, those supermen? Where was the spirit of my race, which lived in me? Where was I now to find men at the hearing of whose songs my heart would beat? Men in whose words I would detect the spell of pride and power? Whose voice I gladly would obey?—Men whom I could admire? All round me I beheld nothing but credulous and kindly ape, or—which is worse—pedantic apes, well-read, but without faith, without the urge to fight for Something greater than themselves and than their narrow “happiness”; something for which men fight, along their way to supermanhood. And only in the scattered lines of a few dreamers did I find an echo of my yearning. “Come, O thou exile of the far-gone times”; said one of these. “The axe has felled the sacred trees; where swords once clattered, now, the slave doth crawl and pray. And all the Gods have gone away. Come to them in the gleaming Walhall, where They await thee!” 4 And I, fourteen, and full of youthful ardor, full of the thirst for sacrifices for Something that would mean, to me, all that the Gods of Greece and of the ancient North then meant; and I the daughter of the North and of [the] Aegean all in one, afire with love for Someone who, to me, would be the embodiment of resurrected Aryandom—Someone whom I could deity— 5 I knew never more to return; over the fair-haired warriors in whom their spirit dwelt; over the beauty and virility of Aryan man, the pride of Aryan woman, wife and queen,—mother of men. Slowly, but steadily, yet Thou wast rising, appointed by those very Gods whom I adored; to lead higher mankind to glory and to death, and then, to greater glory still. In Thy visible garb, thirty years old wert Thou, eternal One, my Savior. Already, above the noise of catastrophic changes that shook the world, Thy people heard Thy voice proclaim the message of Thy anxious love—Thy ultimatum to the Chosen Nation—: “Future or ruin!” Already, to their depth, Thy inspired words had stirred them. Already a few bold, hard and true,—young men of gold and steel—had risen at Thy call and given Thee their all, and sworn to Thee, with joy, life-long allegiance in absolute obedience. And just as when, before the storm, the surface of the sea, still remains calm, and the sky blue, meanwhile in unsuspected heights, slowly, tremendous whirls appear gathering scattered water-drops into dark clouds ready to burst; and just when no sign of new eruption can be shown in or around their silent, empty craters, down, down, low down in untold depth within the burning bowels of slumbering volcanoes, the unseen molten basalt boils and roars and rises day by day; so likewise at the call of Thy compelling love, so, likewise at the light of Thy inspired, star-like eyes, slowly the age-old manliness and pride and will to power were roused anew within a day; and young men heroes. 6 And while the land still groaned under the heels of victors who had made it clear that theirs, in the great councils of the days, in which silly humanity was told to put its hope, 7 from the breasts of the chosen few burst forth the cry that echoes Thine: “Awake, O nation fated to proclaim the divine right of pure blood; fated to rise and rule: Germany awake!” Oh, had I heard the marital cry—the call to resurrection—and had I also know that along the way of light, I would be allowed to follow Thee! That I too was invited to the great sacrifice in honor of the dawn; to the great Feast of Life at which, expressing my own youthful yearning, minstrels would praise the Gods I loved in magnificent hymns; to the great processional march in which, I too, would bear a torch, and I too had my voice to the broadening chorus, and in which on my right and on my left, and all around me I would have, as comrades, nay, as brothers, read demi-gods of flesh and blood! Oh, Had I know thou wast the One whom I had sought from century to century, and Whom I was still seeking, in ardent adolescent dreams! And that Thou wouldst welcome in me, the daughter of the outer Aryan world of North and South; the first-fruits of the love and reverence of the whole Race for Thee, its Savior, Thee its Leader, Thee its uncrowned King! Had I but known? ... But greater ones than I knew Thee not yet. 1 “We should also retain the Hellenic cultural ideal in its exemplary beauty. One must not allow the larger racial community to be torn apart by the differences between individual peoples. The fight which rages today revolves entirely around grand goals: a culture fights for its existence, which encompasses the millennia and includes Greece and Germany together.”—Trans. R.G. Fowler. 2 Savitri refers here to France, the nation of her birth and upbringing. 3 Savitri refers here to Christianity. 4 Leconte de Lisle, “Le Barde de Temrah.” ' From this point forward, the sentence makes no sense. It is possible that when Savitri prepared the typescript, she left out some words. Those who are never more to return are probably the old Greek and Nordic gods. "Again, some words seem to be missing here. 7 Yet again, some words seem to be missing. 77 re Savitri 'Devi Archive Home Life Works Texts Gallery Literature Wish List News Letters Bookshop Donations Links Mailing List Contact Forever and Ever by Savitri Devi Edited by R.G. Fowler m This is the third chapter of Savitri Devi’s previously unpublished book of “prose poems” Forever and Ever. This poem, unlike the last one, seems much more polished stylistically, although, as noted below, there are a number of typographical errors, which crept in when the poem was transcribed from Typescript A to Typescript B. This transcription was prepared from Typescript B. PDF images of both Typescripts are available: Typescript A and Typescript B. In transcribing and editing these poems, I have translated the German epigraphs, corrected any spelling and grammatical errors, and “Americanized” and updated the spelling. I have not altered Savitri’s sometimes eccentric capitalization practices. Nor have I altered her punctuation, although I have pruned her sometimes long ellipses down to three dots each. Editorial additions appear in square brackets. Omissions and substitutions are indicated with notes. —R. G. Fowler III. 1923 (9th November) “Am 9. November 1923, 12 Uhr 30 Minuten nachmittags, fielen vor der Feldherrnhalle sowie im Hofe des ehemaligen Kriegsministeriums zu Miinchen folgende Manner im treuen Glauben an die Wiederauferstehung ihres Volkes:... So widme ich Ihnen zur gemeinsamen Erinnerung den ersten Band dieses Werkes, als dessen Blutzeugen sie den Anhangern unserer Bewegung dauernd voranleuchten mogen. ” —Mein Kampf, Dedication 1 Then came a day when, confident in Thy increasirng might, in Thy devoted followers and in Thy Destiny, Thou stoodst in broad daylight against the public powers, slave of Thy people’s foes, challenging them in an unequal fight; a day when boldly facing the threat 2 of the existing State and its awe-inspiring apparatus 3 of repression—its soldiery without ideas, a tool in the hands of respectable authorities without a soul—Thy few and fiery faithful ones marched forth to storm for Thee the citadel [of] undisputed power. Their countenances bright with joy, their hearts full of that burning love that carries one to the ends of the earth and never turneth backwards; Thy name upon their