STRÜBEL. 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?
STRÜBEL. 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?
STRÜBEL. 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.
STRÜBEL. But that doesn't seem to me a particularly lofty aspiration, my dear young lady.
THE PRINCESS. Lofty as the heavens, my friend.
STRÜBEL. My princess would be of a different opinion.
THE PRINCESS. Do you think so?