“And now, I will gife to you—I alone—all the emotions of which humanity is capable.”
How much time followed, I know not; nor whether it was not all a dream, only that a dream can hardly be more vivid—as this was—than my life itself. First, a nightmare came of evil passions; after murder and suicide and despair came revenge, envy, hatred, greed of money, greed of power, lust. I say “came,” for each one came on me with all the force the worst of men can feel. Had I been free, in some other place, I should inexorably have committed the crimes these evil passions breed, and there was always some pretext of a cause. Now it was revenge on Materialismus himself for his winning of Althea Hardy; now it was envy of his powers, or greed of his possessions; and then my roving eye fell on that strange picture of his I mentioned before; the face of the woman now seemed to be Althea’s. In a glance all the poetry, all the sympathy of my mind or soul that I thought bound me to her had vanished, and in their place I only knew desire. The doctor’s leer seemed to read my thoughts; he let the lever stay long at this speed, and then he put it back again to that strange rhythm of Sleep.
“So—I must rest you a little between times,” he said. “Is my fine poet convinced?”
But I was silent, and he turned another wheel.
“All these are only evil passions,” said I, “there may well be something physical in them.”
“Poh—I can gife you just so well the others,” he sneered. “I tell you why I do not gife you all at once——”
“You can produce lust,” I answered, “but not love.”
“Poh—it takes but a little greater speed. What you call love is but the multiple of lust and cosmic love, that is, gravitation.”
I stared at the man.
“It is quite as I say. About two hundred thousand vibrations make in man’s cerebrum what you call lust; about four billion per second, that is gravitation, make what the philosophers call will, the poets, cosmic love; this comes just after light, white light, which is the sum of all the lights. And their multiple again, of love and light, makes many sextillions, and that is love of God, what the priests name religion.”... I think I grew faint, for he said, “You must hafe some refreshments, or you cannot bear it.”