youthful lips, as in all times to come, already linked inseparably with the holy name of Germany, on they went without fear . . . Sunshine is beautiful, daylight is sweet[,] and yet, more beautiful, and sweeter still is death for Thee, death for Thy great Idea to triumph; for Thy reign to come. On they went, and no force upon earth or in heaven could stop the impetus of their conquering step; for theirs was Germany’s eternal soul after a long time wide-awake and free; theirs, the message of truth, the spell of resurrection; and theirs,—in spite of all; after the coming flash of power and of glory, and following untold years of martyrdom—the lordship of the future; theirs the world, in its new golden age, after the final crash. On they went. On its topmost wave, the great unfurling tide of History that none can alter or arrest, carried them to their fated goal: to glory in unending time,—but first, to death. The rifles of the wavering Sate went off, and bullets flew; and on the ground, in pools of blood, lay sixteen men of those who were the very best of Germany’s best. Thy faithful ones of early days, Thy chosen few, men of all trades and of all ranks, (there are no social ranks, among us who believe in the nobility of Aryan blood alone)[,] men of all ages too, the oldest over fifty, the youngest just nineteen, but all young men at heart, all looking to the future, all men who firmly felt, that, to begin anew, and build in truth and fervor, trusting one’s fate, it is never too difficult, never too late. In brotherly equality, in pools of blood they lay, the first one of an endless list of martyrs of the Cause of Life in truth, under its modern form; the first to win the honor of giving up their lives for Thee and for new Germany, their resurrected Fatherland—and Thine—and; beyond that, new Aryandom, Thy world-wide dream of beauty,—and mine. There they lay, while the might that Thou wert soon to overthrow—the might of those authorities in the service of foreign wealth—gripped a few other of Thy trusted ones, and Thee Thyself, and led you all into captivity. On Thee, the heavy fortress doors were shut for several months. The newspapers mentioned the fact, mentioned also the death of the first martyrs. But outside Germany, few understood how great a happening had taken place; how great a new upheaval, in joyous sacrifice and death was taking shape. As for me, on the tragic day on which the Sixteen fell for Thee, I was hundreds of miles away, standing alone upon the marble steps of the Parthenon, and gazing at the City at my feet, and at the distant 4 sea. I was eighteen, and fair to look upon; yet no womanly sadness brought tears to my eyes. Ardent, but proud, and already before this birth, marked out to love [none] but Godhead incarnate, never was I to know the joys and anguishes of human passion, nor its madness. I loved a dream, and tears were in my eyes because I was becoming conscious that it was but a dream. I loved eternal Greece—that Greece of long ago, that survives in the lofty columns within the shade of which I stood; also that Greece of yesterday, bulwark of Aryan mankind in the Near East, who, for five hundred years, resisted the victorious Turks. I loved the Prince of Macedon, the fair-haired conqueror, whose march towards the East, resembled the procession of an irresistible god; the Man who led men of my race across the Indus River for the second time. I loved, also the Grecian chieftains who, in 1821, swore to reconquer freedom or die. And tears were in my eyes because of bitter thoughts. All round me, in the dazzling midday light, my beloved Athens spread its white houses, in the midst of which, a few cypress trees here and there and rows of pepper trees, put patches of dark green or lines of greenish gray; its white houses that covered the lower slopes of steep Lykabettus, up to the pine tree wood I knew so well. Beyond the outskirts of the town, towards the east, the barren rocks of Hymettus, in light, almost transparent gray, shone against that same fathomless blue background, and, to the south, the sparking Aegean, bluer still—deep, violet-blue. Oh, how beautiful it all was: that City, from a distance, so white in the sunshine, amidst its clear-cut hills, and high above all, the everlasting sky; and far around all, the everlasting sea! And yet, my heart was sad, for out of all that beauty, no Grecian voice had yet answered my fiery call to freedom, and my call to pride. None had agreed with me when I had said that worse than [the] Turkish yoke was slaver to the so-called “great” powers who had just won the first World War. And when, leaving the rest aside, I had recalled the latest blow of fate—the loss of Asia Minor—and had accused the treacherous Allies and had accused the spirit they embodied, (the spirit of Democracy) and accused the alien interests behind their policy, and tried to prompt my brothers to have nothing to do with them and their soul-killing “culture[,”] no one had seemed to share my burning indignation; none had echoed my hate. Had Greece, then, irredeemably lost every sense of grandeur, and consented to be forever a tool of the western Allies, a docile instrument of their intrigues, exalted when it suited them, and the following day insulted and abandoned? Was she no longer to remain, in opposition to both Turk and Jew, the advanced guard of Aryandom? The treacherous Allies, by doing all they could to help the Turks to win the Asia Minor War, acted as enemies of Aryan blood. But why did not Greece hate them, as I did? Were not the flames of devastated Smyrna, was not the forced exile of two millions of Hellenes enough to stir, in her, that selfsame disgust as I felt for those great money-ridden States that had, six years before, against her will, dragged her into their unjust war? Was all that not enough to make her say, with me: “Away! Away from that hypocrisy, which Democracy stands for! Away, away from the serfdom of the decaying West! Back to national values; back to the spirit of the national Gods of old, heralds of Life undying! Back to ourselves[,] to Hellenism,—to Aryandom!” (The two, in my eyes, were the same.) These were my thoughts as, on the memorable day, as I stood upon the steps of the Temple in ruins, and beheld in its beauty, under the midday Sun, the violet-crowned City. My Leader, had I then, but known the deeper meaning of Thy holy Struggle! Had I but understood that the Sixteen, whose death the papers of [the] following day stated within a line, had shed their blood for something more tan a new form of government! Oh, had I seen in them, what they already were: the vanguard of an endless host of fighters for the rule of the natural elite of mankind,—the first one in my times to die for my eternal Greek ideal of domination of the aristoi ,—the best, in body, character and soul! And had I understood, that, in [the] modern world, the best, according to my heart’s conception, according to the everlasting standards of health, and strength, and beauty, set forth by my Greek masters were the elite of Thy inspired countrymen: Thy 1 2 3 4 5 best! In youthful fervor, then and there, I should have flown to Thee! Oh, why did I not know? In the heat of Thy struggle, I should have been so happy; I should have loved Thee so, from those great early days[.] Yes, there I was, and Thine already in spirit, and by the Gods themselves chosen to remain Thine, throughout a thousand wanderings. Why did I not guess? Who can tell? All penetrating is the Gods’ insight—and strange, and often disappointing, outwardly, are their ways. 1 “On 9 November 1923, at 12:30 in the afternoon, in front of the Feldherrnhalle and likewise in the courtyard of the former War Ministry in Munich, the following men fell in true faith in the resurrection of their people: . . . Thus I dedicate the first volume of this work to the common memory of you, its blood witnesses, may you shine on before the followers of our movement.”