lterated
champagne, and thus losing fear as well as love for gods and devils. As
for the envy of the former, I'm far from making it a reproach to them.
On the contrary, as I have no special reason to feel any great esteem
for them, since they've shown little friendship toward my insignificant
self, it's this envy alone that partially reconciles me to them. These
poor devils of gods, who, like us, can't always do as they please, thus
show a truly human side; for, my friends, profound thought and mature
experience have taught me, that what is truly human, full of genius,
and so to say god-like in our race, as well as the human side of the
gods, is _envy_. You stare at me, Fraeulein Adele, and seem to be asking
your neighbor whether I'm always in the habit of expressing such crazy
opinions, or only when I've been drinking sweet wine. But you're
mistaken; I'm as sober as he is, innocent nightingale; for tell me
yourself, would you be the charming creature you are, the spoiled child
of the boards, the much photographed, much slandered, much adored
_Adele_, if you did not feel a deep envy of the happy mortal called
_Adelina_, the divine Patti? Without this envy, which has accelerated
your flight to higher and higher spheres, you would still be twittering
imperfect couplets, as on your first debut. But for envy of the great
champions of thought, our friend Edwin would now be a well paid
professor of logic, reading stupid volumes year in and year out. But
for this envy, our artist, Fraeulein Christiane, would never have poured
her whole soul into her finger tips, nor I, her unworthy neighbor at
table, extorted from my reluctant brains one of the most remarkable
compositions of the day, the famous _sinfonia ironica_. Fraeulein
Toinette too, whom I have not yet the honor of knowing very well,
has--I read it in her black eyes--received her share of this hereditary
virtue. For what is envy, except that which people usually call
religion: the confession of our imperfections and distress, and the
longing for improvement, to reach a higher round in the ladder, which
we already see attained by loftier natures. Must we not feel better
disposed toward the so-called gods, when we think that they too are not
satisfied with themselves, that they too cherish unattained and forever
unattainable longings for the joys of mortals, for a dinner in the
Pagoda in pleasant society, bubbling over with wit and _Cremant rose_?
That they will go so far a