Culch. I can quite understand that. I—I mean that it reduces the—er—paralysing sense of irrevocability.
The Y. L. You express my own meaning exactly.
[Culchard, not being quite sure of his own, is proportionately pleased.
Culch. You have chosen an inspiring scene, rich with historical interest.
The Y. L. (enthusiastically). Yes, indeed. What names rise to one's mind instinctively! Melanchthon, John Huss, Kraft, and Peter Vischer, and Dürer, and Wohlgemut, and Maximilian the First, and Louis of Bavaria!
Culch. (who has read up the local history, and does not intend to be beaten at this game). Precisely. And the imperious Margrave of Brandenburg, and Wallenstein, and Gustavus Adolphus, and Goetz von Berlichingen. One can almost see their—er—picturesque personalities still haunting the narrow streets as we look down.
The Y. L. I find it impossible to distinguish even the streets from here, I confess, but you probably see with the imagination of an artist. Are you one by any chance?
"ER—I HAVE BROUGHT YOU THE PHILOSOPHICAL WORK I MENTIONED."
Culch. Only in words; that is, I record my impressions in a poetic form. A perfect sonnet may render a scene, a mood, a passing thought, more indelibly than the most finished sketch; may it not?