—Trans. R.G. Fowler 2 Reading “thread” as “threat.” 3 Reading “apparel” as “apparatus.” 4 Deleting a superfluous “the.” 5 Reading “thy” as “Thy. 77 re Savitri 'Devi Archive Home Life Works Texts Gallery Literature Wish List News Letters Bookshop Donations Links Mailing List Contact Forever and Ever by Savitri Devi Edited by R.G. Fowler This is the fourth installment of Savitri Devi’s previously unpublished book of “prose poems”—in reality a series of autobiographical reflections and rhapsodies—entitled Forever and Ever. In transcribing and editing these texts, I have translated the German epigraphs, corrected any spelling and grammatical errors, and “Americanized” and updated the spelling. I have not altered Savitri’s sometimes eccentric capitalization practices. Nor have I altered her punctuation, although I have pruned her sometimes long ellipses down to three dots each. Editorial additions appear in square brackets. Omissions and substitutions are indicated with notes. All notes are by the editor. PDF images of the typescript are available for those who wish to check my editing or bypass it altogether. Just click the title of each chapter.. —R. G. Fowler IV. 1929 “So glaube ich heute im Sinne des allmachtigen Schopfers zu handeln: Indem ich mich des Juden erwehre, kampfe ichfiir das Werk des Herrn.” —Mein Kampf 1939 edition, p. 70 1 I had never loved the Christian faith; indeed, its contempt of the body, its stress upon the love of man, whichever man he be,—while it forgets to teach love and respect of living nature, ever beautiful—its fear of healthy and violent 2 pride and of the joy of anyone who needs no comfort in this world, no hope outside[,] had all, and from the start, made me despise it, if not to hate it. Yet, for long years, I had known what open stand to take, before the eyes of all, for or against it. And I had tolerated it, tolerated it, solely because I had, over and over again, been told that, without it, the speech and soul of Greece would have perished wholesale during the long[,] long night of Turkish domination; because I knew that, before that, the Byzantine Empire bore for a thousand years, the double stamp of Christendom and of Hellenic culture; also because I recognized, within the music of the Eastern Church, the last bond of allegiance of thousands of scattered exiles of the Hellenic Nation, as well as an echo of I knew not what glory of a remoter past, or a more national existence, in the light of national Gods. I had tolerated it. But never could I love it. Never could I admire that meekness which it taught; nor that propensity to exalt the weak and sick in body or in spirit, the cripple and the unhappy, at the expense of those whom Nature cherishes: the healthy and the strong, the free and the all-round beautiful. 3 Nor could I share that tendency to ponder over lust and greed and every sin, delighting in perpetual repentance; that craving to seek out and save what in my eyes was not worth saving; that constant thought of a dull heaven coupled with a constant aspiration to the dust[.] Whenever, from a distance, I beheld on the top of Areopagus, the church erected on the spot where the Jew taught, for the first time, in Athens, that “God hath made all men out of one blood”! I felt my own blood boil with shame. “Oh, why, why had they listened to him, the proud Athenians of the old days?” thought I. And I remember the story of the conquest of tired Hellas by the foreign creed. It was not they, the people of the Goddess, who had harkened to the Jewish lie; it was the many ones of the doubtful origin although of Grecian speech, who formed the sweepings of Grecian seaports; it was also the men of Alexandria, and[,] above all, it was the policy of Constantine whom they called the “Great” that helped the new religion to take a hold in Greece, three hundred years after the death of Paul. And I remembered him, more and more dear to me, warrior-like Emperor Julian, who tried to stem the tide. And I recalled the words of despair he is said to have uttered on the battlefield, acknowledging the victory of the Christians, as he died. 4 And I recalled Hypatia torn to pieces; and also, for beyond the Greco-Roman 5 world, in that proud North, whose daughter I too was, for centuries on end, the trail of persecution of Aryan Heathendom by zealous Christian knights. Just as, in this triumphant eastward march from victory to victory, fair Alexander had carried Hellenic might to the hallowed Land of Seven Rivers, through the bright mountain Pass through which the earliest Aryan warriors had come there long before, so had, in the course of time, the sickly Jewish creed, avenging the defeat[s] of Gaza and of Tyre, conquering decaying Greece, through bribery, and the pure-blooded, virgin North, through terror. Its world-wide and lasting success was, in my eyes, the sign of the rise of lower mankind, against the strong, against the fair, against the Gods’ own children, my people, whether from the shores of the Ionian Sea or of the German Ocean. What link of sheer historical propriety still retained me within that Christendom, which I despised? And was that link a living fact? In spite of all the usefulness the Christian Church might well have had, in the dark Turkish days, were not the spirit of eternal Greece and that of the 6 Galilean faith forever incompatible? Did not, in spite of all, an abyss gape between them; in time and in eternity? And if so, had I not to choose, once and for all, which path was to be mine? I longed to feel, in its very birthplace, the soul of historic Christianity—to see[,] to hear, to know. I longed to let myself and it. 7 And so, one April morning in 1929, upon a Christian pilgrims’ ship, I sailed to Palestine. Upon the glimmering waves between the many golden isles, the ship carried me away from Greece, over many hundred miles; away from Greece it took me straight into another world—into that old Semitic East where the Christian creed was born. And I beheld the Soul of the Semitic East, itself foreign to me, domesticated and spoilt for centuries and centuries by the influence of those rejected ones of history, for whose unholy might and unseen rule my own decaying continent had toiled unknowingly, from those dark days it had embraced the Christian faith, and made the Christian values the basis of its whole outlook on life; the Jews. And I beheld the selfish, cunning, loveless Soul of Israel behind the serpentine courtesy of the men in long dark clothes who sold in the bazaars, no less than in the fanatical glances of the same ones, whose movements I followed, a few days later, before