Twenty roses nestling close Gleam upon thy breast, Twenty years of rose-red love Upon thy fair cheeks rest.
Twenty years would I gladly give Out of life's brief reign, Could I but ask a rose of thee And ask it not in vain.
Twenty roses thou dost not need --Why, pearls and rubies are thine!-- With nineteen thou'dst be just as fair, And _one_ would then be _mine_!
And twenty years of rose-wreathed joy Would spring to life for me-- Yet twenty years could ne'er suffice To worship it--and thee!
How nice that is! I've never had any verses written to me b----
Ah, my dear young lady, ordinary folks like us have to do their own verse-making!
And all for one rose!--Dear me, how soon it fades! And then what is left you?
No, my dear friend, a rose like that never fades--even as my love for the gracious giver can never die.
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!"
Enormously!--For what makes us happy after all? A bit of happiness? Great heavens, no! Happiness wears out like an old glove.
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."
And what would the god be like that you would create?
_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?