The Princess.

Why, so that you could talk to her and know what she really was like.

Strubel (_terrified_).

Talk to her! Heaven forbid! Goodness gracious, no! Just see here--how am I to face a princess? I'm an ordinary fellow, the son of poor folks.

I haven't polished manners--I haven't even a decent tailor. A lady like that--why, she'd measure me from top to toe in one glance.--I've had my lessons in the fine houses where I've applied as tutor. A glance from boots to cravat--and you're dismissed!

The Princess.

And you think that I--(_correcting herself_)--that this girl is as superficial as that?

Strubel.

"This girl"! Dear me, how that sounds! But, how should I ever succeed in showing her my real self? And even if I should, what would she care?--Oh, yes, if she were like you--so nice and simple--and with such a kindhearted, roguish little twinkle in her eye----!

The Princess.

Roguish--I? Why so?

Strubel.

Because you are laughing at me in your sleeve. And really I deserve nothing better.

The Princess.

But your princess deserves something better than your opinion of her.

Strubel.

How do you know that?

The Princess.

You really ought to try to become acquainted with her sometime.

Strubel.

No, no, no--and again no! As long as she remains my far-away princess, she is everything that I want her to be--modest, gracious, loving. She smiles upon me dreamily. Yes, she even listens when I recite my poems to her--and that can't be said of many people! And as soon as I have finished, she sighs, takes a rose from her breast, and casts it down to the poet.--I wrote a few verses yesterday about that rose, that flower which represents the pinnacle of my desires, as it were.

The Princess (_eagerly_).

Oh, yes. Oh, please, please!

Strubel.

Well, then, here goes. H'm--"Twenty roses nestling close----"

The Princess.

What? Are there twenty now?

Strubel (_severely_).

My princess would not have interrupted me.

The Princess.

Oh please--forgive me.

Strubel.

I shall begin again.

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!

The Princess.

How nice that is! I've never had any verses written to me b----

Strubel.

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?

Strubel.

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!

Strubel.

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 cla.s.ses--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.