the Wailing Wall. And everywhere, in churches and in o mosques, and in the malodorous winding streets of old Jerusalem, where life has never changed, and in the new and vulgar brightly- lighted buildings of Tel Aviv; I saw the selfsame stamp of that beautiless race; the selfsame sign of mankind’s fall. Even the nomad dweller has fallen at the contact of the Jews. He had slowly learnt from him to repudiate his age-old tribal pride, founded upon the brotherhood of blood, and to rejoice, instead, in the great unity of all the true believers, whoever these may be, and in their equal right to beget more believers in the Book—in the One God and in the Prophet—never mind by whom. And I thought, 9 even the Bedouin have decayed; what about us, the children of the godlike men of distant midnight shores, who once 10 had brought the cult of Apollo to Greece and carried to India the worship of the Dawn? What about us[,] when our deluded fathers accepted from the Jew a creed upholding meekness, and charity towards all men and love of peace as virtues? A creed in which the body no longer mattered, and in which, as in Islam, the original ideal of pure blood was looked upon as obsolete? I gazed at those who had come with me to Palestine—people from Greece—and I measured the distance that separated them from the Heathen Greeks of old, as I had never measured it before in some of them[;] under a skin-deep Christian faith, the eternal Soul of Greece still shone, invincible, and ever-ready to reassert itself. Others 11 I beheld, but Christian Levantines, produces] of long decay. I suddenly recalled the dome of the great church erected to Saint Paul upon the top of Areopagus, under that same blue sky on the background of which the ruins of the old heathen Acropolis appear in all their untarnished splendor. All around me, that same oppressive style, so different from all that real Greece created; all around me, that foreign atmosphere, that mysticism of [the] Semitic East, so different from the spirit of our cult of Rhythm and Form, of our cult of Health and Light—our Aryan cult, faithful to this fair earth. I shuddered at the contrast, more deeply than ever before. And from the inner feeling of my own everlasting Self, of my own Race, of which at last I was fully aware, and from the inner vision of my own dream of an ideal world, [I] formulated in my heart the long-delayed decision on which my whole life was to rest: “Away from Jewry! Away from the Christian spirit, the subtle poison poured out to us by the Jews, well-guided by the instinct of their race [to] emasculate our bodies and kill our Aryan pride! Away from all that, and back to what we would have been today, had Paul never set foot in Athens or, had divine Julian been able to arrest the overwhelming tide! No further compromise with a foreign tradition in the name of the memory of the Eastern Empire: Eternal Greece, and beyond her, indestructible Aryandom of North and South—higher mankind—must pass before the lure of a mere thousand years of history.” Thus did I feel in those old churches built upon the famous spots holy to every Christian; in the monastery where I remained, and in the glittering mosque of Omar, that I visited, and in the streets of old Jerusalem, and on Mount Zion. Thus did I feel along the roads of Palestine, upon my way to towns and villages bearing biblical names. Hundreds of miles away, among Thy blessed people, under Thy leadership, my dream was taking shape. And day by day, in hope and in increasing strength, in confidence and joy, Thy people were growing into a rising tide[.] And Thou wast waiting for the Day when that tide would break down the barrier within which the frightened world was trying in vain to keep it. And I was soon to understand; and I was soon to admire Thee; and I was soon to love Thee, alone of all the sons of men in our times. From far, within my heart, I watched the tide gain power. I admired its impetus, and recognized in it the Force that had once given Greece to the Aryan Race, and the East to conquering Greece. Already, in the realm of the invisible, my life-long yearning met Thy masterful will-power, and paid to Thee the tribute that I was one day to express in word[s] of burning faith; the lasting tribute of the brothers of Thy people from the whole world—the love of the whole Race. 1 “Thus I now believe myself acting in accordance with the almighty creator: By defending myself against the Jew, I fight for the work of the Lord.”— Trans. R.G. Fowler 2 Reading “violence” as “violent.” ’ Replacing a question mark with a period. 4 “Vicisti, Galilaee" (“You win, Galilean”—or, as it is usually rendered, “Thou hast conquered, Galilean”). 5 Deleting a superfluous comma. 6 Deleting a superfluous “of.” This sentence makes no sense as it stands, which leads me to think that words were either omitted or mistyped when the typescript was prepared. s Reading “malodorant” as “malodorous.” 9 Replacing a semicolon with a comma. 10 Deleting a superfluous comma. 11 Deleting a superfluous “I” from the beginning of the sentence. The Savitri Uevi Sirchiv Home Life Works Texts Gallery Literature Wish List News Letters Bookshop Donations Links Mailing List Contact Forever and Ever by Savitri Devi Edited by R.G. Fowler This is the fifth installment of Savitri Devi’s previously unpublished book of autobiographical reflections and rhapsodies, Forever and Ever. In transcribing and editing these texts, I have translated the German epigraphs, corrected any spelling and grammatical errors, and “Americanized” and updated the spelling. I have not altered Savitri’s sometimes eccentric capitalization practices. Nor have I altered her punctuation, although I have pruned her sometimes long ellipses down to three dots each. Editorial additions appear in square brackets. Omissions and substitutions are indicated with notes. All notes are by the editor. PDF images of the typescript are available for those who wish to check my editing or bypass it altogether. Just click the title of each chapter. —R. G. Fowler V. 1932 “Alle groben Kulturen der Vergangenheit gingen nur zugrunde, weil die urspriinglich schopferische Rasse an Blutvergiftung abstarb.” —Mein Kampf, 1939 edition, p. 316 1 “Away, away to India; away to the hallowed country where the Aryan Gods have never died and need not be revived!” thought I. “Greece has become the prey of money-grabbing foreigners, and the victim of alien Gods and alien teachings; and I cannot do anything to awake her sleeping soul; over and over again her children have reminded me that I am nobody and that my voice has no echo in any heart. “In resurrected Germany, no doubt, the everlasting spirit of the best people of my race, is growing day by day more powerful and He is there. But would He really welcome me, an Aryan from abroad, as one entirely his own? Would his people believe me when I say that I love and admire them? In my own land nobody has believed me yet. No, better be a foreigner in a far-away land, a western Aryan Heathen in the last citadel of Aryan culture in the East—rather than in the very midst of the one land in Europe where my own spirit is rising day by day! So let me go! One day I shall come back.” Thus thought I as the ship sailed on, further and further south,—down the Red