I
want now to offer my mite upon the altar of emancipation.
Kroll. You too?
Brendel (to them all). Has your public here any intimate
acquaintance with my scattered writings?
Kroll. No, I must candidly confess that--
Rebecca. I have read several of them. My foster-father had them.
Brendel. My dear lady, then you have wasted your, time. They are
simply trash, allow me to tell you.
Rebecca. Really?
Brendel. Those you have read, yes. My really important works no
man or woman knows anything about. No one--except myself.
Rebecca. How is that?
Brendel. Because they are not yet written.
Rosmer. But, my dear Mr. Brendel--
Brendel. You know, my dear John, that I am a bit of a sybarite--a
gourmet. I have always been so. I have a taste for solitary
enjoyment, because in that way my enjoyment is twice--ten times--as
keen. It is, like this. When I have been wrapped in a haze of
golden dreams that have descended on me--when new, intoxicating,
momentous thoughts have had their birth in my mind, and I have
been fanned by the beat of their wings as they bore me aloft--at
such moments I have transformed them into poetry, into visions,
into pictures. In general outlines, that is to say.
Rosmer. Quite so.
Brendel. You cannot imagine the luxury of enjoyment I have
experienced! The mysterious rapture of creation!--in, general
outlines, as I said. Applause, gratitude, eulogies, crowns of
laurel!--all these I have culled with full hands trembling with
joy.
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