“There are two electricities, assuredly. They assimilate; the assimilation is life.”
I feel dubious, but see clearer as he proceeds.
“The earth has negative electricity, the other positive, or masculine, comes from the sun, uniting to life.”
Suddenly I burst out, “That makes the sun our father. Pray, who is God, who made the sun?” The eye wrinkle deepens. “In that case, our grandfather.”
I scorn to smile.
“Does this soul life have bodily sense after death?” I again venture a second question.
“Yes, and bodily sustenance in the air, where is body material, tho’ invisible.”
I clasp my hands to my head, and rush out of the room. But close behind me is Savant, who is pleased to wish more acquaintance.
I overcome my awe, but do not care to inquire on abstruse subjects. We go out into the street, and traverse its length before I am attracted by a special diversion. Entering a hall to rest, we are witness, to me, of an utterly, and at first inconceivable, exhibit, unheard of before novelty. It is the paradoxic act of a Concert, or Opera, without sound—seen and not heard. Upon the stage are rows of lights (reflections) graded in size like the string of a harp. Raising and lowering these in varying figure by skilful players constituted the performance. The changing (not unison) melodies in grave or gay parts, or intermingling, swaying my emotions. I lean back in rapture.
I am studied by my escort, who has been addicted thus, since first he looked at me.