Sea,—and carried me I knew not where or for how long— [.] Standing alone upon the deck, I watched the innumerable stars in the dark sky and, now and then, as I cast down my eyes, the phosphorescent circles of innumerable jellyfish in the dark waters. Gliding between the two gorgeous infinities, I felt my nothingness but also realized the ineffable tuning of all my being to the silent music of the Universe. My unsuspected destiny, I knew, was a detail in a huge Destiny by far transcending me. And all that I did had to be. And from the stars and from the depth of the dark shining waters, I felt the unseen forces guiding me and carrying me (never mind through what wanderings) where I was bound to go: to the fulfillment of thousands of years of yearning; to the glory of a new youth in Thy new world—to Thee, the everlasting Friend; the One Who comes over and over again. And every radiant dawn and every fiery sunset that I admire upon the sea, brought the world nearer the great blessed Day of Thy Seizure of Power, while I sailed further and further away,. . . Yet, along my own path, nearer to the outlandish post from which my fate had willed that I should fight for Thee, forever near Thee in spirit, for Thy unseen and broader Realm extends above all boundaries to wherever Thy faith in Health and God-made Order, lives in Aryan hearts. * * * I reached Aryavarta, the Land of many races, where teeming millions to this day, honor the fair descendants of the ancient bards of my own race, as gods on earth; where neither gold or might, nor learning, nor anything that man can conquer, but purity of blood alone is 2 treasured for six thousand years. And then I saw the wondrous sight: Rameshwaram, the temple erected by the faith of millions to the glory of the fair immemorial Aryan hero Rama, Conqueror of the South. I saw its many-storied gopurams towering far above the flimsy roofs and dusty crowded streets of the Dravidian village in holy festive mood. And to the sound of music never heard before, I passed under its doorway, I too draped in bright silk, I too with jasmine flowers in my hair like the daughters of India, I the ambassador of distant western Aryandom to the surviving stronghold of Aryan faith in the Far South. And at the entrance, on the right and on the left as though it were welcoming me, I saw, in gleaming vermillion, the well-known Sign, the old Wheel of the Sun—our Sign. And tears came to my eyes[.] I walked along gigantic corridors, past endless rows of stately pillars through which I could behold no end of halls, more pillars and more corridors. My footsteps sounded strange upon the pavement, and in the voice that sprung from my own lips I could not recognize my voice. I wandered in elation, as in a world of dreams. Music of flutes and kettledrums resounded through the echoing halls, full of the scent of burning incense and fresh flowers. Dusky velvet-eyed men, all clad in white, and dusky women clad in many colors and full of strange serpentine grace, passed by like shadows. 3 Entrance corridor of the Rameshwaram temple, watercolor, circa 1849 And suddenly night came—the warm tropical night heavy with perfume and alive with hunger and with lust, with the great life of forest and of jungle. And the Full Moon of Vaishakha shone in the violet sky, shedding its phosphorescent light over the mighty towers and sculptured domes and outer walls and colonnades and over the still surface of the sacred tank, while growing darkness filled the halls and more offering-bearing crowds poured in from every doorway. And I stayed on and on—to watch, to feel, to know the Feast of living Aryan Heathendom in a strange land; the homage of the conquered South to the deified northern Warrior and King, Rama, now, in our times, after thousands of years. And then, out of the darkness came the blast of music and the thundering throbs of drums, and light appeared,—the light of burning torches held by a hundred men. And, suddenly, in the light, I saw a row of sacred elephants emerge in glittering array; seven of them, with ritual stripes of vermillion and sandal [wood] paste upon their massive foreheads, and scarlet cloths with golden fringe hanging down from their towering backs. The processional chariot of Rama and of Sita, followed, covered with flowers by the handful on its passage. And the red glow of torches shone upon the dusky faces, many of which were regular and beautiful. And the half-naked youths who drove the elephants and those who bore the torches seemed as though they were likenesses of Grecian gods in living bronze. I watched them pass; I watched them go, further and further away along the echoing pillared corridors and around the moonlit sacred tank. And for the second time my eyes were filled with tears. For in a flash my mind went back to Europe where I had so many times and for so long dreamed with nostalgic sadness of that unbroken Pagan ritual; to Europe where, I knew, Thou 4 wast calling Thy people to a new rising of the Aryan spirit, nay to the borth in them of a new Aryan soul, with all the decorous display and all the pomp that young creative faith could put forth when allied to the spontaneous love of order and of beauty. I thought of other torch- processions of the new rising Germanic creed of pride in racial purity, in which the fire-bearers were tall, athletic blond young men, sons of that hallowed North whence long ago both Greece and India had drawn their noblest blood and the new light that was to make them everlasting. “At last, after so many centuries of demoralization through the poison of Christian-like equality, the eternal values of my race [are] again being upheld, in broad daylight on my own continent,” thought I, for the millionth time. “But why had they ever been brushed aside? Why did the Jewish teaching ever conquer our fathers?” And all through these fifteen hundred long years, during which Europe had 5 been worshipping her Jewish god and lowering herself before his priests, and exalting moral standards of human brotherhood destined to give her soul to Israel, there in the Tropics, far away, India’s dusky millions had clung most faithfully to Aryan gods; here, when the moon was 6 full during the month of Vaishaka, year after year men had come forth in crowds to honor Rama, the Aryan conqueror of Celyon; here throughout India’s stormy history, through invasions and through wars, and in spite of all the leveling creeds imported by crusaders of equality and sneaking preachers of humanity, the time-honored caste hierarchy had preserved pure blood, and kept alive a handful of real Aryans; here every man, even among the lower races, believed in racial hierarchy, and knew his place—believed in our principles, in our faith, in our world New Order, without being aware of it. Around the moonlit sacred tank, slowly moved the procession. And one after the other, for a while, the intricately sculptured pillars were lighted up by the scarlet glow. And kettledrums and flutes and clashing cymbals mingled their deep vibrations and their high-pitched notes, in deafening outlandish music under the luminous infinity of the sky. And coils of incense filled the air,—the offering of the South to the great Aryan hero, now yesterday, and in all times, foreshadowing the future homage of varied races of all climes, the homage of the conquered world to the godlike Race; to Thee, my Leader, to Thy people; to the everlasting noble blood, fated to rule, both Thine ... and mine. I shut my eyes, and though of the great miracle that Thou wast working far away: of the new Europe of our dreams. And amidst the solemn mystic roar that held me as though under a spell, that roar of joyous fervor, centuries old,—and amidst the smoke of incense and the jasmine breath of that bright southern night, untold elation filled my heart. And blending in a dream the age-old homage of the South, that I admired, with the tremendous hope of Thy power and glory, I thought, in an ecstatic smile: “... and tomorrow, the whole world!” 