Struebel.
Ah, my dear young lady, ordinary folks like us have to do their own
verse-making!
The Princess.
And all for one rose!--Dear me, how soon it fades! And then what is
left you?
Struebel.
No, my dear friend, a rose like that never fades--even as my love for
the gracious giver can never die.
The Princess.
But you haven't even got it yet!
Struebel.
That makes no difference in the end. I'm entirely independent of such
externals. When some day I shall be explaining Ovid to the beginners,
or perhaps even reading Horace with the more advanced classes--no, it's
better for the present not to think of reaching any such dizzy heights
of greatness--well, then I shall always be saying to myself with a
smile of satisfaction, "You, too, were one of those confounded artist
fellows--why, you once went so far as to love a princess!"
The Princess.
And that will make you happy?
Struebel.
Enormously!--For what makes us happy after all? A bit of happiness?
Great heavens, no! Happiness wears out like an old glove.
The Princess.
Well, then, what does?
Struebel.
Ah, how should I know! Any kind of a dream--a fancy--a wish
unfulfilled--a sorrow that we coddle--some nothing which suddenly
becomes everything to us. I shall always say to my pupils--"Young men,
if you want to be happy as long as you live, create gods for yourselves
in your own image; these gods will take care of your happiness."
The Princess.
And what would the god be like that you would create?
Struebel.
_Would be? Is, my dear young lady, is!_--A man of the world, a
gentleman, well bred, smiling, enjoying life--who looks out upon
mankind from under bushy eyebrows, who knows Nietzsche and Stendhal by
heart, and--(_pointing to his shoes_) who isn't down at the heels--a
god, in short, worthy of my princess. I know perfectly well that all my
life long I shall never do anything but crawl around on the ground like
an industrious ant, but I know, too, that the god of my fancy will
always take me by the collar when the proper moment comes and pull me
up again into the clouds. Yes, up there I'm safe.--And your god, or
rather your goddess--what would she look like?
The Princess (_thoughtfully_).
That's not easy to say. My goddess would be--a quiet, peaceful woman
who would treasure a secret, little joy like the apple of her eye, who
would know nothing of the world except what she wanted to know, and who
would have the strength to make her own choice when it pleased her.
Struebel.
But that doesn't seem to me a particularly lofty aspiration, my dear
young lady.
The Princess.
Lofty as the heavens, my friend.
Struebel.
My princess would be of a different opinion.
The Princess.
Do you think so?
Struebel.
For that's merely the ideal of every little country girl.
The Princess.
Not her ideal--her daily life which she counts as naught. It is my
ideal because I can never attain it.
Struebel.
Oh. I say, my dear young girl! It can't be as bad as that! A young girl
like you--so charming and--I don't want to be forward, but if I could
only help you a bit!
The Princess.
Have you got to be helping all the time? Before, it was only a cheap
lunch, now it's actually----
Struebel.