1 “All great cultures of the past perished only because the originally creative race died of blood poisoning.”—Trans. R.G. Fowler 2 Deleting a superfluous “a” after “is.” 3 Inserting a paragraph break here. 4 Replacing “thou” with “Thou.” 5 Deleting a repetition of “had.” (l Deleting a superfluous “in its” after “was.” Replacing “thee” with “Thee.” 77 re Savitri ffevi Archive Home Life Works Texts Gallery Literature Wish List News Letters Bookshop Donations Links Mailing List Contact Forever and Ever by Savitri Devi Edited by R.G. Fowler This is the sixth chapter of Savitri Devi’s previously unpublished book Forever and Ever. In transcribing and editing these texts, I have translated the German epigraphs, corrected any spelling and grammatical errors, and “Americanized” and updated the spelling. I have not altered Savitri’s sometimes eccentric capitalization practices. Nor have I altered her punctuation, although I have pruned her sometimes long ellipses down to three dots each. Editorial additions appear in square brackets. Omissions and substitutions are indicated with notes. All notes are by the editor. PDF images of the typescript are available for those who wish to check my editing or bypass it altogether. Just click the title of each chapter. In the case of the present chapter, however, the PDF image will have to be released later, because our version of the chapter has been pieced together from two distinct typescripts, and we wish to wait until we can get full copies of both typescripts. —R. G. Fowler VI. 1933 (30 January) “Filr was wir zu kampfen haben, ist die Sicherung des Bestehens und der Vermehrung unserer Rasse und unseres Volkes, die Erndhrung seiner Kinder und Reinhaltung des Blutes, die Freiheit und Unabhangigkeit des Vaterlandes, auf dafi unser Volk zur Erfiillung der auch ihm vom Schopfer des Universums zugewiesenen Mission heranzureifen vermag. —Mein Kampf Then came the Day of days, the Day of joy and power, the birthday of the reborn West; the Day when after thirteen years of superhuman struggle Thou tookest 2 in Thy hand the destiny of those whom Thou so lovedest—of those whom all the Gods had willed; in our wondrous times, to be the strongest and the best. There, like an ocean, stood the immense expectant crowd, restless and hopeful,—loving—but not yet daring to be sure; waiting to greet the long-awaited news; waiting to know that Thou hadst won; waiting to live the finest hour in the long life of struggling Germany,—the opening of the New Era, culmination of all the patient daily heroisms of recent years and of all those of yore. Minutes succeeded one another, and each one seemed an hour. Within thousands of breasts, hearts beat faster and faster as time went on. Every man held his breath. As the parched earth awaits the fecundating rain after the long ordeal of the arid season, in lands where rain-failure means death, as the world wrapped in gloom awaits the coming Dawn, so did Thy people on that day, gathered in growing thousands before the Presidential Palace of the Reich await the magic words: the announcement of Thy triumph—and of theirs. There was a movement in the crowd, and, for a second, utter silence. And in that solemn silence rose the voice of Thy close friend and faithful fighter of the early days, first in the Land after Thyself. 3 And the voice said: “Our Leader is in power!” For another second, there was silence,—a different silence; the silence of the thirsty earth communing with the heavens in the first drop of rain, as wind abates, the silence of unutterable joy verging on ecstasy. And then, out of the frenzied human ocean, one thunderous outcry burst forth all of a sudden, echoing the single voice and amplifying it a hundred thousandfold; one long-resounding elemental outcry, one endless roar of joy,—voice of Thy people; Voice of God Who within Nature’s Chosen ones abideth,—: “Our Leader is in power! We are free!” And men 4 shook hands with one another; and women threw themselves in one another’s arms for joy; and tears of joy ran down their beaming faces. Then, slowly did the enthusiastic crowd disperse in all directions, each man or woman, youth or maiden, carrying far and wide the glorious tidings of the Day: “Our Leader is now in power! Germany is risen!” And through the length and breadth of the yet mutilated Land, bells rang, and drums and martial trumpets resounded, and their music had not for centuries expressed such happiness. From every window broad flags hung, bearing the sacred Sign both of the Sun and of the Aryan Race. And along the crowded streets, under those endless rows of waving banners blood-red, black, and white, the now immortal Storm Troopers, whose constant sacrifice and bitter struggle had carried Thee to power, marched full of pride singing the immortal song. And throughout every land recently torn away from Thy defeated Fatherland, and throughout every land in which Thy people lived, cut off from the main Realm by artificial frontiers, be it for centuries, an immense hope greeted the glorious tidings, by now broadcasted to the world: the hope that soon the brotherhood of blood would be the only link uniting all Thy people in one proud greater Reich; that soon under the impetus of Thy new living faith, all artificial boundaries would fall; that soon, in freedom, strength, and joy, Thy people would expand towards the east, towards the west, in spite of other nations’ jealous opposition, fulfilling the great destiny allotted them by Nature, whether in peace or in war. * * * The age-old enemies of higher mankind were aghast; for in that loud outburst of frenzied joy that echoes from new Germany throughout the world, as well as in that immense silent hope that they could not suppress, they heard the death-knell of their long-established rule and felt the first signs of the end of their ascendancy—forever. They hated Thee and dreaded Thee. And in their secret councils, they started to prepare the satanic network of lies and of bargains by which they planned to stir against Thee and Thy people the stupid fury of the great unthinking human herd of every race and tongue,—of that dull universal herd that knew Thee not and could not feel the beauty of Thy dream. A few among the better men of the wide world beyond Thy realm, welcomed Thy rising as the Dawn which they themselves awaited. And fewer still had been awaiting it as long and as consistently as I. As one salutes from the seashore the Sun millions of miles away, so greeted I from afar the news of that tremendous Day; so welcomed I the announcement of Thy power; so did I worship Thee within my heart, my Leader, Giver of a new pride and faith to every Aryan worthy of this race, now and forever more! And as the echo of Thy people’s joy reached me, I thought of the stupendous dream that had been mine for ages: the dreams of real Aryan leadership throughout the world. Alone in our times couldst Thou make that great dream become a living fact. Alone a world under Thy rule could be that place of order and of beauty, that healthy Heathen world that I so long had craved 5 for. And in my heart I longed to see Thy conquering spirit smash all the man-made creeds of false equality. And in my heart I longed to see Thy conquering Greater Reich extend, one day, to every shore; the brotherhood of Aryan blood abolish man-made boundaries; and Thy inspired followers—the elite of the world—rule the whole earth, forever more! 1 “We must fight to secure the existence and continuation of our race and our people, the sustenance of our children and the purity of our blood, the freedom and independence of the fatherland, so that our people may mature in order to fulfill the mission assigned us by the creator of the universe” (1939 edition, p. 234)—Trans. R.G. Fowler. (The original text is emphasized throughout.) 2 Replacing “tookedst” 3 Hermann Goring. 4 Reading “man” as “men.” 5 Reading “craven” as “craved.” The ■Savifri 'Devi Arcmv Home Life Works Texts Gallery Literature Wish List News Letters Bookshop Donations Links Mailing List Contact Forever and Ever by Savitri Devi Edited by R.G. Fowler This is the seventh chapter of Savitri Devi’s previously unpublished book Forever and Ever. Unfortunately, our copy of the typescript of Chapter VI is missing a page. Fortunately, the page is still in existence, and as soon as we receive a copy, we will publish the entire chapter. In transcribing and editing these texts, I have translated the German epigraphs, corrected any spelling and grammatical errors, and “Americanized” and updated the spelling. I have not altered Savitri’s sometimes eccentric capitalization practices. Nor have I altered her punctuation, although I have pruned her sometimes long ellipses down to three dots each. Editorial additions appear in square brackets. Omissions and substitutions are indicated with notes. All notes are by the editor. PDF images of the typescript are available for those who wish to check my editing or bypass it altogether. Just click the title of each chapter. —R. G. Fowler VII. 1935 .. eine neue Weltanschauung und nicht eine neue Wahlparole.” —Mein Kampf, 1939 edition, p. 243 1 A beautiful medieval town, full of the joy and pageantry of our grand new era: old Nuremberg. Houses with slanting roofs, crossed wooden beams, and latticed windows, and flowerpots on every windowsill; and, hanging large and bright from these, thousands of blood-red flags bearing the holy Sign—the immemorial Swastika—in black in midst of a white disk; cathedrals in the gothic style, with sculptured spires reaching the sky, and statues of the Virgin-mother and of bygone saints proclaiming the aspiration of the soul towards the Unattainable. And marching past their doors and past those houses of another age, the Young Men of today singing triumphantly the song of pride and resurrection—blended in one: the old; the new; eternal Germany; eternal western Aryandom once 2 more awake out of its Christian slumber. And in the immense Stadium near the town, under the eyes of half a million people, the Reichsparteitag , the ritual consecration of that miraculous awakening, in untold splendor, lasting days and nights. In the sunshine: the sacrament of Labor; the worship of the Earth in her fecundity, and of the strength and skill of Aryan Man, her fairest child, her pride, the brightest fruit of her delight in the Sun’s long embrace; the sacrament of the creative skill of Aryan Man as corn grower and miner 3 and weapon-maker, and worker of the wonders of the lightning-power, in harmony with [the] ends of life and truth, in harmony with the great purpose of the Sun on earth—the rule in glory of the Sun 4 -born race. With martial music, songs and flags, bearing upon their shoulders the sacred Instruments of Labor—the Spade that opens Mother Earth to the life-giving Sun-rays—in came the proud young men, in squadrons of twice nine; behind them came the labor-Leaders, and the girls—the healthy working mothers of tomorrow, serene and strong as Mother Earth. And as parading soldiers present arms, so did these youths, in ceremonial gestures, present their spades, weapons of peaceful power. And loud and clear, between the martial songs evoking those who died for Germany during the liberation struggle; between two solemn tunes played on the throbbing drums, their young voices repeated the ritual formula: “Ready are we, indeed!”—ready to till the divine Land, the Fatherland, whose life is ours; ready to make it prosperous[;] ready to make it great. And Thou spokest to them and to the many thousands, my beloved Leader—Our Leader! And [from] thousands of breasts came forth the rhythmic cry of frenzied pride and joy—and love—the cry of Thy new Germany[:] “Sieg! Heil!” * * * In the dark night, the Sacrament of Silence—and Thy apotheosis, O my Leader, along with that of Germany, in the Temple of Light. 5 In the granite immobility, there stood the Brown Battalions, in thick formations between which stretched long straight empty spaces. A living picture of the conscious few, who, throughout endless Time, had kept Thy everlasting truth alive within their hearts, and watched, and hoped against all hope, and waited for the long-desired Aryan Dawn; 6 they stood in heavy darkness awaiting Thee. With them, the thousands waited, in utter silence and without a ray of light upon their faces. Then, suddenly, as Thou stepped 7 forth into the largest avenue that led to Thy exalted Seat, hundreds of blue transparent pillars, columns of dreamlike light—struck the dark sky from countless hidden sources all round the outer walls of the great Stadium, surrounding Thee as o Thou walked on; surrounding Thy motionless Fighters, and all the silent, spellbound crowd; cutting off from the world the privileged enclosure—the consecrated space—where first among all Aryans of the West, Thy people were communing with their own proud soul, becoming conscious of the Godhead of their Race. Thou reached 9 Thy place above the crowd—above the broader outer world—and Thou stood 10 in silence; the silence of five hundred thousand men standing together intently, in common faith, in common prayer, in common adoration of that One real God: their Nation’s Soul; their Race’s[;] the bright Soul of the Sun awake within themselves. In silence, utter silence didst Thou wait with them—the silence of the grave before the stir of resurrection, the silence of primeval Night, mother of everything, before the stir of Life. Then slowly, from the limits of the Stadium—slowly and silently—endless processions of flag-bearers poured in between the thick formations of the Brown Battalions. Under the ghostly blue reflected light of that unearthly row of phosphorescent columns that held the Stadium in a magic circle, on they went; and on them, rested a ray of light. On they went, bright red streams converging at Thy feet, slowly and silently—streams of the new life-blood, 11 irresistibly quickening that immense body lying in the darkness in deathlike immobility. And silence reigned; the magic silence in which creative forces work irresistibly; the ecstatic silence in which creative love communes with God, that is to say, with everlasting Life. Silence, for half an hour, for an hour, or more? And then, all of a sudden, like a creative spell out of that radiant stillness, the songs of life and pride and conquest; and then, Thy speech, from that high place, from that first altar of the new Aryan Faith—Thy speech to Germany in adoration before Thee, and, beyond Germany, to me, six thousand miles away, to whom the waves of aether carried it; to the whole Aryan Race. And then, those songs again: the Song of the dead hero, Horst Wessel, now alive, forever and forever, and the well-known national anthem: “Germany above all...” “Above all?” did then many ask within their hearts, already with suspicion and hidden jealousy. And the songs and Thy people’s cheers, and Thy voice and Thy silence, and theirs, all echoed: “Yes!” And I, remembering the centuries bygone, and that long fruitless, hopeless struggle of Aryan man against the Jewish yoke 12 from the day Paul of Tarsus had set foot in Athens, thought: “Why not? Yes, why not, my Leader’s countrymen, if ye be worthy of Him and worthy of your task? If ye can lead us all to freedom and to glory, as He leads You?” * * * In the sunshine, the Sacrament of Consecration of the flags. Thou hadest in Thy hand the “Flag of Blood,” the one that the Sixteen first Martyrs bore, when, in their vain attempt to carry Thee to power, they fell; for Germany and Thee, twelve years before. And in Thy other hand, Thou heldest the new flags—the ones that were to inspire Thy many younger Fighters with the burning faith of the old; the ones that were to carry forth, along the highways, south and north, and east and west, to all Germanic people still outside the Reich, Thy great message of unity and pride and strength within their folds. Through Thee, the Leader and the Savior, though Thee, the living Reich—the priest of the National Soul; that very Soul itself—ran the mysterious power of the dead; the magic power of boundless love and pure blood[,] shed for love’s sake without regret; the magic power of blood on which all greatness lies. It ran into the bright-red folds of the new flags’ 13 snow-white disk, and the age-old Sign of Power which in the disk they bore[:] the holy Swastika, Sign of the Life force in the Sun among the ancient Aryans, Sign of the new Awakening of Germany and of the Aryan Race, Thy Sign, our Sign, forever more. And it gave them the virtue of the “Flag of Blood”; the virtue of the dead who fell for Thee to rule, and for Thy people to become, in Europe and Beyond the narrow boundaries of Europe, the herald of Awakening Aryandom. I was not there. From far away, I watched the new stupendous rites: the first rites of the new civilization that I had craved 14 for, age after age, since the decay of Aryan man[.] I was not there—alas! And yet I felt that the Day of my dream had come, at last, that the old pride of the Sun-born had won against the lying teachings that Aryan man had once acclaimed, to his disgrace; that my own cult of health and strength and youthful manly beauty, my double aspiration at the same time Nordic and Grecian, my ever-living Soul, silenced and mocked for fifteen hundred years, had won, through Thee and through Thy 15 Nation[.] I watched Thee transfer to the age-old Symbol of our Race, that marked Thy flags, the fluid of rejuvenation, the magic virtue of the modern heroes’ blood. And in my heart, I hailed the blessed colors, and thought: “May I see Thee wave over East and West, Sign of the domination of the Sun-born, eternal Swastika, Sign of the Best!” 1 “... a new worldview, and not a new election slogan.”—Trans. R.G. Fowler. 2 Deleting a superfluous repetition of “once.” 3 Reading “minor” as “miner.” 4 Deleting a superfluous repetition of “Sun.” 5 Deleting “(l)” following “Light,” probably the indication for a footnote that was not, however, written. 6 Replacing a comma with a semicolon. 7 Replacing “steppedest.” 8 Replacing “walkedest.” 9 Replacing “reachedest.” 10 Replacing “stoodest.” 11 Reading “live” as “life.” 12 Reading “joke” as “yoke.” 13 Reading a comma as an apostrophe. 14 Reading “craven” as “craved.” 15 Capitalizing “thy.” to be the wisdom of all lands. And once and old man came to me when I had finished speaking, and said, alluding to thy words: “From which most 1 * * 4 hallowed Writ of Ancient days have you quoted this truth?” And tears came to my eyes as I measured the bridge that thou hast thrown over the stream of Time between our world and its remotest youth, between Thy beloved people and the fair warriors of their race—of our common race—by whom the Aryan fame filled India so long ago; over the immensity of space, between Thy beloved Land and any land where lives and rules the spirit of the Aryan race. I suddenly remembered that I stood on the very border of the Aryan world—hardly a hundred miles away from Burma and from China. And my heart leaped within my breast as I uttered Thy name. * * * And then, I met the wisest of the southern Aryans, the silent Friend who understood the meaning of Dawn, and who, through written word and thought; and patient action in the dark, was planning and preparing the staggering extension of Thy grand New Order to all the world. 5 And the Wise One told me: “Go back, where duty calls you! Go back, the time has come; go straight to Him who is the Leader of the West, for He 6 alone your burning faith will fathom, for He 7 alone your love and hate will welcome and give you all the means to do your best. Don’t remain here; go straight to Him, who is Life and Resurrection; to unsuspected fields of joyous action without regret and without rest!” “In a year’s time or a little more, when I have done all that I can do here; when, in immense Aryavarta, more people understand why I have come and are ready to hail our spreading light, then I shall go—and tell my brothers: ‘See! Through Eastern ways, with Eastern words, and with that understanding which freedom from all ties save yours has given me, I have hastened the fulfillment of the age-old dream of Aryan domination; of your great dream of world-wide might!”’ But the wise One replied: “God now: for it will be too late in a year’s time!” Why did I not believe him? Conscious of Thy great heathen Dawn, why did I stay so far away from danger and from duty? What made me blinded to all the signs of the threatening storm? In spite of all my love and hate, what held me back? An evil fate—or glorious plans of which no man could know? Plans of the Gods almighty? 1 “Were we to divide mankind into three kinds: culture founders, culture bearers, and culture destroyers, then probably only the Aryan could be considered as representative of the first”—Trans. R.G. Fowler. 2 From this point on, the sentence makes no sense. It is likely that some words were omitted when the typescript was prepared. 3 Capitalizing “thy.” 4 Reading “mos” as “most.” 5 Savitri refers here to her husband A.K. Mukherji. 6 Capitalizing “he.” 7 Capitalizing “he.” 77 re Savitri